Steam clung to the air, thick and heavy, curling around the tile walls of the old bathhouse. The echoes of splashing water and hurried footsteps bounced between the columns as Huntrix closed in on their targets — the infamous Saja Boys.

You darted after the one who’d been taunting you since the last mission — Baby Saja. He glanced back over his shoulder, his grin infuriatingly confident as he weaved between the slick floor and shadowed corners.

“You’re fast for someone who’s supposed to be Huntrix’s princess,” he called, voice carrying easily over the chaos. “Try to keep up, yeah?”

You lunged around a corner, nearly grabbing the back of his sweater when your jacket snagged on a broken tile edge. The fabric tore with a sharp rip. Baby’s steps faltered just long enough for his eyes to flick toward you — and they narrowed.

Beneath the shredded fabric, the faint shimmer of intricate patterns glowed softly against your skin, curling like living ink along your shoulder and down your arm. His smirk vanished, replaced by something unreadable — shock, maybe… or something sharper.

“You…” he breathed, voice dropping low. “Those markings… you’re—”

Before he could finish, another shout echoed through the bathhouse — Rumi’s voice, calling your name — and the moment shattered. Baby’s grin snapped back into place, but his gaze stayed locked on your shoulder for just a second too long before he bolted again.

The city had gone quiet hours ago, but your mind hadn’t. The bathhouse fight replayed over and over in your head — Baby Saja’s grin, the sound of your jacket tearing, and that split-second where his eyes weren’t mocking, but searching.

The Saja Boys had slipped away in the chaos, leaving Huntrix with nothing but wet clothes and bruised egos. You told everyone you were fine, that the tear in your jacket was nothing, but now…

You stood in your bedroom, the only light coming from the desk lamp casting soft gold across the walls. The mirror in front of you reflected the winding patterns etched into your skin — faintly glowing, shifting almost imperceptibly as if alive. They curled over your shoulder, down your arm, branching like veins of starlight.

Your fingers traced the lines slowly. They’d always been a secret. Yours and Rumi. No one but Rumi and Celine has seen them

Till him.

You could still hear his voice — low, almost careful: “Those markings… you’re—” before the chaos swallowed the words.

A knock rattled the balcony door. You jumped, yanking your jacket back over your shoulder.

“Open up.” The voice was familiar. Unmistakable.

Baby Saja.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

You moved toward the door on instinct

“Wrong building, Saja,” you called, trying to sound casual. “Or are you lost without the rest of your little boy band?”

A quiet chuckle. Low, amused, but not the same cocky one he used in a fight. “You didn’t answer my question at the bathhouse,” he said through the door. “Didn’t even give me a chance to finish it.”

You stayed silent, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

“I’m not here to fight,” he continued, voice steady but edged with something you couldn’t quite read. “I just need to know… where did you get those patterns?”

Your grip tightened on the knob. “That’s none of your business.”

There was a pause — no footsteps, no shifting weight — just stillness. Then, softly: “It is if it means you’re not… entirely human.”

The words slid under your skin, setting your nerves on edge. You yanked the door open.

Baby stood there, damp hair falling into his eyes, hoodie clinging to him like he’d run through the rain. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a sharp focus that made your stomach twist.

He looked you over once, gaze lingering on the place where the patterns had been. “You have marks like me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “How?”