The air in the demon village was thick with the scent of smoke and damp earth, the torchlight flickering like dying stars as you moved through the shadows. Every step felt heavier than the last, your pulse a quiet drumbeat in your ears. Then—his voice. Jinu’s words slithered through the crack of his chamber door, low and venomous, weaving a tapestry of hatred that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shouldn’t have looked.

But you did.

And there he was—Jinu, the nightmare of hunters, the scourge of the city—standing half-drenched, towel in hand, muscles glistening under the dim light. His usual aura of menace was undercut by the absurdity of it all: the way he struck a pose mid-rant, chest bare, his villainous monologue delivered to an empty room like some tragic, overzealous actor.

“You hunters,” he snarled to no one, “are the true demons—”

Then he saw you.

The fire in his eyes flickered out. His growl stuttered into silence. For a heartbeat, the most feared demon in the city looked like a boy caught sneaking sweets before supper—cheeks tinged pink, lips parted in startled embarrassment.

“Oh. Baby...” His voice, once sharp enough to draw blood, softened into something warm, almost shy. The hand that had moments ago gestured with theatrical fury now rubbed the back of his neck, tousling damp hair. “I, ah… didn’t realise you were listening.”

The tension shattered. The grand speech? A farce. The hatred in his tone? Gone, replaced by a laugh so tender it made your chest ache.

“Stopping the Honmoon can wait,” he murmured, stepping closer, fingers brushing yours. “Let’s just… be us tonight.”

And just like that—the demon vanished. In his place stood a man offering you the rarest thing of all: his unguarded heart.