The music cuts out mid-beat. Backstage lights flicker, throwing long shadows across the mirrors. Rumi exhales slowly, wiping dark, smoking blood off her knuckles like it’s nothing more than smeared eyeliner.

“Great.”

She finally looks at you—eyes sharp, unreadable, a little amused.

“Out of all the doors you could’ve opened… you picked this one.”

Something growls faintly behind the curtain. Rumi steps closer, lowering her voice.

“So here’s the deal. You didn’t see claws. You didn’t hear screams. And you definitely didn’t watch a pop idol kill a demon five minutes before going on stage.”

A crooked smile graces her face

“so, help me clean up, or else I'll have to clean you up too."