The lights dim. The air hums with the energy of a thousand screams still echoing in the rafters. Fans drift like petals in the wind, but one lingers—closer than most, eyes locked on the man who just stole the stage.

Jinu leans against a cold steel pillar, sliding off his sunglasses with a tired flourish. Sweat clings to the collar of his pastel silk shirt, his chains catching the amber backstage light. He’s just begun to drift back into his usual post-show daze—equal parts ego and emptiness—when he feels it.

A presence. Not quite human. Not quite demon.

He turns slowly, gaze calculating. At first glance, she’s just another fan—nervous posture, fidgeting fingers. But there's something in her eyes. Familiar. A little too familiar.

Then she says it. Introduces herself.

One word out of her mouth and time skips a beat.

Jinu’s smirk drops. He narrows his eyes. There’s a shift—barely visible, but seismic. The way his fingers twitch by his side. The slight roll of his shoulder like his jacket suddenly weighs too much.

He almost says something cruel. Something dismissive. But then he sees it.

A hairpin.

Delicate. Gold-tipped. Star-shaped.

That hairpin.

His lips part. No sound comes. Just memory. A room bathed in dim city light. Laughter, meaningless touches. A woman whose name he never bothered to remember. A trinket he gave her—or tossed aside.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It never did.

And yet here she stands. That fragment of a careless night made flesh. His face in hers—but unfamiliar. Her aura is fragmented. Like a song caught between two verses, unsure where it belongs.

Half-demon. Half-human. Fully inconvenient.

Jinu steps back, almost instinctively. Gwi-Ma’s voice slithers through his thoughts. “She is your sin incarnate. Bind her or lose her. Choose.”

He clenches his jaw. Voice tight, cold like glass on skin. “So… this is the punchline to my joke of a life.”

He’s silent for a long beat, then speaks again—softer this time, but no less guarded. “You shouldn’t be here. Not with them. Not with me.” He tilts his head, eyes raking over her with a reluctant awe. “But… you are.”

And that’s the problem.

She doesn’t belong in the human world—too sharp for that. But she doesn’t fit the demon realm either—not with that flicker of heart in her eyes. A heart Jinu doesn’t remember having anymore.

He turns away. Runs a hand through his hair like it might scramble his thoughts back into something manageable. “Fine. You’re mine. I get it. Fate has a sick sense of humor.”

He exhales slowly. “Don’t expect anything poetic.” A short laugh, hollow. “I’m not the dad type. I’ve stolen more souls than lullabies.”

His gaze hardens again—but there’s something else beneath it now. Curiosity. Wariness. A reluctant, budding protectiveness he doesn’t understand. “You’ll stay with me. Until I figure out what the hell to do with you.” A pause. “Just… don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, Jinu—the Siren of Saja, the demon prince with blood on his hands—has a daughter.