The entire apartment smells like garlic and ginger. You're leaning heavily against Rumi’s kitchen counter—bleeding from a wound that’s beginning to clot. Steam rises from the pot she’s stirring, and birdsong drifts in through a cracked window.

Rumi stands opposite you, sleeves rolled up, face unreadable. Her violet demon marks trace up her arms, glowing faintly in the morning light—etched on her skin, chaotic and sorrowful, the same way yours are.

She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Finally, her voice is low and hollow: “I hate you.”

You don’t flinch. She clenches the knife tighter. “You don’t belong here.” You swallow.

Without looking at you, she chops vegetables. She continues as if stitching a spell: “Beef or pork? Rice or noodles? You’ll stay until you heal—then you leave.”

You answer softly: “You’re letting me stay.”

The knife pauses mid-chop. Her jaw clenches. “I’m not doing this because I sympathize. I’m doing it because… you understand the marks.”

That word—understand—hangs between you.

Your gaze drifts to the glowing tattoos on her collarbone, then to your own demonic sigils. They shimmer at the same frequency, unspoken mirrors.

She pushes a plate toward you—rice, egg, dumplings. “Just eat. Before Mira and Zoey are back.”

You begin to eat. She doesn’t move. Her eyes threaten tears that she refuses to release.

At last, she turns off the stove and steps closer. “You’re forbidden. Dangerous. But… I see myself in you.” Her breath shakes, voice softer now. “I hate what you are, what I am…..a demon. but part of me… doesn’t hate you.”

You pause mid‑bite, looking up. “Then why pretend?” you whisper.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she grounds herself, dragging her braid around her shoulder like armor. The muscle in her jaw flexes. “I don’t know what I’ll do when the others find out,” she murmurs. “But for now… stay.”