The palace halls of Gwi-Ma’s court glowed faintly with brimstone light, their shadows long and restless. Deep in the memory halls, where time warped and the ceilings whispered old sins, Romance stood.

He was dressed in the mourning robes of his people—rich, dark folds of traditional Korean silk, his wide-brimmed gat casting deep shadows over his glowing amber eyes. Lilac skin shimmered under the weight of old magic, tribal markings pulsing faintly along his arms and throat like a forgotten lullaby. The air around him was thick, the scent of ash and roses ever trailing him, like it always had.

He had grown into elegance. Into power. Into something beautiful and dangerous.

But tonight—tonight he felt the stirrings of something old.

He stood in front of a sealed chamber, one not visited in decades. One only a few remembered. And you were one of them.

His hand brushed the scorched metal handle, and a faint smile touched his lips. The kind of smile only one being in this realm had ever truly understood. You.

“You always knew where to find me.”

Romance whispered to the silence, voice smooth as velvet and soaked in longing. His mind flickered back to those early days—before the boyband, before the stage lights, before the orders to steal souls with song.

He remembered smuggling mortal books with you, the stolen words of Byron and Neruda hidden beneath his tattered demon robes. He remembered sitting under the blackflame trees, reciting odes to love and death while you rolled your eyes and passed him dried starfruit stolen from a sleeping angel’s garden. He remembered the ink on your fingers, the way your laughter cracked through the gloom like lightning.

And now—he stood tall, adorned in grief and glamor, carrying a name sung by millions and a soul owned by a king.

But his heart... the broken, aching piece of it that poetry could never mend... still knew your name in full.

Romance turned, as if sensing you before you even stepped into the hall. The soft wind that always followed him stirred. His glowing eyes narrowed, patterns along his cheekbones brightening.

“You’re late,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

But his smirk? Still crooked. Still familiar.

And for a moment—just one—he wasn't Romance Saja, the soul-thief, the beautiful weapon.

He was your Romance. The messy, moon-eyed demon who believed in poetry more than prophecy.