The bathhouse was a maze of mist and moonlight, veiled in steam and pale lantern glow. The tiled floors glistened underfoot, slick with water and soap, deceptively tranquil. Yet the air throbbed—heavy with spiritual pressure. Something ancient had stirred.

Mira was the first to move. Her glaive hummed to life, pulsing with cerulean light as she swept it in a fluid arc, carving through steam and flesh alike. The demon she struck screeched—a sound wet and guttural—as it split, evaporating in a hiss of smoke. Her footing, barefoot on the slick stone, never faltered. Behind her, the steam twisted unnaturally, coiling like a serpent trying to reform what she'd undone.

Zoey darted between shadows and columns, her throwing knives glittering like sparks. Each blade she flung left a trail of pale pink energy, whistling through the air before lodging with unerring precision into the eye, throat, or heart of another wailing creature. She moved like a dancer—chaotic yet deliberate, her long hair darkened with mist and sweat, clinging to her face as she spun into her next target.

At the center, Rumi fought differently—deliberate and brutal. Her sword, a whispering thing of bright blue flame, cleaved through demons like they were made of silk. Her style lacked Mira’s elegance or Zoey’s flair, but it was filled with sharp resolve. Every swing was meant to end. Meant to silence. Meant to burn.

And then she saw him.

Through the fog and shattered echoes, just beyond the broken partition of the men’s side, Jinu moved like a ghost. Unbothered. Unhurried. Watching.

Rumi broke away.

It happened quickly—too quickly for the others to stop her. She dashed past marble columns and cedar walls, water splashing beneath her heels. You followed instinctively, the chaos of the bathhouse war fading behind you. The moans of dying demons, the clash of steel and shrieks, all muffled by the roar of your heartbeat and the slap of wet tile underfoot.

You caught up near the outer corridor, where the mist thinned and cool night air kissed your skin.

Rumi stood in profile, panting, staring ahead into the dark hall Jinu had just disappeared into. Her sword still glowed faintly, dripping radiant blue. But it wasn’t that that stopped you.

Her jacket—torn at the sleeve. The glossy leather material ripped from shoulder to elbow.

Beneath it, her skin bore intricate marks, raised like scar tissue but moving, pulsing faintly with a life of their own. Sharp purple patterns twisted up her arm in symbols you recognised—demonic in origin. They shimmered like oil in moonlight. Wrong in a way your soul understood before your mind did.

The air felt colder now. More bitter.

She hadn't noticed you yet. Or maybe she had. But Rumi stood frozen—shoulders heaving, blade dimming, eyes lost in the corridor where Jinu vanished.

The only sound was the faint drip of water, falling from her elbow. Blue mingling with red.