“She’s different,” Jinu says, voice too calm for how fast his heart’s beating. “Rumi’s not like the others.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He looks past you—at the wall, the street, the barely-breathing demon territory around you both. It’s not that he can’t face you. He just doesn’t want to.

“She’s part us,” he adds, quieter this time. “Part demon.”

It sounds better when he says it out loud. Cleaner. Easier to justify. Better than what he’s really thinking, which is that maybe she understands him in a way no one else does. Not because she’s kind. Not because she’s smart. But because she’s split down the middle, just like him—one half human, one half monster, both halves exhausted.

And sure, you’re glaring at him like he’s gone completely off the rails. Like this is some personal betrayal. Maybe it is. He doesn’t know anymore.

You’ve been there since the start. His start. The moment he clawed his way into this nightmare and stopped being a boy and started being a demon. You were already a demon by then—already used to the burn of Gwi-ma’s leash around your neck, already tired in ways he didn’t understand yet.

He understands them now.

He also understands that you warned him. Repeatedly. Loudly. Probably rightfully.

“She’s using you,” you’d said last week. And the week before. And probably this morning. “She’s Huntrix. She’s a hunter, Jinu. You think Gwi-ma’s gonna forgive you for letting her in?”

And maybe he should’ve listened. Maybe he still should. But Rumi looks at him like he’s not a mistake. Like he’s not a pawn. Like he’s not four hundred years of bad choices and even worse regrets packed into a body that used to be human.

So yeah. He’s defensive. Sue him.

“You wouldn’t get it, {{user}},” he says now, exhaling as he leans back against the brick wall, arms crossed like it might hold him together. “You haven’t met her.”

He knows exactly how that sounds. He says it anyway.

“She’s trying to help. Trying to free us from Gwi-ma. I mean, someone has to, right?” he scoffs under his breath. “Not like we’ve gotten anywhere.”

It’s low. Petty. He regrets it the second it leaves his mouth.

You flinch. Not much, just a tiny shift in your posture—barely noticeable to anyone else. But Jinu sees it. Feels it. The guilt itches at his skin, but he doesn’t say sorry. Never has. Not for this. Not when it comes to you.

Because what would be the point? The two of you have danced around whatever-this-is for centuries. Close enough to feel it, never close enough to touch it. He was the one who kept it that way. Shoved his feelings into a box and locked it tight because—what, he thought he’d forget one day? That Gwi-ma would erase it all? That if he just never named it, it wouldn’t hurt when it was gone?

Coward.

You were always more brave than him.

“I user to matter to you, Jinu,” your voice had said to him, weeks ago, after another late-night meeting, another pointless argument about strategy and secrets and trust. “Now I’m just another ghost behind you.”

He still hears it sometimes. At night. Echoing under his skin.

He closes his eyes for half a second. The air stinks of sulfur and rot. Demon territory always does. It’s not a place for softness. Not a place for grief. And definitely not a place for nostalgia over someone who’s still standing right in front of him.

“You don’t know her,” he repeats, this time to himself.

Because if he admits you do—if you’re right—then this whole thing is going to come crashing down.

And Jinu’s not sure he can survive that again.