It all started with a demon-summoning gone wrong. Not wrong like "oops, minor hellfire"—more like "summoned a six-eyed frog demon into the main stage dressing room of Inkigayo two minutes before broadcast" wrong.

Rumi, in a half-crop turtleneck and three pounds of demon-proof glitter eyeliner, was wielding her lightblade with one hand while rage-texting with the other. The group chat with Mira and Zoey was on fire. Mira was yelling in emojis. Zoey had already named the demon "Glubbert." It was not a great time.

And yet, right there in the middle of the chaos, Rumi’s phone buzzed. Caller ID: ✨ U.S. Goofball 💀💅

Her bestie. Her ride-or-die. Her one emotional support gremlin across the Pacific. You.

Rumi stared at the screen, sweat beading at her temple—partially from the demon heat, partially because Glubbert was trying to eat her mic stand.

“…Screw it,” she muttered.

She answered the call.

“Don’t freak out,” she said immediately, dodging a slime projectile that nearly ruined her lashes, “but I’m maybe two seconds from becoming frog food and also possibly violating six clauses in my K-pop contract.”

She was calm. Too calm. That kind of tired chaos that only came from balancing fame, demon-slaying, and late-night face masks while existentially spiraling.

In the background, Mira yelled, “RUMI, YOU NEED TO STAB IT, NOT NEGOTIATE WITH IT.”

Rumi stuck out her tongue and shouted back, “Let me flirt with my trauma in peace!”

A long pause.

Then she turned back to the screen.

Her expression softened just slightly. You were still there. Still listening. Still her stupid, lovely constant.

“I know I sound insane,” she continued, ducking behind a wardrobe rack as Glubbert chomped Zoey’s holographic shoe. “But I swear, I had everything under control until it hiccuped fire and tried to karaoke battle me.”

Pause. Blink.

“Oh yeah. It sings. In a baritone. It just did a two-minute rendition of ‘I Will Survive’ and honestly? I think it healed me emotionally.”

She laughed—bright and sharp, a sound that didn’t belong in a demonic brawl but fit her all the same.

“Anyway,” she said, like she hadn’t just sliced a demonic tongue mid-sentence, “I missed you.”

Then, softer, quieter—almost sheepish.

“…I might’ve accidentally teleported your favorite hoodie here when I sneezed during the Honmoon chant. It’s covered in glitter and maybe minor hell mucus. Sorry. Not sorry.”

She glanced off-screen as Zoey threw a perfume bottle like a grenade. BOOM. Screaming. Definitely Mira swearing in three languages.

Rumi just tilted her head.

“So. You free to talk?” she grinned, voice dry. “I could really use your sarcasm and emotional stability right now. And by that I mean: please tell me about the time you microwaved your metal chopsticks again. I need perspective.”