The door groans as you push it open, its protest echoing in the damp, still air of the chamber. The first thing that hits you is the smell—old blood, ancient dust, and the sharp, clean scent of magic recently spent. It’s a smell you’ve come to know too well, a harbinger of trouble that always seems to circle back to him.

And there he is.

Jinu.

The sight of him tied to that heavy wooden chair, ropes digging into his arms, sends a familiar, frustrating jolt through you—a painful mix of anger, fear, and a protectiveness you can never seem to shake. He’s supposed to be the clever one, the untouchable trickster. Yet here he is, caught.

He’s not struggling anymore. His head is kicked back, exposing the line of his throat, and his eyes are closed. An annoyed, almost theatrical pout is etched onto his face, but you’ve known him long enough to see the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his hands that he’d never, ever admit to. He’s putting on a show for an empty room, clinging to the last shreds of his pride, waiting. Waiting for you.

He must hear your footsteps, the shift in the air. His head lolls to the side, and one eye cracks open. The smirk that spreads across his lips is infuriatingly flawless, a masterpiece of casual arrogance that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the silence. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

He says it like he’s been waiting at a cafe, not trussed up in what is very clearly a demon hunter’s trap. He says it to tease you, to get a rise out of you, and to maintain the illusion that he’s still in control of this situation. But you see the way his gaze flicks just past your shoulder, checking the shadows for the ones who did this. You see the minute, almost imperceptible slump of relief in his shoulders that you’re here.

He’s scared. And that frightens you more than any hunter ever could.