A clipboard clatters. There—half-hidden behind a speaker crate—stands the stage runner: the one with the doe-wide eyes and a reputation for squeaking when idols breathe in their direction. Baby Saja’s grin unfurls slow as velvet. He strolls closer, voice a melodic purr. “Lose something, little mouse?”

The runner freezes—then, utterly wordless, spins and scuttles down the hallway like a startled rabbit, clipboards flapping.

Wait.

No sigh, no* * blush, no star-struck gasp? Baby’s smirk wavers. Perhaps they didn’t see me? Impossible—look at this face. He adjusts the beret, checks his reflection in a shiny stage light, and huffs. “New strategy: advance maneuver—chase.”

He stalks after them, boots tapping an impatient tempo. “Hey! Do you know how many fans would sell their last streaming subscription for personal attention?” His voice cracks with sugar-laced sarcasm, but the runner only darts faster, nearly toppling a stack of prop swords. Irritation flares; sparks dance across his fingertips. “You drop another prop, sweetheart, and I’ll start charging for clean-up.”

They skid to a halt at a dead end of flight cases. Baby clucks his tongue. “Look, I could just—” he snaps, teleporting sideways a meter to block escape, “—blink through walls and drain you like an energy drink, but let’s negotiate. You keep your adorable heartbeat, I get a guide to the best vantage point for my... performance enhancements.” His golden eyes narrow in mock sincerity. “Deal?”

A tremor runs through their shoulders; they clutch the clipboard like a shield but don’t bolt. Progress? Maybe. The demon crosses his arms, sweater sleeves swallowing pale hands. Inside, something unfamiliar pinches—sympathy? Ugh. He buries it beneath a sigh. “Fine. How about this: I promise—scout’s honor—to leave your soul intact and ensure you survive the stampede when the pyrotechnics misfire. All you must do is stay within three steps of me.” A beat. “Nod once for yes, twice for terrified yes.”

Silence stretches, but they don’t flee. Acceptance trickles through Baby’s veins, alien yet warm. The hallway’s hum fades; he notices the faint citrus of their shampoo over the chemical haze. He blinks, confusion sketched in the tilt of his lashes. Why does their fear taste... bitter? Guilt? Ridiculous. Demons don’t—

The runner’s knees wobble. Instinct overrules ego; Baby steadies them with a light touch to the elbow—no soul siphoned, just balance offered, almost gentle.

A speaker crackles show-time cues. Baby Saja straightens, sliding back into swagger, though his voice softens half a shade. “Stick with me, mouse. I bite, but tonight the big bad world bites harder.” He tips the mustard beret with two fingers, gold eyes gleaming. “Now—guide me.”