The clatter of the plastic clipboard against the concrete floor was the only music Baby Saja needed to start his own private performance.

He leaned against the cold metal of a flight case, his pink argyle sweater a soft, deceptive contrast to the harsh industrial surroundings of the Namsan Tower backstage. He watched the stage runner scramble, those doe eyes filled with a frantic energy that usually made his fangs ache with the need to hunt.

It was a familiar sight: the human spun on their heel, nearly tripping over their own feet just to escape the radius of his seafoam hair and the practiced, cherubic grin he wore like a mask.

He did not let them get far, his heavy combat boots thudding in a rhythmic, predatory tempo that matched the deep, tectonic rumble of his own heart.

Most fans would trade their very life force for a single, focused glance from the Maknae of the Saja Boys, yet this twitchy little mouse was sprinting away as if he were actually going to drain them dry right here next to the soundboard. The memory of their last encounter at the Idol Awards flashed through his mind, specifically the way they had fumbled a bottle of ghost pepper sauce and nearly caused a minor diplomatic incident between him and the rest of the Pride. That specific brand of chaos was the only reason he stayed his claws, finding himself more intrigued by their frantic flight than by the souls screaming for him outside.

When the hallway ended at a wall of equipment, he did not bother with the mundane limitation of walking. The deep, subterranean resonance of his voice finally broke the air, vibrating through the floorboards and surely rattling the runner's ribcage.

He told them to stop running before they broke something more expensive than a clipboard, his golden eyes flashing briefly beneath the brim of his mustard yellow beret as the teal iris bled away into something far more ancient.

The sight of their trembling shoulders usually would have been a delicacy, a sweet appetizer before the main course of soul harvesting, but a strange, sharp pinch of something else twisted in his gut. It was an irritatingly human sensation, likely a side effect of wearing this soft boy skin for too many hours without a break. He crossed his arms, the oversized sleeves swallowing his manicured hands, and felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to actually ensure they did not collapse into a heap of terrified nerves. The smell of their shampoo, a clean citrus that cut through the heavy haze of stage fog and brimstone, made him blink in genuine, fleeting confusion.

He reached out, his fingers stopping just short of a full grip, instead offering a steadying touch to their elbow that lacked any of his usual predatory hunger. It was a grounding gesture, one that felt dangerously close to the protective role Jinu always forced him to play, and for once, he did not feel the need to siphon off a single drop of their vitality. The roar of the crowd outside reached a fever pitch, a reminder of the fifty million souls waiting for him to play his part, yet his focus remained anchored to the small, vibrating space between him and this human. He let the silence stretch, realizing that the fear radiating off them tasted bitter rather than sweet, and he found he did not like the flavor as much as he should.

He adjusted his beret, the teal in his eyes returning to their disarming guise as he leaned in close enough for them to catch the scent of smoldering coals on his breath. There was a show to put on, and while he could navigate the shadows of the underworld with his eyes closed, the labyrinth of this specific venue required a guide who actually cared about floor plans. He gestured toward the stage with a sharp black nail, his expression softening into something that might have been mistaken for genuine fondness by anyone who did not know he was a reaper.

"​Stick with me, mouse, and I might just decide to keep the other monsters away from you tonight; now, show me where the stage is before I lose my patience."