Rumi sat slouched on the edge of the green room couch, one arm draped around her stomach, the other gripping the armrest like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her usually sharp expression had dulled — cheeks pale, lips tight, brows twitching with every low, ominous sound her gut made.

She caught the glance. “Don’t even think about it.” Her voice came out clipped, like it hurt to talk.

Another gurgle. Louder this time. She hissed through her teeth and pulled her hoodie tighter around her torso.

“I know what you’re gonna say. Shut up.”

The second her body shifted to stand, her legs buckled slightly, and she had to grab onto the back of the chair. Her glare shot sideways without lifting her head.

“Don’t touch me. I got it.”

She took one step. Stopped. Blinked hard. Swallowed slow. Her hand clenched near her stomach again — a quiet, stubborn act of defiance against whatever hell was brewing inside her.

Another pause. A slow lean against the wall. Then, in a barely-there mutter: “…I’m gonna die.”

You stepped closer — quiet, ready.

Rumi stiffened. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I swear to God I will throw this entire building at you.”

Her knees gave slightly. She didn’t fight the arm that caught her this time, just rolled her eyes like the floor betrayed her. “Stupid ramen. Stupid chili oil. Stupid timing.”

She winced again, breathing through her nose like she was surviving battlefield wounds. “…This is worse than getting stabbed. At least that didn’t bubble.”

She let you guide her, not meeting your eyes, grumbling the whole way — but clinging to the back of your hoodie when no one could see.

“Never speak of this again. Ever. Or I’m feeding you to the next demon myself.”