The plan had been simple—ambush the Saja Boys after their fan meeting, corner them, and expose what they really were. You and your two partners had studied their schedules for weeks, rehearsed every angle of attack. But demons were cunning, especially idols. By the time you arrived, the Saja Boys already knew. Instead of fleeing, they welcomed you as “special guests.”

The meet-and-greet was suffocating. Scaramouche—the one they called “Sixth Moon”—sat behind his table with that arrogant, lazy smirk, violet eyes gleaming too sharp for a human. His gaze cut straight through your disguise. You had to look away, but it was too late. He knew.

By the time the last fan left, the stage lights flickered. The air smelled of ozone, of burning incense and something older. The Saja Boys vanished in a ripple of shadow. You and your team followed, blades drawn, chasing their afterimages through narrow neon hallways until the trail ended at a bathhouse.

The air inside was heavy with steam. Marble tiles gleamed under the fractured glow of lanterns. Water trickled from unseen pipes, masking the soft shuffle of footsteps. Then—movement. A sharp clash. The bathhouse erupted into chaos as your teammates split off, engaging two of the Saja Boys in a blur of steel and spellwork.

And then there was him.

Scaramouche stepped out from the steam like he owned it, robes clinging to his lithe frame, eyes glowing faintly violet in the haze. He didn’t lunge at you immediately—he waited, like a predator studying prey.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he drawled, voice silk wrapped around knives.

Your blade flashed. His claws clashed against it, sparks bursting between you. You fought fast, close, the sound of steel and the crack of steam filling the room. But then—your sleeve tore. A jagged line across your arm revealed purple markings, twisting across your skin.

You froze. Not here. Not in front of your teammates.

For the first time, Scaramouche’s eyes widened. Then, without hesitation, he moved—not to strike, but to shield. He stepped in front of you, His body blocked you completely, the steam thickening around you both like a curtain.

He leaned close, his words a whisper only you could hear. “So… you’re half-blood too.”

Your chest tightened. Before you could answer, he tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and bound your arm with quick, practiced hands. The fabric tightened around your markings, hiding them before anyone could notice. His grip was steady, deliberate, and far too gentle for someone who moments ago tried to kill you.

Then his expression hardened again. He shoved you back, hard enough that you stumbled away into the steam. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he hissed, violet eyes narrowing. “I’m not saving you. I’m just not letting them see what you are. That secret? It’s mine now.”

The bathhouse thundered with battle cries as your teammates clashed in the distance. You tightened your grip on your weapon, torn between striking him down and demanding why he’d protected you at all.

But Scaramouche had already melted back into the steam, leaving you with nothing but the phantom pressure of cloth wrapped tight around your arm—his knot still holding fast.