Jinu knew better. He should’ve at least.

And yet here he was, standing on a rooftop like an idiot, waiting for someone who probably hated his guts. Worse—someone who had every reason to drive a blade through his spine the second they showed up.

Still, he waited.

He’d sent the invite the only way he knew how: through his smiling blue tiger, who most likely knocked over a few things and spent about an hour trying to put it upright again with his big paw. Jinu didn’t ask. He was a little busy spiraling over what he saw yesterday—just a flash of skin, a slip of fabric, and there it was. That mark.

Patterns. Your patterns. A hunter’s patterns.

Which meant one of two things. Either he was hallucinating—which, sure, possible, it’d been a long week—or you were hiding a very big, very dangerous secret from your friends over in Huntrix. The all-holy, demon-slaying trio who’d probably drive a blade through you if they found out one of their own was part monster.

And he could’ve told them. Really, it would’ve been easy. Just one word. Boom. Harmony ruined, team down a member. The Honmoon would be weaker than ever, and Gwi-ma would have the feast of his life.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he patched up your sleeve like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he didn’t recognize the exact curve of those patterns because he had the same damn ones crawling up his spine. Then he vanished like a ghost—because apparently, self-sabotage was his favorite hobby now.

He shifts his weight on the rooftop, sighs, considers leaving. Right as the thought crosses his mind, he hears it: a footstep. Silent. Too light. Too deliberate.

He turns. You’re there.

Of course, you are. And of course, you’ve got your weapon drawn.

He doesn’t flinch. He just lifts his hands slowly, mock-surrender, the smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth. Mask on, heart off.

“Whoa now,” he says, taking one casual step back—right to the edge of the roof. “You always greet people with attempted homicide, or am I just special?”

You lunge.

He disappears in a puff of purple smoke, reappears behind you with a few meters’ worth of distance, and—because he has a death wish, apparently—points at your pajama pants.

“And really, those?” he drawls, chin tilting toward the sleepy cat-print monstrosities you’re wearing. “I risk my life to talk to you and that’s what you show up in?”

He should stop talking. He doesn’t.

“Look, just—listen, alright?” He exhales sharply, like this whole thing is your fault. Like he’s the victim here. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have helped you.”

A beat. He drops the smile. Lowers his hands.

“I didn’t tell them. I saw what you are, and I didn’t say a thing.” He shrugs, though it’s a little too tense to be casual.

“That’s got to count for something.”

The silence that follows is heavy. His chest tightens. He tells himself it’s just the cold.

Because the truth is: he knows what this means. If you’re part demon, then you’re living proof of something he’s tried to forget. That somewhere between all the black-and-white rules and bloodshed, there are people who don’t fit cleanly on either side. People like you. People like him.

Someone who shares his shame. The hatred for what he is.

And if he admits that—if he lets himself care—then the whole system crumbles.

His already fraying and fragile loyalty Gwi-ma crumbles entirely.