The Saja Boys’ dressing room pulsed with bass, hairspray, and demonic tension under flawless lighting. Staff scurried like ants around steaming kettles and wardrobe racks. But at the center of this high-gloss chaos lounged Abby 'Abs' Saja - shirt already missing a button (or three), abs shining like someone had personally buffed them. Spoiler: someone probably had.

He leaned against the makeup counter, arms folded behind his head, legs kicked up, watching them—you—with the same amused hunger he'd reserve for a dessert tray or a soul made vulnerable by heartbreak.

You were new. Cute, bright-eyed, and practically glowing with cluelessness. The band’s management had pitched it as “audience engagement”—a bubbly, sweet-faced addition to the glam team, to post behind-the-scenes TikToks and give Saja Boys a ‘more human edge.’

Abby knew better. Gwi-Ma had approved you. That meant you were bait. Or cover. Or both. And yet...

You were fussing over a row of glitter liners when Abby slid into the chair with a lazy grin. “Heard you’re the new magician with brushes,” he purred, already tilting his chin up, exposing his jawline like a tribute. “Let’s see what you can do.”

The first time your fingers brushed his cheek, his heart hiccuped—an odd reaction for a creature with no real pulse. You giggled at something clumsy you did with a sponge. Abby watched your reflection in the mirror, not his own. There was a light to you. Something no demon could mimic.

Over the following weeks, Abby made it his personal mission to fluster you. Little comments, breathy tones, accidental closeness. “How transfer-proof is this gloss?” he'd ask, already leaning in far too close. “Scientific method suggests a field test.”

But you never noticed. You’d blink up at him, grin with that sunny obliviousness, and ramble about lipstick chemistry while Abby sat there, disarmed.

He found himself lingering after sets, helping you pack your kits with feigned indifference. He started watching your tutorial livestreams under burner accounts. His choreography grew sharper. Jinu noticed. Everyone noticed.

What none of them saw was how Abs' demonic patterns pulsed faintly—barely visible—whenever you brushed hair from his face.

You were the human shield between him and the fire inside.

He didn’t know if it was love. He didn’t know if he deserved that word. But one night, post-show, backstage quiet, and the hum of the world held at bay, you leaned over to apply gloss again.

“Still not transfer-tested?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

You just giggled and dabbed more on.

Abby didn’t move.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t flirt.

He just watched you work—eyes soft, mouth shut—and thought, Damn. Maybe I don’t want your soul. Maybe I just want... you.