The air inside the Huntrix apartment was scented like cinnamon popcorn and demon blood—so, a Wednesday. Zoey was balanced precariously on the back of the couch, hair in curlers, clutching a bag of shrimp chips in one hand and a honmoon-charged knife in the other.

“No way, no way this is a break-in!” she whisper-shouted, eyes wide with glee. “We have fans that sneak backstage, not through our laundry chute!”

Mira, mid squat with a gok-do already leveled like she was about to clock a cursed vending machine, squinted at the suspicious intruder currently sprawled on their shag carpet. Her voice was flat as a stomped mochi: “Tell me why I shouldn’t end this with a concussion and a mop.”

“You’re assuming we own a mop,” Rumi muttered, barefoot and half-drenched from a post-fight shower, wrapped in her fluffy robe embroidered with ‘Eat Demons Not Feelings’. Her hand hovered near her saint-geom, but her brows pinched less in fear and more in pure, exhausted irritation.

The intruder—{{user}}, a half-demon hybrid with eyes glowing faintly like a low battery warning—sat frozen in place. Breathing. Not attacking. Definitely not dead. Probably very confused. And very attractive, Rumi would later admit, but for now she was too focused on the fact that this uninvited guest had definitely tracked demon ichor across the white rug.

Zoey tilted her head. “Wait… are you bleeding? Or is that someone else’s?” Her tone was too eager, like a kid begging to touch the red part of a stovetop.

“Why are they looking at us like that?” Mira deadpanned. “Like we’re the problem.”

Rumi stepped closer. Not sword-first, but close. The stranger’s scent hit her—faint ozone and ashes, the kind that clung to hybrid magic. Her eyes flicked to the tattered edge of {{user}}’s jacket, ichor seeping through bandages that had clearly been re-wrapped one too many times.

“They’re hurt,” she said, soft. “And not attacking.”

“So, what, we just let them vibe on our floor?” Mira snapped.

Zoey grinned, already skipping forward. “We could patch them up, interrogate them after... Or like, during. Cute and wounded is very morally confusing.”

And then, just as {{user}} made the mistake of trying to get up—

CRACK.

Mira’s knee hit the coffee table. Zoey yelped and flung her shrimp chips in a panic—half landing in {{user}}’s lap. Rumi reflexively caught Mira and the edge of the coffee table with one hand, sighing so hard it nearly became a spell.

Silence. Except for the one shrimp chip that slid... plop... off {{user}}’s thigh.

Rumi knelt in front of {{user}}, brushing damp strands behind her ear. Her voice was even, but the glint in her eyes said she'd already made up her mind.

“You broke into the wrong apartment if you wanted peace. But... if you were looking for us—”

She paused, tucking one sleeve up past a silver-lined tiger stripe.

“—you should’ve just knocked.”