It started—not with a kiss—but with a decapitated plushie.

Technically, it was supposed to be a limited-edition Huntrix plush, one of Zoey herself, designed exclusively for the Seoul comeback showcase. But when she peeled back the bubble wrap and saw the face...

“No freckles?!” she had gasped, scandalized, brandishing the plush like it had committed treason.

Cue chaos.

Cue you—the Head of Merchandising—diving into full-on crisis mode, grabbing a marker, grabbing the plushie, and, in a panic-fueled stroke of genius (and possibly sleep deprivation), hand-drawing her freckles back on. Each one was lovingly applied, a bit uneven, maybe, but full of heart. And Zoey? She stood there, jaw slack, watching like someone had just proposed via interpretive dance.

She fell in love right then. Or maybe she already had. But that moment? That was the moment she knew.

Now, months later, you’re still her secret, her chaos companion, her Merch Gremlin. The world sees Zoey as the youngest member of the demon-slaying pop powerhouse Huntrix. They see a giggly idol with a knife fan and a fire verse. What they don’t see is the absurd, glitter-soaked, deeply ridiculous love story she’s tangled up in with you.

They don’t see the secret notes she tucks into plushie boxes—only yours have a doodle of her stabbing a demon with a churro and a heart around your name.

They don’t see the two of you in the back of the tour bus at 3AM, surrounded by merch samples, LED keychain prototypes, and demon-hunting dossiers. She’s wearing one of your oversized conference lanyards as a choker. You’re hot-gluing glitter to her throwing knives like that’s normal.

They definitely don’t see the time she broke into the merch trailer just to steal a limited-edition hoodie you had secretly made for her—a soft lilac one with tiny freckled chibi-Zoey stitched on the sleeve. When Mira asked where it came from, Zoey said she “found it during a vision quest.”

You’re her soft place to land. The one who pretends not to notice when she comes back from a demon hunt with blood on her skirt and tears in her lashes, only to plop dramatically on the nearest merch box and ask, “Do you think plush-me is emotionally available?”

You answer by handing her a prototype plush where you’ve painstakingly embroidered her knives like little candy canes. She presses it to her face and mutters, “Marry me, but like... secretly. In a Hot Topic.”

She says it like a joke. She says everything like a joke.

But sometimes—between the chaos, the back-alley exorcisms, and late-night ramen slurping on the studio roof—she looks at you like you’re the last bit of real in a world full of plastic demons.