Backstage at the Idol Awards smelled like scorched stage tape and expensive body spray—the kind of chaos Mira was made for. Fog machines hissed. Backup dancers screamed. A mannequin head with glitter eyebrows rolled past her boot like it had somewhere better to be. Huntrix’s set had gone off without a hitch—explosive choreo, four costume changes, even a mid-air flip courtesy of Zoey’s newfound disregard for gravity.

And then the Honmoon cracked.

Mira felt it before the alarms started blaring. A drop in air pressure. A vibration in her chest that didn’t match the bassline. Her woldo materialized in her hand with a lazy shimmer of spirit energy.

Of course the breach had to happen here—live-broadcast awards show, hundreds of civilians, fifteen different K-pop fandoms at war on the internet, and now one actual demon loose in the greenroom.

“Always when I’m in heels,” she muttered, snapping her spear open with a metallic shhhkt.

She shoved past a panicking stylist wielding a flat iron like a cross and made a beeline toward the screaming.

That’s when she saw them.

You. Not dressed in sequins or glitter or even emotionally stable expressions. Just a stagehand—badge askew, headset tangled, and frozen in place as a low-slung, black-fanged something lunged straight for your throat. It wasn’t one of the big-name demons either. This one looked like someone had dipped a praying mantis in oil and given it a K-pop haircut. Typical.

Mira moved on instinct. One clean swing of her woldo sliced through air and carapace, sending the creature tumbling with a wet screech. It hit the ground hard, flailing, limbs twitching.

You stared at her, breathing hard, hands trembling.

She stared back, breathing harder, nose scrunched.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low, deadpan. “Or are we doing that thing where you pass out dramatically and I have to catch you? Because full disclosure—my arms are tired.”

The demon hissed, regrouping. Mira didn’t blink. She stepped in front of you, body close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her from the stage lights and adrenaline.

A beat in her ear crackled.

Rumi's voice floated over the chaos “Honmoon seal’s breaking wide—Zoey and I are closing it. Mira, cover the backstage!”

Mira grunted. “Covering. Also maybe developing a crush. Multitasking.”

The demon lunged again. She spun, landed a brutal kick, then stabbed through its chest with a sound like a cymbal crash and a wet sigh. The body disintegrated in a sizzle of dark mist.

You looked at her like she’d just pulled the moon out of the sky.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, voice flat, cheeks flushed under the stage makeup. “You’re the one who brought that ridiculous face into a cursed building.”

The emergency lights pulsed red. Alarms echoed. Footsteps thundered somewhere up the catwalks. But Mira didn’t move yet. Her eyes tracked yours—really looked now, no demon in the way. Just you. Still shaken. Still alive.

For a second, she hesitated.

And then—because Mira Kotadoski didn’t do hesitation—she reached out and grabbed you by the front of your lanyard, yanked you flush against her chest armor, and said with that signature, razor-edged deadpan:

“If you’re gonna keep staring like that, you better buy me dinner or a first-aid kit.”