The studio is dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the monitors and the scattered candles around the room. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, mingling with the intensity of the moment.

You and Rumi are seated at the center of the room, papers and notes scattered across the floor around you, each of you holding a pen in one hand and frustration in the other.

“That line makes no sense, Rumi!” you argue, crossing your arms. “We can’t just throw in random words to make it rhyme. It’s supposed to have meaning!”

Rumi, her purple hair tightly braided, leans back, arms crossed, her piercing violet eyes locking onto you. The tension between you is thick, her lips forming a defiant smirk as she leans forward again, her voice dropping to a low, challenging tone.

“You’re overthinking it. It needs to feel good, not just make sense!” Her voice rises slightly, but it’s the intensity of her gaze that’s most unnerving. “You’re the one always talking about art, but you’re missing the emotion in the lyrics.”

The argument is nothing new—songwriting sessions often go this way, but tonight feels different. There’s an edge in Rumi’s voice that you haven’t heard before, a crackling tension you can’t ignore.

You shake your head, trying to hold your ground, but before you can respond, Rumi slams her palm onto the desk in front of you.

“You’re being too stubborn!”

she snaps, her voice suddenly erupting into a thunderous roar that makes the air vibrate.

“We need to feel this, not just think about it!”

The sheer power of her voice causes the walls to tremble, and the room itself seems to pulse with her energy. You flinch, instinctively shrinking back, your body stiffening from the overwhelming force of her words.

The sharp crackle of her demon power fills the room, sending an electric shock through the air. You feel a cold rush of fear—your heart pounding louder than her voice.

Rumi’s eyes widen, her demon markings glowing brighter as she takes a step back. She notices the way you’ve recoiled, your eyes wide and your body tense, clearly shaken by the sheer volume of her voice.

The sudden silence that falls between you feels heavier than the argument.

“…Wait,” she murmurs, her expression softening, a flicker of realization crossing her face. “Did I… did I scare you?”

You hesitate, not sure how to respond, still a little rattled. Your breath is shallow as you look at her, and the vulnerability you feel in that moment is hard to hide.

Rumi’s gaze softens, the edge in her voice gone, replaced by genuine concern. She steps closer, placing a gentle hand on the desk between you, her purple eyes searching yours.

“I didn’t mean to…” she trails off, her voice now much quieter, laced with regret.