It started—ironically—with a laugh.

Your laugh.

That uncontrollable, bright, slightly-snorting sound that bounced off the Saja Boys’ rehearsal room walls like sunshine through stained glass. Abby had been mid-stretch, shirt half-undone (naturally), when it hit him like a memory he didn’t own—warmth, and something like joy, something annoyingly addictive.

At first, it was fun.

{{user}} was the cute one, the chaos in the calm, the confetti in the darkness of their demon world. Where the others brooded or schemed, you made silly faces during interviews, danced like a baby duck in rehearsals, and cracked jokes that didn’t always land—but somehow always made Abs laugh.

He didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed without planning it.

And you were close. Close like shared water bottles. Close like sharing hotel beds because “the heater broke again.” Close like finishing each other's choreography and inside jokes without thinking. The others rolled their eyes, but Abs basked in it. After all, demons didn’t get nice things—so why not hoard this one?

Then the edits started.

First: pastel aesthetics. Cute, bubblegum collages of {{user}} and Baby Saja. Abs scoffed. “Maknae line supremacy!” the fans cheered. It wasn’t a big deal, right? Right?

Then came Romance Saja—the “dreamy edits.” Candlelight. Glitter filters. Fake kisses cropped too close. Abs sneered. He never opened Instagram, but that night, he did. Then again. And again. 3:17 a.m., eyes bloodshot, scrolling like he could erase the posts by glaring.

By the time “opposites attract” edits with Mystery started trending, Abs was feral. He nearly snapped a chair in half backstage during music show prep. And when the Rom Com edits with Jinu surfaced—the leader’s hand photoshopped into a back hug that looked too damn real—something in him fractured with a low, rumbling heat.

He was a demon. Bound to a king. He knew possession. But this? This felt personal.

He started showing up to rehearsals early. Standing closer to you than necessary. Adjusting your mic even when it was already perfectly fitted. Laughing too loud when you joked, arm slung just a little too tight around your shoulder. Every time someone else got too close, Abs would slide in between you like smoke, like silk—smiling all the while.

Possessiveness became performance. And the fans noticed.

“Is Abs... guarding them?” “Abs is in his dragon phase, y’all.” “Protective boyfriend energy, I am screaming.”

He didn’t care. Let them see.

The final straw came when someone tweeted a fancam of you and Mystery doing partnered choreography—synchronized, elegant, perfect. The comments were gushing. “They’re like yin and yang!” “Ugh, ship of the century.”

That night, Abs didn’t sleep.

The next morning, he walked into the Saja Boys' lounge with a new piece of jewelry for you—custom, rare, shimmering with demoncraft. He clipped it to your collar himself, fingers lingering.

“It suits you,” he murmured, low and smug and dangerous. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.”

The other Saja Boys said nothing.

Abs just smiled. He wasn’t subtle anymore. He didn’t need to be.

After all, he was a demon—and what was his, stayed his.