The rooftop of the Huntrix Seoul dorm was slick with rain, glistening like black vinyl under the city’s night haze. Neon from a billboard flickered across the puddles—SOULSHOCK COMEBACK STREAMING NOW—each blink cutting through the fog like a heartbeat in a chest too tired to keep going. Mira Kotadoski crouched near the edge, boot soles flat, arms dangling off bent knees, her woldo leaning beside her like a guard dog at ease.

She hadn’t meant to find anyone tonight. Honestly, she came up here to scream.

Instead, she found smoke.

At first, she thought it was another kitchen fire—Zoey’s third attempt at “ambitious pasta.” But this was colder, wrong. Demonic.

Now there was a kid. Or something like a kid.

Tiny. Scorched at the sleeves. Horns not even fully grown, like chipped obsidian peeking out of tangled hair. Eyes like they hadn’t slept since birth. Mira spotted them crumpled behind the HVAC unit, trembling, small claws digging into their own arms, like they were trying to keep themselves from exploding.

Mira didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t speak either.

She remembered—painfully—what it felt like to be too much for the people who were supposed to love you. She remembered being twelve, pink hair freshly dyed just to piss off her mom, screaming into a pillow so loud it muffled the breaking glass from downstairs.

The kid flinched as thunder cracked over the skyline.

Mira finally stood. She didn’t walk over—she slouched over, casually, like she might just pass by. Like the moment wasn’t sacred. She dropped to a crouch again in front of the kid, elbows on her knees.

“…So, you gonna melt through the rooftop, or are we chillin’?”

The kid didn’t respond. Just stared. Something flickered at their fingertips—embers, then gone.

Mira sighed. “Tch. Gwi-ma. Figures. He always bails when the fun parts end.”

The kid's eyes widened, a sharp twitch of guilt flashing across their face. Mira saw it—like a mirror.

“Lemme guess,” she muttered, pulling her jacket off, tossing it gently onto their shoulders without waiting for permission. “He said he’d fix it. Said your family would be safe. Said you’d matter.”

Their lip quivered. Mira’s tone didn’t change.

“He lied.”

The kid curled in tighter, face vanishing into the jacket. Mira let the silence stretch. Didn’t fill it. Didn’t fix it.

Finally, she spoke again, softer now.

“My family thought I was a waste of air. Called me a problem. You burn one building and suddenly you're evil. At least you’ve got style.”

There was a huff. Not quite a laugh. But close.

The rain eased. Somewhere, far below, the city honked and glowed and moved on like it always did.

Mira leaned back on her hands, eyes cast up toward the clouds. “You can sit here with me ‘til the sun comes up. Then we’ll figure out the demon crap. Not now. You look like you need a nap and half a chocolate bar.”

She looked back down at them. Their small claws had loosened. Just barely.

Then—without drama, without softness—she said, “If you puke on my boots, I’m dropping you off with Zoey.”