The elevator climbed slowly, its silver walls reflecting the dim, tired gleam in Yena’s eyes. Drops of sweat cooled along her collarbone, seeping through her hoodie from exertion and something colder.
Her mind wasn’t on the demons. It wasn’t even on the muscle ache forming beneath her sleeves.
Shame is the chaos, they rot in.
She closes her eyes so tight that it aches.
When the elevator doors slid open, a rush of warmer light met her face. Huntrix building greeted her like a memory—hallways soaked in soft concrete, trophies resting in glass cases, tiny charms clipped along the windowsill to keep the wards stable. The scent of citrus cleansing balm and takeout lingered faintly in the air.
She stepped into the waiting room with quiet, controlled footsteps.
Zoey was face-down on the beanbag, still in uniform, limbs sprawled like a retired dancer mid-collapse. A squishy mascot plush was tucked under her cheek. Rumi sat with legs folded beside the couch, phone propped on a cushion, lips pursed with focused calm. Mira stood sentinel at the far end, silhouetted in moonlight bleeding through the pane—her arms crossed, her posture taut like a bowstring.
Yena’s arrival broke the stillness as all three looked up.
Zoey’s eyes were heavy-lidded, but alert. Rumi closed the document on her screen without sound. Mira didn’t move—just stared with quiet intensity.
“You’re late,” Mira said, without inflection.
Yena didn’t meet her eyes. “Got overwhelmed for a while, but the rest scurried off in your areas.”
Her voice was steadier than she felt.
Mira’s gaze flicked from Yena’s hand to the dirt smeared along the hem of her hoodie, and finally to the subtle tremble in her fingers. “You look rattled.”
Yena lifted her chin slightly, pushing down the pulse in her throat. “I’m not.”
“Yeah,” Mira murmured. “You are.”
Zoey peeled herself halfway up from the beanbag. “You didn’t check in. Rumi tried calling you three times.”
Rumi nodded, setting her phone aside. “Why didn't you call out to us when you were surrounded? we could've backed you up.”
Yena didn’t immediately answer. “I decided to handle it.” She collapsed into the couch, settling into the cushions with care, but because her limbs felt like glass.
Rumi narrowed her eyes, scanning Yena’s face with the precision of someone who read silence better than sound. “Are you sure?”
Yena stared at the ceiling, but her mind was focused on something else, like a memory that couldn't be ignored.
“It was nothing life-threatening,” she murmured. “See no bruises or anything close.”
Mira walked over, seating herself beside her gently on the couch. Being close to Yena, she could smell the faint scent of perfume; it was so subtle but obvious if up close to the source. She didn’t press but eyed her suspiciously.
Zoey groaned dramatically, flopping onto her back. “You never handled an entire hoard on your own before and survived, not scratched at all.”
Rumi snorted playfully. “Even I'm impressed.”
Yena leaned her head back, looking at the ceiling, ignoring the girls. She remembered the way Romance’s voice felt against her ear, the gentle restraint in his arms, and the eerie calm as the demons fled from him.
The danger wasn’t in his power. It was in what he represented and the way it mirrored her fear.
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Four days have passed since the award show, and the girls' Meet and Greet schedule is closer than anyone thought.
The morning unfurled slowly across the Huntrix dormitory, trailing soft light along the polished wooden floors and glowing past the sheer curtains, which swayed gently in the passing breeze. The world felt muted—peaceful but not quiet. Somewhere down the hall, Zoey’s alarm chirped and silenced itself. Rumi’s tea kettle hissed in the shared kitchenette. But inside Yena’s room, the tempo was softer still.
The stereo played traditional Chinese instrumentals plucked guzheng strings and drifting bamboo flutes, blending in warm intervals that soothed the residual tension clinging to her spine.
Momo lay stretched out on a towel in the center of the room, limbs sprawled like a regal puddle of fluff, fur puffed from his recent bath. His fur shimmered faintly, the damp undercoat curling at the edges as Yena crouched beside him, directing the blow dryer in a slow sweep while brushing through his back.
“You look like a loaf of steamed bread,” she said with a small laugh.
Momo responded with a melodramatic groan, burying his face beneath his paws.
Yena clicked the dryer to its lowest setting and reached for the comb, tugging gently through the tangled spots near his tail. Her movements were careful, practiced—hands nimble from years of stage prep, now applied to feline vanity.
“I swear you shed more than Mira does with stress,” she muttered.
She was just about to finish when a knock interrupted.
Momo attempted to slink off the towel mid-stroke—his version of protest.
Yena stood up, wiped her hands on the hem of her hoodie, and crossed the room to open the door.
Mira stood on the other side, dressed in clean joggers and a loose white tee. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes carried a quiet intent.
“Hey,” Mira said. “You free for a few minutes?”
Yena stepped back automatically, holding the door open. “Yeah, of course. Come in.”
Mira entered, her gaze catching immediately on Momo, who was now curled up near the edge of the sunlight, licking his front paw like nothing had happened.
“Did you bathe him?” she asked with raised brows.
Yena smiled, closing the door. “Planning to take him to the new cat café in Itaewon later. He needs to charm the staff. Can’t be showing up looking like a swamp gremlin.”
Mira snorted softly. “You spoil him too much, but still a gremlin.”
She moved closer and perched at the edge of Yena’s desk chair, fingers loosely interlaced. Yena sat on the bed across from her, folding one leg beneath her.
There was a pause as the background music looped into another track.
Then Mira looked up. “So... about the thing with Oliver.”
Yena flinched before Mira had even finished the sentence. She forced a laugh. “Please don’t tell me you heard that entire thing.”
“I’d love to pretend we didn’t,” Mira said, “but we kind of did.”
“That’s humiliating.” Yena buried her face in her hands.
Mira shrugged. “You’re allowed to have a moment.”
Yena peeked through her fingers. “In public? With people around? With Oliver standing there pretending we’re still something out of some tragic K-drama?”
“You handled it better than I would’ve,” Mira said, crossing one leg. “And you’re bigger than that moment. Better than him.”
Yena lowered her hands. The words landed heavily but gently, like Mira was offering her a sword and a shield, letting Yena decide which she needed more.
Mira leaned forward slightly. “He’s your past. Don’t let him be your present all over again.”
Yena nodded, staring at the dried rose hairpin on her nightstand. “You’re right. I know. Just… I hate how everything escalated in such a way.”
Mira tilted her head. “Which is why I’m asking where you ran off to afterward.”
Yena blinked. “You saw me run?”
“We heard you run. We sent Bobby to sweep the east stairwell. He said the vending machine was still stocked, so we knew you didn’t cry into a can of iced coffee.”
Yena hesitated as her throat tightened. Because the truth was a staircase—but not the one Mira thought and the comfort she received wasn’t from caffeine. It was from a demon whose silence felt more sincere than anything her ex-boyfriend had ever said.
She tried to speak but faltered.
“I needed air,” she said finally. “Went to the old stairwell behind the storage wing. Just sat for a bit.” Her palms felt clammy against her jeans.
Mira looked at her. No shift in expression. Just… understanding or something approaching it.
She hadn't interrogated further; she didn't want to traumatize the girl. Instead, she offered a small nod, leaned back in her chair, and gave Momo a wink. “He’s lucky. If they ever open a princess spa, I’ll sign up with him.”
Yena laughed faintly, relieved, but inside, her thoughts spun because behind that lie was a truth too fragile to even speak of.
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The morning air was soft as silk—cool and thin, threaded with faint jasmine blooming from rooftop planters and the distant hum of delivery scooters tracing narrow alleys. Yena walked slowly, Momo nestled in his mesh carrier slung against her hip like a regal prince surveying his domain.
He meowed once, unimpressed by the passing shadows.
The city was quieter at this hour, storefronts still unlocking, café terraces barely brushing awake. But the digital billboards overhead were alive—flickering, radiant, and relentless.
Yena’s gaze lifted briefly toward the nearest one. Her steps faltered. Where Huntrix’s faces once sparkled in the neon billboard, the screen now shimmered into something colder.
Saja Boys
Romance’s profile dominated the corner as waves of graphic magic shimmered behind him.
Yena clenched the strap of Momo’s carrier tighter. The fans were shifting and not gently. They needed to act fast.
She reached the café soon after—a tucked-away new spot on the lower promenade lined with clean glass and velvet signage reading Meowtique. The interior was cozy and modern: soft cream walls, hanging terrariums, wide sunlit windows. The air smelled like sesame oil, steamed rice, and freshly steeped genmaicha.
There were no cats in sight yet. The low shelves, scratch posts, and tufted baskets lining the walls confirmed the theme. She was early.
Yena slid into a corner booth near the window, setting Momo’s carrier on the cushion beside her. He pawed at the zipper until she let him out, flopping dramatically across the seat like a tired noble. His fur shimmered from the bath, slightly curled along his spine.
The waiter approached. A young girl with bubblegum-pink nails and a smile half-shy, half starstruck.
“Welcome, Miss. May I take your order?”
Yena smiled politely, grateful the staff wasn’t treating her like a celebrity. Just a girl with a cat.
“Tuna kimbap, scallion pancakes, and... boba tea, brown sugar,” she said, then glanced at Momo’s seat. “And the bibimbap for cats. The popular one.”
The girl grinned, jotted it down. “Coming right up.”
As she left, Yena pulled a string toy from her tote and waved it lightly. Momo swatted halfheartedly, then blinked at her with exaggerated annoyance.
She chuckled softly, but as she watched his lazy paw bat the dangling ribbon, her thoughts drifted.
We have to play this right, she thought. Because there’s a storm brewing and this time, it won’t come with lightning strikes, it’ll come dressed in praise.
They were losing visibility. Not because Huntrix was failing, but because the Saja Boys were rewriting perception. Dangerously feeding the fans with glamour instead of resonance.
Yena couldn't allow that. Not for the fans, not while the Honmoon was flickering like candlelight in the wind. She rested her chin on her hand, watching the city move through the window. Momo purred once, then curled into her lap.
Her gaze drifted along the rippling shadows of passing cyclists outside, fingers absently brushing the top of Momo’s head as he dozed in her lap. Her food hadn’t arrived yet, and the hush of early customers offered a rare moment of solitude.
Until the bell above the door jingled.
Three high school-aged students entered, laughing quietly as they ordered drinks and slid into the booth one row behind her. Their voices were casual, muffled slightly by the soft acoustics of the café’s layout.
Yena wasn’t trying to listen, but one name cut through like a spotlight.
“...Saja Boys.”
She stilled, gaze lowered now, senses prickling against the pull of the conversation behind her.
“They dropped a new reel this morning,” said one of them, swiping her phone screen. “Romance oppa had mentioned liking this one girl, but he never said a name. Oh my gosh, it could be me.”
Yena’s nails curled faintly against her palm.
“I know, right? If only he knew you existed,” the other girl replied. “Meanwhile, Jinu is my type. His so handsome and respectful towards girls.”
“Have you seen the new billboard?” a third added. “It’s massive. I didn’t even realize Huntrix’s was gone until yesterday.”
Momo stirred lightly, nuzzling her wrist. Yena glanced toward the window. It was small talk, an unintended insult, but it echoed with something heavier.
They were being pulled, enchanted by something well-curated, and they didn't know the boys' true selves like she does. Disgusting demons wanting their very soul and being.
She reached for it something instinctively, quietly grounding herself.
“Honestly,” one of the girls muttered, “Huntrix feels too perfect sometimes. They're so vain, and everything is all about them. At least the Saja Boys gave us something new.”
Yena looked down at Momo, his eyes opened briefly, amber and trusting. She exhaled once, slow and steady.
They're not the problem, she told herself. It’s what they’re being fed. Huntrix couldn’t retaliate with this drama without putting effort; they’d have to answer with authenticity.
The server arrived gracefully, a tray balanced expertly in both hands, soft-soled shoes barely whispering against the café tile. She placed each dish with delicate precision—tuna kimbap fanned neatly on a ceramic plate, scallion pancakes steaming at the edges, the bubble tea glistening in its tall glass with curls of caramel swirled at the bottom.
Beside Yena’s tray, the server set down a smaller dish with a soft smile. The bowl was pale ivory, adorned with tiny paw prints—and inside, a cat-safe bibimbap: shredded, boiled salmon, pressed quail yolk, and spiral-cut veggies shaped into delicate rosettes.
Momo blinked up in approval before nosing toward his feast.
Yena offered a small nod of gratitude, then was alone again.
She reached for her chopsticks, eyes flicking between the scallion pancakes and the kimbap—but her hand hesitated midair. Her fingers curled slightly. Her appetite folded in on itself, the bitter drift of envy disguised as fatigue.117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgxc9hzWzhK
117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj45nJDMOZy
Saja Boys gave us something new
She dropped the chopsticks gently back onto the porcelain rest and slumped slightly in her seat, one hand curling around her bubble tea. Her breath fogged faintly against the cool straw as she sipped slowly and stared through the glass window.
Outside, the sidewalk glistened with morning dew drying into sunlit flecks. Pedestrians passed with earbuds and iced coffees, wrapped in the spell of another trending chorus that didn’t belong to Huntrix anymore.
Her thoughts cycled sharply.
Golden had been everything. It radiated clarity, unity, purpose, but maybe it was too clean. What if the fans wanted a clearer resolution? What if they wanted the ache—the pulse of still bleeding, still hoping, fighting to rise?
She glanced at Momo. He was daintily picking at the salmon, tail curled around his feet, eyes half-lidded in serenity.
Yena inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, then lifted her bubble tea again. And with that second sip, an idea formed in her head. Not just a song. A concept shaped like flame in wind: unstable, radiant, real.
A track that opens with fragile, solo harmonies, just breath and piano. A voice resonating with the world, being truthful and honest, shedding off insecurities, and building connections among the fans.
Then the build—layered vocals. Rumi’s emotional verse, Zoey’s raw belt, Mira’s steady hum. Something that felt like desperate mid-run, dancing with scraped knees, screaming in rain because you still believe there’s music in the impossible.
Yena leaned forward, reaching for the scallion pancakes, hunger now ignited by urgency. She ate with quiet haste, not rushed, but with the focus of someone syncing fuel to fire. Momo finished his meal, now curled beside her again, grooming his paws with sleepy satisfaction.
Yena wiped her mouth, left a generous tip, and paid with a quiet thank-you to the staff. Zipping up Momo’s carrier, she stepped out into the sunlight. Her boots struck the pavement with purpose.
ns216.73.217.128da2
and then Add to home screen.