Yena entered the creative studio, her socks soft against the carpeted floor, one arm and a notebook filled with hope pressed against her side. The door clicked softly behind her.
The room was already alive with energy. Mira was scribbling fiercely onto the whiteboard, marker gliding over words sharp as thorns: “When your patterns start to show", "It makes my hatred...”, “Takedown, down, down, down”
Zoey was experimenting with sound bites at the mixing station—one beat looping with an eerie siren texture, while another layered in reversed vocals. Rumi sat nearby on the floor, cross-legged, reviewing the first page of some lyrics and humming for a possible harmony.
Yena paused. A ping of unease tightened at her ribs.
“What’s going on?” she asked, setting down her things and Momo entering right behind her, before making himself comfortable on a bean bag nearby.
Mira turned with a gleam of determination in her eyes. “We’re starting a new song.”
“Already?” Yena blinked.
“It’s urgent,” Rumi said without looking up. “We’ve got almost a week before the Idol Awards.”
“And we’re not just giving sparkle this time. We’re going for the jugular.” Zoey spun in her seat.
Yena furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a diss track.” Mira didn’t hesitate. “It’ll be clean, no names. Just... truth.”
Yena’s breath caught, unsure how to respond to this.
Rumi added quietly, “We don’t need to make up a story. Just show what they are and let the lyrics speak for themselves.”
Yena walked slowly toward the whiteboard, staring at the rough verses Mira had drafted. They were evocative and hateful, but they weren’t written for the fans. They were written for them to feel better about themselves.
She swallowed. “It’s dangerous,” she murmured.
“You mean powerful,” Mira replied.
Zoey smiled faintly, tapping a lyric that pulsed like heat across the screen. “We're not being spiteful. We're being smart.”
Yena turned to them, heart pounding. She thought of the whispers at the café. The shifting of perspective, the emotional tide slipping from their hands, and now they were poised to punch, not reach out.
“I’ll think about it,” Yena said softly. The pause that followed wasn’t hostile—just firm.
The girls nodded to her decision as they resumed their work.
Rumi understood Yena’s silence as contemplation, not dissent. Mira scrolled through the paper with the lyrics. Zoey leaned into the beat while Yena sat at the back of the room, notebook still untouched. Momo nestled beside her, paw against her lap.
Once back in her room, the silence hurt. She sat down on her bed, everything inside her a quiet storm, her concept—fragile, luminous, built for restoration—now felt like paper in a downpour.
Huntrix had always sung for the fans. To anchor them and lift their souls. But this?
This was retaliation, not hopeful. Her fingers curled tightly around the notebook. She wasn’t afraid to speak truth, it's just that she was worried about what it cost when hate is weaponized in the form of truth.
109Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjPsWxvNUWN
109Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhs0YAwFJPq
It was past two in the morning.
The Huntrix building had surrendered to silence; studio lights dimmed, hallway wards humming softly in their idle state, even Zoey’s speakers finally quiet after an entire evening of chaotic beat production. Yet Yena lay awake, her body refusing rest despite every attempt: tea, music, breathing rituals.
Momo snored. Curled up like a sleepy dumpling atop her favorite hoodie, his gentle breathing an unfair testament to his lack of awareness in her mental turmoil.
Yena sat upright in bed, and moonlight pooled across her floor like soft silver ink. She sighed quietly, pressing her knuckles against her temple, willing her mind to stop looping.
Not through the lyrics she was supposed to help write. Not through the dissonance in Huntrix’s direction. Not through the memory of Romance’s voice—low, calm, circling her thoughts with persistent quiet.
Not all demons are evil.
She groaned under her breath and stood.
The air was crisp against her skin as she slid open the balcony door, stepping barefoot onto the tiled edge. The city stretched before her—halos of streetlight, silhouettes of broadcast towers blinking against the skyline, the faint glow of floating advertisements painting movement across sleeping windows.
A soft gust played with the hem of her nightdress, but she barely noticed.
Her eyes traced the line of rooftops until they landed on the distant shape of the subdivision beyond the main square, the one place she'd first properly spoken with him.
Her heart was beating faster, and she knew this was a stupid idea. Dangerous, but listening to her curiosity had always won over.
She retreated inside, threw on her oversized charcoal hoodie, and joggers tucked into boots. Without hesitation, she leapt from her balcony.
She landed three floors down in a crouch, rolling with the grace only a Huntress could wield. She sprinted across rooftops and scaled brick walls like wind chasing its echo.
The subdivision was blanketed in moonlight, the kind that turned rooftops to silver and garden weeds to glassy whispers. The old house loomed at the end of a crooked cul-de-sac, half-swallowed by vines and weather rot, like a relic the city chose to forget. Its porch sagged. The fence slumped forward in defeat. Even the wind seemed cautious here, tiptoeing past broken shingles and peeling lantern hooks.
Yena stood just beyond the threshold of its backyard, boots pressing into dry soil scattered with curling leaves and the remnants of talisman shards. Her hoodie clung to her frame, not from cold but from tension.
Every step away from the Huntrix building had screamed irrational, foolish, and dangerous. It was a silence that didn’t mock. It felt personal, and she wanted to know why.
Yena stood near the spot she remembered. A patch of cracked stone nestled in a ring of weathered roots. The ground was undisturbed, but the air hummed faintly, as if memory lingered like perfume. She ran her fingers over the stone. It was cold like the wind. Her fingers curled into her palm.
Romance’s presence, his reputation, was a warning etched into every teaching she’d ever studied. It was all because of what he didn’t do. A demon whose purpose was to take souls, he had every reason to take hers when she was vulnerable, but he did the opposite.
A late realization made her breath hitch. He was supposed to be the enemy, yet he hadn’t hurt her. He could have easily done so, yet he didn’t. That shouldn’t mean anything to her, but it somehow did.
The subdivision was deathly quiet. Houses slumped like worn-out statues, windows boarded, fences tangled in roots, silence broken only by the soft flapping of a forgotten curtain on an upper floor.
She shouldn’t be here, and yet her chest had pulled her here more insistently than logic ever could.
A voice cut clean through the stillness. Familiar. Laced with low-bar concern and subtle reprimand.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone. No other hunters patrolling tonight?”
Yena spun around to see the face she wanted to see all night.
Romance stood casually beneath the skeletal remains of an arbor, hands tucked into his cardigan pockets, expression unreadable. His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, but nothing about him looked threatening. Just... present and annoyingly composed.
He stepped forward once, slow enough to be intentional. “Risky for someone who hasn’t fully recovered.”
Yena crossed her arms tightly, bracing herself. “I've heard this before. You’re just trying to scare me off.”
“Scare?” Romance blinked. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just curious how far your overconfidence goes.”
“I can handle myself quite well.”
Romance gave a soft snort and tilted his head slightly. “Mm. Just like the night when you were surrounded with nowhere to run?”
Yena’s jaw tightened. She stepped toward him. “I had that under control.”
He didn’t rebut. Just shook his head slowly, eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement. “Sure. I'll let you believe in your glory.”
Yena exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed. “You sound like someone who likes to bring down people's aspirations. Tired of listening to your fan girls all day?”
Romance offered a faint, stoic shrug. “It’s either that or to remind you again you’re standing in front of a demon with no backup and questionable decision-making.”
They stared at each other—each carrying unspoken memories, each unwilling to reach across the gap. The silence didn’t creak or waver. It just… settled.
Then Romance tilted his gaze down for a moment, like he wasn’t sure whether to speak at all. When he did, it came quieter than usual. “Why did you come here then?”
Yena blinked. His voice wasn’t mocking. It sounded like genuine curiosity. Real curiosity.
She felt her throat tighten unexpectedly. “I…” she started. “I thought I left my necklace here.”
Romance gave her a long, deliberate look, then glanced down at the patch of dirt near their feet. “Right. The magical necklace that vanishes at emotionally inconvenient moments.”
Yena flushed. “It’s none of your business.”
“I think you dropped it somewhere between denial and misguided attraction,” he said evenly.
Yena gasped at the accusation as she snapped back, “At least I don’t dress like a moody confession.”
Romance’s brow lifted. “Excuse you. This cardigan was hand-stitched and very comfortable. Practical for this era.”
“I can see how old you are based on your taste in fashion.” Yena blinked.
“At least, I don't wear baggy clothes that make me look like a man.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m very believable. Just selectively terrifying.”
Their voices softened as the tension slipped from the dry banter, something oddly fragile yet oddly normal. Something neither of them could explain.
The air went quiet again. Romance’s gaze lingered on her, a dozen thoughts twisting in his head. And Yena was no better because the truth still pressed against her ribs, and neither of them knew how to ask what they truly wanted to say.
The wind pulled gently at the vines along the perimeter wall, carrying the faint smell of jasmine and something colder—like stone touched by rain.
Yena stood in the half-light, fingers tracing the edge of her jacket pocket. She didn’t speak. Not because she lacked words, but because any sound felt too loud, too quick for the way Romance had gone still.
His silhouette, often carved with arrogance and grace, now seemed human in a way that unsettled her.
“You ever try to bury a name so deep you forget it belonged to you?” He spoke out of the blue.
Yena blinked, caught between reaction and formulating a response, yet none came.
Romance wasn’t performing. The usual cadence in his voice, the kind that made crowds hush and flames bend, was stripped away.
“I used to have one.” His left hand toyed with the edge of his sleeve. “It wasn’t poetic. Just something whispered by someone who believed I could be good.”
He paused as if hearing it again.
“Before the shame. Before anyone told me to choose between survival and fame.”
Yena felt her inner self thrum—a pulse of shared emotion, unbidden. Not because he was like her, but because he had shattered something once, too.
“I didn’t lose it in glory,” Romance said. “I lost it on a day the world kept spinning, and I didn’t.”
There was a roughness to his tone now. Not jagged, but unfinished, like the way regret sometimes wears the voice down.
“I built what I needed to. Selfish needs with selfish applause.” He stepped once, toward the stone arch near them, brushing fingertips along a cracked tile. “But sometimes I still hear it. I think the worst part is knowing no one else does.”
Yena stared at his hand, noticing the faint scar along his knuckles. The kind you don’t earn in battle—but in desperation.
“I think I’ve lost parts of myself, too,” she said softly. “Not names. Just… reasons.”
Romance turned his head slightly, but he let her continue to speak.
“Why I became who I am. Why I wake up every morning for the public, even when I feel hollow inside.” Her voice cracked on ‘hollow,’ but she didn’t hide it.
“I used to be proud, but not because of the applause. Just knowing I'm still grounded to who I truly am.”
A silence settled, not sharp, but fragile. Romance leaned against the arch. “And now?”
“I become someone else when people look,” Yena said.
He studied her face, eyes tracing the shadows under her eyes, the way her jaw clenched not in anger, but in restraint.
“I didn’t come here to gloat,” he said, voice steady. “And I didn’t come to haunt you.”
Yena crossed her arms. “Then why... say all of this?”
There was a flicker—a moment he nearly dodged her question like last time, but something in the honesty between them refused to keep it hidden.
“Maybe because someone finally wanted to know more about me.”
Yena’s throat tightened again. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she whispered.
“You didn’t.” He smiled faintly. “And it didn’t hurt the second time around.”
Yena moved a half-step closer, moonlight threading through her hair like silver flame. “If you ever wanted to tell me your name... the actual one, I’d listen.”
Romance blinked slowly, as if considering.
“I don’t remember much,” he said. “But if I ever do, maybe I’ll tell you in secret.”
Yena nodded with a light smile, not pressing. “I’ll hold you to that then.”
“Sneaky little hunter.” He tilted his head before a small smile appeared on his lips. The silence, with an unsaid farewell that followed her promise, shimmered with something reverent.
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