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Quick Author's Note: Here we are, folks, closer to the end. This chapter will culminate the last interaction between Romance and Yena alone. I have spent so much time and effort building them up for the upcoming final fight. I hope you enjoyed their secret encounters and character interactions as much as I did.
Yena barely had time to process what happened next.
Rumi’s sob cracked through the silence like a whip, sharp and sudden. Before anyone could move, she turned and bolted down the corridor, her footsteps echoing in frantic rhythm against the walls. Her figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only the lingering pulse of her energy and the ache of everything she couldn’t fix.
Mira and Zoey didn’t chase her.
They stood frozen, staring at the space where Rumi had stood moments ago. Their weapons, once raised in defense, now lowered slowly, flickering before dissolving into nothing. The silence between them was thick, but their eyes spoke volumes—pain, confusion, exhaustion. A quiet devastation that didn’t need words.
Yena watched them, her breath shallow, her chest tight, and then something inside her broke.
A wail tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, her body folding in on itself as sobs wracked her frame. She didn’t care that Mira and Zoey were still there. She didn’t care about appearances or pride. The grief was too heavy, too sharp, too real.
She cried for Rumi.
For the group.
For herself.
She felt numb and furious all at once, betrayed by someone she trusted, yet also blaming herself for being too weak, too selfish, too late. Her tears soaked into the cold tile beneath her, her fingers clawing at the floor as if she could anchor herself to something solid.
Time passed.
She didn’t know how long.
Her sobs slowed, then stilled, leaving only the sound of her breath and the distant hum of the building around her. It wasn’t until the silence shifted, became heavier, emptier, that she realized Mira and Zoey had silently left her.
Yena lifted her head slowly. The hallway was vacant. The space where they had stood was now just air and memory. She blinked, her vision blurred, her heart hollow. She looked down at her hands—trembling, open, empty—and stared at them as if they might offer her something. A solution. A reason. A way to fix what had shattered.
The corridor remained silent, save for the faint hum of distant stage lights and the soft, uneven rhythm of Yena’s breath. Her body was still curled on the floor, her limbs heavy with grief, her spirit dimmed to a flicker. The Honmoon, once a steady pulse of energy, now felt like a dying ember—its warmth fading, its protection slipping through her fingers.
Then the sound of soft footsteps appeared. Measured and unhurried. Each one deliberate, like the person behind them knew exactly how much space to take up, how much silence to break.
Yena’s body tensed instinctively. Her breath caught, and she tried desperately to summon her spiritual walls. But her energy was too low, her focus fractured. The attempt fizzled out before it could form, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
The footsteps stopped a few paces behind her.
Then came a sound that made her blood run cold. "Tsk tsk." A teasing click of the tongue, light and mocking, slicing through the quiet like a blade dipped in silk.
Yena’s eyes widened. She knew that tone, but how come she hadn't sensed him? How had he slipped past her awareness, her instincts?
The figure loomed behind her for a moment, watching her with silent judgment. He then moved slowly, confidently, as he walked around her collapsed form like a shadow with too much presence. His steps were quiet, but his intent was loud.
From the corner of her gaze, she saw him. Romance, back in his human form.
His silhouette was sharp against the dim corridor light, his posture relaxed, almost elegant. His hair was tousled just enough to look effortless, his dark clothes pristine despite the chaos. His eyes held a pitiful sort of sympathy, like he was watching a child cry over something he’d broken on purpose.
His expression was unbothered and far too familiar. His silence said it all, and now, he was here. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity, before extending a hand toward her. Open. Inviting. Testing.
Would she crack? Would she take it? Would she need him now, in this moment of weakness?
Yena stared at the outstretched hand. Her breath slowed as her fingers twitched in betrayal; however, she didn’t move. The hope she once held for him, fragile and foolish, was long gone. Burned away by the truths he spat at her. She blames him and Jinu for how their group fell apart. To everything Huntrix was supposed to be.
All that remained was disdain and the bitter taste of knowing she had once believed in someone who she didn't think would be her downfall, and the same person who watches her fall.
Romance watched her. His outstretched hand lingered in the air, suspended between mockery and invitation. But when Yena didn’t take it, he slowly withdrew it, the gesture smooth and unbothered. He tucked both hands into the pockets of his tailored pants, posture relaxed, as if her refusal had been expected. Or worse, irrelevant.
His silence was deliberate, a performance in itself. He stood there like a man admiring a painting of a tragedy, waiting to see how the final brushstroke would land. He was entertained by her collapse and intrigued by her continual restraint.
Yena remained on the floor, her body curled inward, her gaze fixed on the cold tile beneath her. She refused to look at him. Refused to let him see the weakness in her eyes. Her breath was shallow, her limbs heavy, but her pride—what little remained—held her still.
She knew better. She knew what he wanted to see. For her to crack, to see her reach for him, and to see her surrender. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not now. Not when everything else had already been taken.
Then the whispers began.
Soft at first. Like wind brushing against the back of her neck.
However, it gets louder.
Voices, dozens of them, slipping into her ears, curling around her thoughts like bittersweet melodies. They spoke in fragments, in accusations, in truths twisted just enough to hurt her deep within.
He loved a version of you that didn't even exist.
You only cared about yourself when they didn't defend you.
You turned your back on her after you snitched.
A total mess you are, not worthy of a hunter.
Yena’s breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. The voices crawled under her skin, slithering through her mind, tempting her to give in. To surrender to the grief that had been clawing at her since the moment she had realized how shameful she was.
She clutched her head, pressing her palms against her temples, trying to block them out. Her nails dug into her scalp, her body trembling with the effort to stay grounded. The corridor around her felt like it was closing in, the air thickening with every whispered accusation.
Hypocrite.
Pretended to be strong, but you were always weak.
Her teeth clenched. No. She had survived solitude. She had endured months of silence, of exile, of being forgotten. Her hiatus had been a crucible, and she had emerged already scarred but stronger. She wouldn’t break now, not ever in front of him.
Her voice came out low, guttural, a hiss of defiance. “Shut up, Gwi-ma. You're not there.”
The voices faltered as the air shifted. Romance’s eyes narrowed, his expression flickering with something unexpected. Surprise. A subtle tilt of his head betrayed his curiosity. He had expected her to give in after he had corrupted her and helped shatter the unity of the Hunters. He thought she would let the darkness take her.
But she hadn’t. Even in her demise, she resisted, and that, somehow, made her more dangerous than ever.
Romance’s expression shifted—barely. A flicker of annoyance passed through his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Yena’s refusal had soured the moment, disrupted the rhythm of his game. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them with a predator’s ease, and without warning, he grabbed her arm.
His grip was firm, not cruel, but dismissive. He hauled her upright with a single motion, as if she were weightless, as if her weakness were an inconvenience. Yena stumbled into standing, her legs buckling beneath her, her breath catching in her throat.
Romance rolled his eyes, slow and theatrical, surveying her with a gaze that dripped disdain. “So pitiful,” he muttered, almost bored. “And yet… still stubborn.”
Her eyes remained downcast, refusing to meet his. Her body trembled, but her mind held. She didn’t fight. She simply endured.
Then the world shifted as they both dissipated, surrounded by dark purple smoke. Just a sudden twist in the air, a ripple in reality, and in an instant, they were no longer inside the building. They stood on the streets of Seoul.
The night was heavy, the air thick with confusion and grief. Crowds wandered, their faces pale and stricken, eyes glazed with disbelief. Fans loosely clutched their signs, their lightsticks—symbols of devotion to Huntrix now rendered meaningless. The city, once vibrant with celebration, now felt muted in grief.
Romance released her. Without his support, Yena collapsed to the pavement, her knees hitting the stone with a dull thud. She gasped, trying to catch herself, but he was already gone—vanishing into the shadows like smoke, leaving her alone in the aftermath.
She didn’t call out. She simply lay there, breath shallow, limbs aching, surrounded by the quiet devastation of a city that no longer knew what to believe.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze. A flicker caught her eye, a nearby skyscraper, its LED screens glowing against the night sky. The colors were subdued, the tone somber. The female newscaster's figure flashed across the screen in stark white letters.
“Due to Huntrix’s public on-stage breakup, today’s International Idol Awards have been officially canceled.”
Yena’s heart stopped. She stared, unable to blink, unable to breathe.
The newscaster’s voice echoed from a nearby speaker, calm and detached.
“Here are the winners of the International Idol Awards. Artist of the Year—Saja Boys. Song of the Year—Saja Boys.”
The words hit her like a blade. She had known this was coming. She had felt it in the way the night unraveled, but seeing it all being broadcast that they had lost so badly was something else entirely. Her fingers curled against the pavement. And for the first time since the stage collapsed beneath them, Yena felt the full weight of despair. Not just for herself, but for everything the Hunters were supposed to do.
The Honmoon pulsed faintly around her, its rhythm erratic, like a heartbeat struggling to stay alive. She could feel it dimming, growing colder with every breath. The tether that once shielded the world from demons is now brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering. It was dying, and she could do nothing to stop it.
She remained on the pavement, her body limp, her gaze hollow. The city around her moved in slow motion—fans wandering, their faces pale and grief-stricken, clutching signs and lightsticks that no longer had meaning. The air was thick with confusion, the kind that settles after something sacred has been broken.
Then the LED broadcast above her flickered again.
The screen stuttered, went static, and the image of the newscaster dissolved into white noise. Yena’s breath caught, her eyes narrowing as the screen shifted.
The Saja Boys appeared.
They stood in formation, framed by a backdrop of menacing pink—an unnatural hue that bled into the edges of the screen like a warning. Their dark performance outfits clung to them like armor, sharp and theatrical. But their expressions had changed.
No longer smug and cocky. They looked solemn, as if mourning something, making peace with something painful.
But Yena knew better. That pink aura wasn’t just aesthetic. It was the illusion of grandeur, and everyone was fooled by it.
Her gaze locked onto Romance, whose figure appeared on one of the screens. He stood with his usual relaxed posture, his eyes unreadable, his presence quiet but suffocating. He didn’t speak. His silence was a statement, one that echoed louder than any words.
Jinu’s voice filled the air. His smooth, velvet cadence bashed with poison. "Hey, everybody."
“You must all be sad with the Huntrix breakup,” he began, his tone soft, almost sympathetic. “We are too.”
Yena’s stomach twisted. Her expression shifted, lips curling in disgust. She knew it was a lie.
Every word was calculated, rehearsed, and designed to manipulate. Jinu’s voice was a performance, and the city was his stage. He was weaving grief into a spectacle, turning sympathy into compulsion.
“So, to cheer everyone up,” he continued, his smile curling at the edges.
The screens began to shift. Their figures moved—panel to panel, screen to screen—with inhuman grace. They glided across the LED walls like shadows, synchronized and seamless, their silence more haunting than any melody.
Jinu’s voice remained steady. “We’re going to do a special live performance tonight. Midnight. At Namsam Tower.”
His smile widened, but it wasn’t genuine. It was hollow to those who weren't in low spirits. A mask stretched too tight.
On one of the screens, Romance turned his head and pointed toward the real tower on the horizon. The gesture was slow, deliberate, taunting. Yena’s breath hitched as she followed his finger, her eyes landing on the distant silhouette of Namsam Tower glowing faintly against the night sky.
She wanted to rip his mouth from his face. It clicked in her mind, though too late for regrets, too late for redemption. She had allowed him in. Allowed him to twist her views and philosophy, to use her compassion and affection as weakness, to turn her against Rumi.
And now, the consequence was right before her like a slap in the face. The world would lose its souls, and the only thing she could do was watch it happen.
"Don’t miss it," Jinu’s voice echoed one last time, haunting the atmosphere longer than necessary. “For the world.”
The feed cut as their figures vanished. Only the Saja Boys logo remained, glowing against the menacing pink backdrop, pulsing like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anyone human.
She watches the crowds move like shadows, drifting toward Namsan Tower with blank expressions and hollow eyes. The city had become a stage, and the people—once fans, once believers—were now spectators to something they didn’t understand. She wanted to scream, to run, to stop them.
But her body wouldn’t move. Her limbs were heavy, her breath shallow, her vision blurring at the edges. The Honmoon inside her flickered once more, then dimmed to near silence. Her knees buckled, and before she could lift a finger, the world around her faded.
She collapsed, and everything went dark.
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Yena opened her eyes, but it wasn’t the real world.
She was kneeling, hunched over on a surface that felt like stone but looked like nothing. The ground was colorless, textureless, stretching into a void that swallowed light. The air was cold, damp, and thick with something unspoken.
She tried to move her hands. They didn’t respond.
She looked down and saw them—wrapped in chains. Thick, dark, pulsing with a faint glow that felt wrong. The metal wasn’t cold. It was alive. Every link tightened the moment she struggled, constricting her wrists, her arms, her breath.
Panic surged through her. She pulled, twisted, and even screamed, but the chains only grew tighter, biting into her skin, feeding off her desperation. Her breath came in gasps, her body trembling as she fought against the invisible weight pressing down on her.
After what felt like hours, she collapsed again.
Her forehead touched the ground, and she cried. Not the kind of cry that could be heard in the real world. This was deeper. Raw. The kind that came from a place beyond language. She felt alone. Abandoned. Forgotten. Her sobs echoed into the void, swallowed by the silence.
The dark voices came back. They slithered around her like smoke, whispering gruesome truths she didn’t want to hear anymore.
You were selfish!
You turned your back on her, on them!
You were desperate to be loved, only to be used!
You didn't want to be alone forever!
Her courage flickered as she gave up. Her body shook with grief, her tears soaking into the ground that didn’t exist. The chains pulsed tighter, feeding off her surrender.
Then a voice. Clear. Desperate. Calling her name.
“Huayin.”
She froze. Amongst the other voices that continued to spew grievances, this one cut through them like light through fog. She turned her head, eyes wide, searching through the darkness. There was no one there, no figure, no face. But she knew that voice.
It was too familiar.
She focused on it, clung to it, let it anchor her from this depressing environment.
“Huayin,” it called again, louder now, trembling with emotion. "你并不孤单。我在这里，总是。" (You’re not alone. I'm here, always.)
Her breath caught. Her heart stuttered. It was her father. She could feel it—not just in her ears, but in her soul. The way he used to call her name when she was scared. The way he used to hold her hand when she cried. The way he believed in her when no one else did.
The chains didn’t loosen, but something inside her did. She allowed herself to feel and believe.
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and then Add to home screen.