Chapter Text
A light drizzle fell over Rumi’s skin as she gazed out at the city from the balcony of the Huntrix dormitory, the wind gently brushing strands of hair across her face — if she were human, she would have left long ago. But she wasn’t. In fact, Rumi didn’t even know what she was — a hunter? a demon? — and it was there, watching the sparkling lights of Seoul, that she hoped to find some clarity.
The marks spreading across her body made it hard to answer that question. Rumi was the daughter of a demon and a hunter — a glitch, a flaw in the system. And on top of carrying that secret, she was dealing with frequent failures in her voice — not just her tool for work, but her power. No doctor could fix it, and she couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Except... Jinu.
Rumi sighed. Jinu. A demon disguised as an idol, just like her and Huntrix. The leader of Saja Boys had noticed the demon marks on her during their first battle and had tried to reach out ever since. They met once, under the cover of night on the rooftops, where Jinu shared his origins and past. Since then, Rumi avoided him — which wasn’t easy, given they were both leaders of their groups and, with their rising fame, often crossed paths backstage at award shows, music programs, interviews. Their interactions in front of the cameras were staged moments — making any real confrontation impossible. Thinking about Jinu was unavoidable. No matter how much she tried to erase their conversation from her mind, some words echoed on.
“What do you know about this?”
Her voice came out more tense than she’d meant — sharp, still shaky from the rooftop fight. The adrenaline hadn’t fully left her body.
“Enough to know there’s no cure,” he said. “Only control. And even that sometimes slips away.”
A heavy silence hung between them. Cars passed far below. Up here, it was just the two of them.
“I hate it,” Jinu suddenly said. “These marks. This… voice inside us.”
Rumi felt a lump in her throat. For a moment, she wanted to say she understood. But she couldn’t.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said finally. “We’re not allies. We never will be.”
Jinu just stared at her. His dark eyes held something between sadness and sarcasm.
“I don’t believe in allies anymore.”
He turned away, but before disappearing into the shadows, he added casually:
“Just don’t lose your voice completely. You sing too beautifully to become just another silent demon.”
After sitting on the balcony long enough for the drizzle to soak through her sleeves, Rumi finally pushed herself to her feet and returned to her room. The city lights no longer offered any clarity — only noise. She changed into something dry, lay down without turning the lights off, and stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come easily, but she willed her body into stillness, as if rest could be commanded. Tomorrow, she had a meeting with Bobby, flagged as very important on the group’s online schedule. That alone was enough to keep her chest tight. She didn’t know what he planned to say, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t be about music.
“A dating show?”
Rumi asked, stunned, reading the papers Bobby had handed her. Her fingertips trembled slightly, but her expression remained steady.
“Isn’t it great?” he said casually, sipping bubble tea through a pink straw, unaware of the storm brewing inside her.
“Great?” she repeated, trying to keep the irritation from creeping into her voice. “That kind of show doesn’t even fit my image! You should ask Zoey…”
She slammed the papers on the table harder than necessary. Her jaw clenched. She felt a faint pulse beneath her skin where the marks usually throbbed — as if her body itself was rejecting the idea. The show, We Got Married, paired celebrities to live as a couple for a set period — classic fanservice. For most stars, it was an honor to be invited. But for Rumi…
“And we don’t even know who my partner would be! This is insane!”
“You’ll find out in the first episode!” Bobby replied smoothly, pointing to the contract clause. “It specifically says it has to be you.” He tapped her bolded name. “Besides, Huntrix' brand reputation’s slipping behind the Saja Boys…”
The name hit her like a punch. The Saja Boys. They were everywhere — stages, charts, dreams. And nightmares. Rumi bit her lip, uneasy. Memories of that rooftop night with Jinu echoed, mixed with the roaring crowd from the last music show. It was more than a rivalry. It was a fight for territory, energy. Power.
“Rumi, please!” Bobby pleaded, leaning on the table. “It’ll be fun! It’s all scripted, pure fanservice! Like filming a drama!”
She looked at him silently. Bobby really thought it was just a show. That all it took was smiling for the cameras and following the script. That there was nothing behind the masks. Behind the voices. Behind the scars. After a brief pause, she reached out and took the pen. The cold metal tip brushed her skin. She inhaled deeply.
“All right,” she said at last. “Add it to my schedule.
Bobby practically danced with joy — nearly spilling his drink on Rumi’s long purple hair — before pulling her into a tight hug, oblivious to her stiff, stone-cold posture. She sighed deeply without returning the gesture. She was tired. Far more than he knew.
This was a sacrifice. A shield. A distraction. If joining a silly fake dating show was what it took to make her marks disappear, then this was the price she’d pay.
The We Got Married staff fussed over Rumi’s hair and makeup while the filming crew recorded everything from behind the scenes, set up in a tent outside a café where the show’s first date would happen. She chatted cheerfully and politely with the camera and crew, perfectly masking her inner calm. Despite the constant stress, she knew she was a skilled idol — from singing to appearing on variety shows.
Part of her had spent the entire night before running through possible names. Maybe it would be a rising rookie actor with a clean image, or a veteran idol known for his “boyfriend material” charm. Someone predictable, safe — someone whose presence stirred nothing inside her. But a smaller, more anxious part of her feared the producers had gone for shock value. She knew how this industry worked. Surprise made headlines. And headlines meant power. Every time she tried to picture the face that would walk through that café door, her mind betrayed her and landed on one: dark eyes, that annoyingly unreadable smile. No- impossible. He wouldn’t do this. Would he?
“What’s most important to you in a partner?” the cameraman asked, following the script.
“They have to love ramen as much as I do!” Rumi replied, with a playful tone, hiding her nerves, making the staff laugh around her.
The script she had been given was vague. It mentioned a ’90s-themed date and a few activities: listening to vinyl, taking polaroid pictures together. The rest was up to her and the mysterious partner to handle the dialogue. Rumi fought the urge to bite her lip in anxious response — she didn’t want to trouble the makeup artist.
Minutes later, the director called her to enter the café and ordered the cameras to start rolling for the first date scene. Rumi took a deep breath, inhaled the strong scent of freshly ground coffee, and stepped into the silent, rented-out space — empty and almost surreal. She murmured a few words to herself about the place, as the script dictated. She sat in a chair that creaked under her weight and, while flipping the menu with slightly trembling fingers, couldn’t help but glance toward the door, her heart racing as her partner’s presence was announced.
The café door creaked open softly, and he entered, adjusting his oversized ’90s jacket and giving a somewhat shy smile to the cameras. Rumi was already seated, pretending not to be nervous, but she almost felt her heart leap when she recognized her date.
There he was. Her partner. Her fake husband for the next few months. Jinu.