Chapter Text
"On the fucking couch?"
Oh fuck oh god oh fuck please no.
Zoey's eyes snapped open, the delicious crescendo of sensation nestled between her legs coming to a juddering, shuddering stop, checked in with how everyone was feeling and exited, politely, stage left. Her mouth, which had been letting a stream of sin and filth drip out into the air in time to her increasingly erratic breathing snapped shut.
Rumi was here.
Rumi was here. And Zoey was naked. Naked and sweaty and under Mira's oh so tender ministrations. On the couch.
"On our fucking couch." Her tone was flat, words enunciated with that brittle precision that was just so Rumi, that had led them on stage and in battle for years. The words weren't screamed, they weren't surprised, they were -
Terrifying, horrifically painfilled
Neutral.
Oh no please no not like this don’t let her find out like this.
Mira hadn't moved, Zoey hadn't breathed, their eyes locked together in mutual panic. A slight crinkle at the corners of Mira’s eyes screamed regret while Zoey's brows went mountaineering up her forehead. Mira’s shoulders shifted subtly, testing the limits of her movement while what was visible of her face proclaimed loudly ‘this is your fault.’ Her eyes closed.
Coward! Don't leave me alone with this.
Rumi was standing over the back of the couch, staring down at the pair of them, caught so far into the carnal there was no hope of playing it off this time. Zoey had to try though, voice breathy and hitched and so close to ruin it's a miracle it worked at all. Her eyes shifted, leaving Mira’s betrayal behind to find Rumi’s closed off expression instead.
Another betrayal.
"Hi Rumi! You finished your meeting early. We were just ..." The words fell out of her mouth long before her brain had a chance to consider how to end that sentence. Previously used excuses and explanations from other close calls tripped and tumbled across her mind and not a single one of them worth the neurons they rolled past.
Close calls? Close calls? Mira’s wearing the fucking bunny ears. Close call would have been half an hour ago when you were still wearing more than makeup, Choi!
Developing a new choreography? Not unless the next show was going to be very special indeed, and get them irrevocably cancelled.
Entirely platonic tickle competition? Tickles made all three of them shriek, not moan like they were about to see god. Also generally not performed stark fucking naked.
Post work out massage? Should really involve hands, and Mira’s were very obviously cuffed. Behind her back.
Tripped and fell? Fuck it, better then nothing. Anything would be better than Rumi finding out like this.
"Fucking. You were fucking Zoey. On our couch.” Rumi’s hand came up, the sunglasses still perched over her eyes, lifting them up and settling them on the top of her braid. Her eyes were locked on Zoey’s, expression flat. “Meeting was cut short, the tour ops delivery guy Ji was double booked or something. You were fucking. On our mutual, co-owned, non machine-washable, property while I was in a meeting for our next world tour."
Her eyes narrowed, moving from Zoey's face and taking in the wider scene. The movie playing on the TV, long since abandoned and ignored. The casual wreckage of lunch spread over the coffee table. The scattered clothes. Their scattered clothes, pulled off, flung away, discarded.
Zoey, utterly naked, inexcusably naked, legs spread before Mira’s head, faint sheen of sweat and pupils blown wide with need and fear.
Mira and her pink fluffy handcuffs, in her black leather corset and absolutely nothing else, arms pinned, face down, tongue buried to the hilt in Zoey’s core.
At where she was lying. Exactly where.
"In my seat."
Oh god.
She was right. Of course she was right. Zoey’s filthy little mind had of course worked her body into the one spot where she might find more than a trace of Rumi’s scent, chasing that faux closeness as she climbed towards the little death.
Snuffling at the fabric like a dog, like a bitch in heat, needy and desperate. Oh so desperate for her.
At least this time she wasn't nearly suffocating herself on Rumi’s favourite throw pillow, crushing into her face and screaming into it as she came.
Rumi’s eyes kept moving, dragging along over her and Mira like blades, like bonfires, like that evil tower dude from the films Mira liked any they kept falling asleep for. Dragging lower, setting every inch of Zoey’s exposed skin aflame as it went before stopping. Locking on to something near her waist, under her hip and Rumi’s face transfigured without any identifiable change from flat to hard.
Shit bugger fuck no its not like that its not a thing. Don't think it's a thing, it was just close by. It was absolutely a thing.
Because of course she wasn't screaming into Rumi’s favourite pillow. No, she wasn't. She was just using it for elevation and back support, arse planted firmly on it lifting her hips up into Mira's open mouth.
There was a truly obscene sound as Mira worked that wondrous mouth back, tongue slipping out, eyes still closed like she could deny any of this was happening as long as she couldn't see it.
No Mira dont go dont stop I didnt finish.
"For 4 years we've been living in this penthouse together. You two have been fucking each other for at least 3 of those"
She knew. Jesus fucking Christ how did she know. They were so careful - present situation excepted - so careful to never slip up, to never let her suspect. They meant to say something, they meant to tell her but the timing was just never quite right and now...
"You have two enormous bedrooms. Two outrageously huge beds and two, count ‘em, two frankly giant en suites. There is no earthly reason for you to need to fuck in our communal spaces, in my space, on my couch, on my fucking pillow."
Mira’s mouth opened.
"No Mira. That sharp tongue of yours has done quite enough damage for today."
Mira’s mouth closed. Her eyes stayed resolutely shut. The blush that had been merely ferocious became incandescent across her face, neck and down under the close fit leather.
"I can't believe I was so blind, stupid, trusting."
Oh no.
"You said 'It was just a drink Rumi, just a boba' and I believed you. You, the squirter!"
Okay, what the actual fuck now, the squirter?
"We've been sitting on this sofa for 4 years. That stain has been there for 26 months."
What, did she celebrate its fucking anniversary?
"How many times have I come back home, exhausted, and slumped down onto your cum?
Hang on, the stain? The one under her shoulderblades? That was boba, just tea that had gotten forgotten and knocked over during movie cuddles.
"How many press conferences, photoshoots, studio days, actual honest to god performances have I come home to sit.."
Genuine, actually not fucking at all, entirely platonic cuddles.
Rumi was leaning over the back of the couch now, brows drawn tight, pinning Zoey to the cushions.
"In your…"
The sunglasses on her head caught the light of the sun, the reflected light strobing over Zoey's paralysed face.
God she was pretty
"Discharge."
Fuck. That should sound utterly revolting. Discharge? What was she, a leaking sewer? Why didn't it sound revolting coming from Rumi’s mouth?
"What do you mean 'Me, the squirter'?" No, shit, buggering fuck, that was not the right response. Try harder, stop, think, say anything, say nothing, die right now out of sheer mortification, flee the country, create a fake identity, live alone surrounded by pussycats, or forget the cats entir…
Rumi smiled. This was not a good development. "Well for one, the evidence is dripping all down her chin."
Zoey finally broke eye contact with Rumi and looked down over her own body to Mira's face. Her mouth and jaw were slick with wet. Her eyes, the coward, were still shut. There would be no help from her.
"And for another, it seems there are no noise cancelling headphones on the market, or sufficient intervening drywall to adequately muffle a voice trained to fight literal evil."
Death, death was the only way out. Either the Honmoon had to banish her, or the ground swallow her whole, or she was just going to wither into ash and vanish under the devastating impact of that hard flat look.
"This is a shared space, girls. This is our home, not your private kink dungeon."
No, that was in the apartment across town that no one knew about. It had taken months to build the financial and legal fiction to buy it anonymously, and they took colossal care to ensure it remained utterly secret. Only Bobby knew, because Bobby knew everything, it was pointless trying to keep him from knowing. Except for the demon thing, yeah, no worries there.
“I deserve to be as comfortable here as you are. Or rather, we should be as comfortable as each other. I'm not suggesting I start fingering myself over the futon."
Okay no. This is not okay. The fuck, Rumi. The actual fuck. You can't say that and not expect my head to explode.
Rumi continued, seemingly oblivious to how she'd just triggered a wave of ludicrous gay panic. Zoey was simply lucky that her spasm of arousal was masterfully hidden behind the ongoing full body quivering. "I am going to leave now."
No. Don't go, we love you, don't leave fuck were sorry, I'm sorry, we meant to tell you, I wanted to say.
"You two are going to get clean, get dressed and then start making calls."
This is the end. Of huntrix, of hunters, of the Honmoon. Theyd fucked it, ruined it, broken the best thing that had ever happened to her.
"Absolutely everything in the penthouse, that isn't inside you rooms, that you have fucked on, against, around or has been involved in any way in your debauchery is getting ripped out, thrown out and replaced."
Oh no, that's so much. The couch was custom made, hell everything was custom made to perfectly fit the space, the contours and the volume. It took months to get it all sorted last time.
"Its not going to get cleaned."
The marble of the kitchen island had been imported.
"It's not getting washed."
Rumi’s cushion had been hand stitched for her back on Jeju island, by a woman that was probably dead by now.
"It's getting burned."
Those dining chairs were antiques. It would be a crime to hurt them.
"Once that's done we are going to have a talk, one that appears to be long overdue."
A talk. A break up talk. A hiatus talk? A you broke my heart by choosing each other over me talk?
"You can text me once I have a home I can be comfortable in, that I can live in again. Not before"
A home to live in again. A home. To live in. Again. Rumi would come back, this wasn't the end. There was hope.
The elevator chimed softly as the doors opened, there was a click of footsteps on the metal floor and the penthouse descended into silence.
Not before.
Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck
"Well, that could have gone worse."
"Miiiira!"
Shin kals were incredibly effective demon slaying weapons, but unsurprisingly poor demolition tools. A gok do made out of starlight, hope and sheer fucking will could, by contrast, have an easy retirement in rapid furniture disassembly.
Zoey would just, therefore, have to make do with the flanged mace from the training room. It looked like a proper murderers implement from a Joseon period piece. It was in fact an artifact from that time, used in the Imijin wars long before it became a training tool for demon hunters. Its verified antiquity was unlikely to be of much relief to the countertop.
It had excellent stress relief potential, and Zoey was nothing if not stressed.
"What the fuck Mira?"
The mace came down in a glittering blur of dark grey, the point of a flange biting deep in the gorgeous, imported sheen of the marble counter top, leaving a spreading spider web of cracks around a deep gouge.
Mira arched an eyebrow, watching the dust bloom up from the impact. "You will have to be more specific Zo."
Specific was a harsh word to use on Zoey. She had a brain that ran faster than even her mouth could keep up with in normal times, let alone when she was mid spiral and breathing heavily. Mira could almost read the thoughts flashing across her face.
“Specific? Specific! This isn't the time to be specific. This is the time for catastrophising Mira.” For avoiding all the blame. For punishing the outrageously pretty marble for getting fucked on. Repeatedly.
"She. She..."
"Words Zo. Use your words babe, not your arm-"
Mira’s voice cut off as the mace was wrenched out and up, then brought back down with a scream. This time a section of the counter fell free, plummeted down onto the hardwood floor, gouging and shattering and making an almighty mess.
It's fine, the floor would have to go as well. Stupid floor. Wasn't even comfy to lie down on. Or kneel.
"She knew Mira. She knew. 3 years she's known and known and said NOTHING." The final word was another scream, another wrenching full body swing of the mace.
"We weren't exactly forthcoming ourselves."
"3 years of thinking we didn't want her, that we chose to not have her, that we were hiding from her."
"We were hiding." We did choose.
The mace swings again, two handed, shaft flexing under the blow.
"3 years of choking back the screams, crying into pillows, sneaking about, lying. Trying to get Bobby to set up that trust without asking any questions. Oh god Mira, is this why she never comes to the bathhouse? Is she giving us space to get our freak on?"
"Maybe. We have after all. Remember Busan?"
"Not helping Mira!" The counter top was now looking like aspirational rubble. Delusional aspirations. "We only did that when she wasn't there. The bathhouse offers were genuine."
The butt of the gok do slid over, delivering one precise knock against the corner edge of the slab and Zoey watched as the fractured mess gave up any pretense at structural integrity and tumbled into dust and splintered fragments. The ruins of something once beautiful.
"We know that. The bathhouse has been a standing offer for like a decade. She isn't just saying no ‘cause you're irrepressibly horny."
"Uuuugh." The groan was matched with an exhausted discarding of the mace. It worked almost as well being dropped as swung. Ah well, the floor did have to go. Maybe they could get carpet instead. Something soft, deep weave, comfy enough to kneel on for long periods.
No fuck, Mira. Stop. Stop thinking with your cunt for a minute.
"How does she even know? We were so careful."
Mira paused her delicate demolition, resting her weapon on the ground and leaning against it. "She said she heard us through the walls. I guess we must not have been as quiet as we thought."
"The walls and noise cancelling headphones. I wondered why she bought so many of them. Stopped when she..." Zoey cut off, face blooming into a despairing blush underneath the soft grey dust of the expired counter. She sank down to the ground, slumped over the wreckage of a beautiful thing that's only crime was being the closest available surface.
Mira stood waiting. She didn't push. She knew Zoey would say whatever it was she was thinking. Knew Zoey couldn't not say it. Constitutionally incapable of not saying it, eventually.
"Rumi had the extra soundproofing installed in her bedroom. 'So I can workshop melodies without disturbing you'. Disturbing us?" A distraught giggle burst out of Zoey's lips before she could swallow it down.
Mira's mouth opened. Mira's mouth shut. She glanced sideways at the stairs leading to their bedrooms, all tidily arranged along a single corridor. "That was what? 2 years ago?"
"2 and a half maybe." Zoey agreed.
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Fuck."
There was a long moment of relative silence. Mira looked about at the tide of destruction that had swept across their home. The couch was in tattered ruins, long since vanquished by gok do and humiliating rage. She saw you in a corset and cuffs, Mira you stupid fucking slut, trying to lick the insides of Zoeys ribs from below.
"And she knew you were a squirter." Mira is just as surprised as Zoey by the words falling out of her mouth.
"Mira. What the fuck, don't remind me of that. I'm going to be waking up to cold sweats from nightmares of her saying 'squirter'. Words like that don't belong in Rumi's mouth. It's a crime against God."
"Have firm opinions about what should be in Rumi's mouth, have you?" The choked, panicked silence was Mira's only answer. She smiled sweetly at it. "No Zo, you're missing my point. We didn't know you were a gusher-"
"Oh god just kill me now"
"until waaaay waaay after we started dating. Like in the last 18 months or so. Never happened before then."
Zoey looked up from her throne of shattered marble dreams. "So..."
"So Rumi couldn't have overheard it from her room, as casual like and accidental, not when she has studio level sound insulation."
"What are you saying? That Rumi's been perched outside our door like a voyeur?"
"No, I don't know what it means." Mira frowned. "It's just ... odd is all."
Zoey huffed. "Mira, we are internationally famous K-Pop stars, secret demon hunters, soul magicians who occasionally fuck like it's going out of style. Everything we do is odd."
“Everything you do is odd. Everything I do is iconic.” Mira glanced over at Zoey. The look carried a lot. Most of theirs did now. This one said sure, I agree, and I'm not dropping this all at the same time. She stuck her hand out, gripped Zoey's arm and hauled her to her feet. "Do you want to keep smashing apart the kitchen or move on to the studio?"
Several exhausting hours later the phone call to Bobby went about as well as could be expected.
"Rapid refurbishment of the penthouse? Girls, what have you done?"
"We were engaging in a new creative process. It might have gotten a little out of hand." Mira's dry delivery standing amongst the utter annihilation of their home had Zoey biting on her fist to keep from giggling.
"New creative process?" Bobby's voice projected a deep skepticism even over the tinny phone line. "Would this process have anything to do with why Rumi asked me to sort a hotel room for the foreseeable future?"
Well that killed Zoey's giggles right off. Mira scowled. The foreseeable future? The fuck Rumi? That's not okay, you can't run from us. Please don't run, please don't leave.
"Yeah, we had a little disagreement." Mira's voice was softer than she would have expected it to be. "We agreed she should stay somewhere less disruptive while we get it all cleared up and squared away."
Zoey nudged her shoulder, whispered “square” while making her best stern Rumi face. Mira snorted and put her hand on Zoey's face, gently shoving her away.
"I don't like disagreements between you three." Bobby's voice was filled with concern now, not the flustered temporary distraction of a pop star needing a new penthouse, stat. No, he was concerned they were in the middle of a proper fight
Mira's lips thinned, but her voice came out steady and smooth. "It's all okay Bobby, you know she doesn't like mess, that's all."
And oh god had they made a mess. A mess of the penthouse, a mess of their friendship, a mess of Huntrix? A sticky mess, suitable for what kicked it all off. A fucking farce. A farce born of fucking.
"I'll reach out to a few designers, get someone round asap to start working on the new design."
"No Bobby, we don't want to change anything, we just need..." Zoey looked at the carnage. Broken worktops, shattered chairs, tables, splintered doors. A veritable mountain of soft furnishings near the elevator. The thoroughly ruined scraps of couch that would be haunting their collective souls for god only knew how long. Mira frowned and while Zoey openly winced. "Replacements. Same stuff, just new again.” Unsoiled.
"New again? Girls what kind of-” Bobby cut himself off with a barely restrained sigh. “No, don't answer that, otherwise I'll know and nothing good will come of it. I'll contact the project manager who did the initial second fix and furnishings, get them to send someone over and scope out the works."
"You're the best Bobby, thanks. We love you."
"No worries girls. This isn't anything close to the craziest thing you've asked me to do." The phone clicked and silence returned, soft but undeniable, not broken by the gentle scuffing of scattered shattered mess over the floor.
“It was cathartic right?" Zoey asked with a grin. "I mean. It was as good for you as it was for me?"
Mira snorted, pushing at Zoey's shoulder and almost tumbling her over the stack of broken antique dining chairs they had defiled and much later on destroyed. "If you have to ask a girl..." She left the end of the sentence hanging for a moment and Zoey pouted and built an air of false outrage. "Almost as good a release as the sex."
Zoey's arm came around her waist, synching her in while her head came to rest against Mira's shoulder. "Almost, but not quite as good. Almost but not quite as damaging." Her voice was low, muffled by Mira's shirt and her own distress.
"We should maybe refrain from breaking any more things." Mira hummed along in soft agreement. "And maybe from having too much sex while we work this thing out with Rumi."
Zoey cuddled tighter into Mira's side. "It's not like we can unfuck the last 3 years Mir."
"No. But we can least not add any more fucking up to the tally. Rumi is mad about the couch, she should be mad about the couch."
"And the dining table, and the chairs, and the beanbags in the studio. And the mixing desk..."
"Yes Zoey, my point is that she is right to be mad. We played around in a joint space, and that's deeply not okay. Can you imagine trying to record in a studio at Sunlight after a boyband had dropped in and railed their hot new producer?"
Zoey shuddered and gagged quietly.
"Exactly. We forced Rumi to acknowledge our 'debauchery' in a very open manner, when she was clearly happy to let it go unsaid. We fucked on her favourite pillow Zo."
"We always washed it!" Zoey protested. "Well, almost always. Yeah okay, this is 100% our fuck up. Stupid sexy hormones, making us do stupid sexy shit."
"Not hormones babe, just us." Mira's smile was sad now, aching. "She's right to be mad about all of this, but we need to know if she's mad about us as well."
"She's known for years, surely if she had a problem she'd have said by now?"
"Zo, honey, Rumi is like the poster child for emotional repression. I've got no idea what it is she's actually repressing, but that shit is locked up in a box so deep in her soul therapist submarines couldn't get to it. Besides, you're forgetting the golden rule." Mira paused for a beat, settling her face into a mask of passive neutrality. Zoey matched her and chanted together in perfect sync.
"Our faults and fears must never be seen."
"Okay, so Rumi is mad, but she might be like mad mad. Mad to the power of mad. Exponentially mad."
"Yeah ZoZo, maybe."
"How do we work it out?"
"I think that's gotta be the 'talk' she wants. The one after we de-debaunch our home." Mira phone lit up, an email from Bobby, confirming a guy from the original design studio was booked in for the next day to assess the scale of their ‘creative differences’.
"Step one, fix the penthouse. Step two, fix us."
Zoey grinned, a fragile thing without much weight behind it. "Oh. Easy then."
Coffee. Coffee and a sit down. Maybe even sod the coffee. A sit down, with the phone on silent, just for a few minutes. That's all he needed, all he would ever ask for in this life again. A sit down, in his office, in silence. With coffee.
Oh god the girls weren't even on tour yet. Not even close.
This was of course the actual problem. Huntrix was still in its album development phase. Everything being planned was being planned in at least 4 different ways to account for any changes to timetabling, or artistic direction, or injury. Venues wanted certainty when Bobby didn't even have song names. Sponsors wanted timelines they could build product launches around. Sunlight wanted the entire process done, yesterday, so they could keep making more money than God and Eun wanted them kept in peak physical condition. Why they had hours of cardio and choreo every day with no shows even pencilled in remained a point of contention between Bobby and Eun.
The girls needed to rest, to recuperate properly. Downtime is part of that. The alternative is burnout. No group can be kept at 100% for years on end without suffering for it. But Eun was the boss and the girls seemed happy enough, so it was built into their schedules.
The coffee machine clicked and hummed, an expensive one he’d bought with his first proper paycheque from managing Huntrix. 3% of shed loads of money is still a very impressive amount. The coffee pods were delivered each week, hand roasted, ground and tamped into little steel tins. They were nirvana and joy and the only reason he hadn't screamed when the Foreign Operations director bailed on a meeting Bobby had put together for him. The ungrateful shit. There would be grovelling before the next one. Friendly grovelling, but grovelling nonetheless. It may involve flowers. Or begging. Or handcuffs.
The coffee was done, dark and beautiful. He took it with him to the desk, sank down into the chair and slowly, carefully, turned his phone to silent and placed it face down on the desk. Some calls would still ring properly. The girls, Eun, Foreign Op’s personal line, the head of PR. Calls he really couldn't miss. But for the duration of this coffee, no one else would bother him. He could sit in blessed silence, letting the stress of the week fade and ebb. He breathed in, taking the aromatic scent of the coffee, its intensity washing over his sinuses, bleeding the tension out of his bones.
There was a quick sharp double rap at the door.
Thck. Thck.
Bobby cvonsidered his options. Technically he was still scheduled in the tour development meeting, so in a sense he wasn't here. He could just not answer, stay sat in this moment of silence and caffeine and let whoever was out there come back later. It couldn't be that important or his phone would be ringing. Or his assistant would just be barging in, having clearly never been taught that closed doors have meanings, and remaining impervious to the lesson now.
No, it wouldn't be anything important, but that also probably means it wouldn't be any difficult. A quick conversation and he could go back to his peaceful moment with a good conscience. He closed his eyes for a long second, took a single sip of truly excellent coffee, and called out “Yes.”
The door opened and Rumi stepped in, and Bobby felt the peace of the day wither and die, to be blown away by the winds of whatever it was making Rumi’s face do that.
“Bobby. It- I have a problem. I can't sleep in the penthouse tonight. Can you arrange a hotel room, please.” He knew this voice, the one that spoke of long exhausting days being the idol Rumi, and not the person Rumi. The voice where she was holding herself together through force of will. It was lovely, polite and just the tiniest bit rough about the edges, and it was one of the danger signs a good manager should know by heart.
“You can't stay in the penthouse? Is there a problem, a leak or something? What about Zoey, or Mira?”
“It- . I- . They-. There isn't a leak, there wasn't a leak when I left. It smelled- . I don't want to sleep there tonight Bobby. The girls are fine, but I need a hotel please.”
“Of course, anything for you Rumi. Your usual preferences?”
She nodded, crisp, controlled. “Balcony, high up, room service.”
“Roger, Rumi. Just for tonight?”
“For the foreseeable, please Bobby. The girls have made a mess and need some time to clean it up.”
A mess? What the hell had happened up there? Rumi had left the meeting with Bobby, and he'd only really had enough time to drop a few documents off 10 floors down and then come back to the office for coffee and quiet. The girls had made a mess? While Rumi was out. While Rumi was not due back for at least another hour.
Oh no.
Bobby tried to keep a respectful distance from his charges. They spent enough of their life under a spotlight to want him intruding into their own intimate goings on. He was however, not blind and 20 somethings are not renowned for their unassailable discretion. Not unlike Foreign Ops directors for that matter. And so Bobby has suspected for quite a while, had them confirmed last year with that ‘privacy’ apartment kerfuffle. Private from the world and Rumi. He had warned them that secrets fester, but he had respected them enough to make it their choice, hoping that they'd make the right one.
Bugger.
“Made a mess eh? What have they done, let Zoey cook again?” It was a feeble jab, but Bobby needed a moment to cover his expression. It was bad enough that the girls kept their relationship from her, if Rumi found out he’d also been covering for them? Well that could get ugly. Very ugly.
“They were- . They’ve spilled some stuff. Some of the furnishings need replacing. You know I dislike messes.”
They were what? What had Rumi caught them doing? Kissing? What had they forced her to confront? Had Rumi raged at them, thrown things? How had the furnishings gotten damaged? Bobby needed to talk to the others. Rumi was clearly biting back hard on whatever it was she was going to say, only letting the cool, crisp, perfect part-truth out past the bars of her teeth.
“Yeah, messes stress me out as well. I'll get a hotel room booked for tonight. Would you like to stay here while I get that sorted? I have excellent coffee.” The thought of finishing his cup now filled his mouth with a wash of spit and nausea.
“No, thank you Bobby. I'll go down to the general studios on the 28th and spend some time doing scales. Please email me the confirmation once you have it.” WIth that Rumi stood, carefully, precisely, and walked out of the room, softly closing the door behind her. Bobby leaned back in his chair, the deep frown he'd been trying to keep off his face sinking its claws in, the tension returned to his spine with a vengeance. Girls, what have you done?
The room was softly lit, the overhead lights off, just the blinking console casting faint shadows against the wall. The phone rang, a gentle buzz of an outgoing line reaching into the beyond. A click, a moment of static, the hiss of an open line.
"Hello Auntie. If it's not disturbing your afternoon, do you have a moment to discuss a thing."
The room does not hear the response, the murmured muffled words of another person far away and yet right there, whispering in an ear. The room only hears what the occupant says.
"It will only need a minute."
The occupant is still, standing in the centre of the small space, holding herself, poised.
"It is a weapon."
The darkness beyond the window to the recording booth made a mirror of the glass, reflecting back the dim light and perfectly schooled, flat expression.
"To save the world. To destroy the demons."
Her shoulders, which had been perfectly positioned to show relaxed comfort shifted, the muscles taking the shape of a posture being embraced rather than enforced
"It will be destroyed.”
The blank mask cracks. Minutely.
“It has been pretending wrong.”
“It has been pretending that it could belong. That the safety was for it, not from it.
“It knows. It will not repeat.”
“It is grateful.”
The line clicks dead, the phone returns to a pocket and the recording booth door swings open inside the studio on the 28th floor.