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Mystery senses the shift before Baby does.
He’s always been alert, even before making a deal with Gwi-Ma. You couldn’t live in the slums of Goryeo without developing a knack for being able to tell when you were about to get jumped and robbed of what little food you held in your hands.
So when the sheets rustle more than they usually do—because, yes, there’s a rhythm to it—he’s immediately awake.
I’m going to lose everything, is the first thought that comes to his mind. He’s spent the past few months living in luxury as an idol, with two lovers that care for him and keep him tethered to the present whenever his mind threatens to fall into the abyss. But good things don’t last forever, especially for a demon, and today is the day it all ends. He’s going to lose Zoey, Baby, and the rest of the Saja Boys, and he’s going to be thrown back into a life of greed and poverty.
Then he looks beside him, and sees that both Zoey and Baby are there—asleep, comfortable, cuddled in a soft bed large enough for the three of them. Baby has an arm over Zoey’s torso, and Zoey’s dark hair fans out across the pillow beneath her head. They’re together, in the apartment Mystery shares with Baby, and everyone’s safe. The day of wrath is not upon him just yet.
That’s when he notices.
There’s a sound in the air—quiet, scared, almost pathetic. He finds that the source of the sound is none other than Zoey; her brows are furrowed, her lips are pursed, and she’s whimpering in her sleep. He watches her fists open and close repeatedly, watches her shoulder hunch as if she’s trying to make herself look smaller. Yet she remains unconscious through it all. She’s having nightmares, he thinks.
The whimpering grows louder, and that’s when Baby’s eyes snap open. In them, Mystery sees the same fear he felt mere seconds ago, followed by the realisation that they’re all still here together. And then, just like him, Baby’s attention shifts to Zoey.
“Is she…?” Baby whispers.
“Nightmares,” Mystery nods.
Zoey starts shaking her head, then. It’s a rapid, ugly movement, and it doesn’t take long for the whimpers to become cries. Tears slide down her cheeks as she weeps, still slumbering. She curls up like a wounded rabbit when it sees the knocked arrow of a hunter, and maybe that’s how she feels in her dreams.
She’s in bed with monsters, and still, still, she has nightmares.
What could be worse than demons in this world?
“Let me out,” Zoey wiggles, terrified. “Please, p-please—have been here… Long enough… Let me—let me out—”
“Hey,” Baby croons gently, pulling her closer. Mystery joins in, curling over both of them and running his fingers through Zoey’s hair. “Hey, we’re here—shh, shh. Zoey, wake up—we’re here. It’s okay.”
Zoey doesn’t wake. She’s thrashing around now, wincing, covering the side of her arm with her hand as if she’s experiencing phantom pains.
“Zoey,” Mystery calls. He kisses her forehead, gently jostling her neck. He and Baby are careful with her in ways they’ve never bothered to be with each other. There’s an understanding that however much they hurt each other, they’ll always come back to one another. But Zoey is their little light, their sweet treasure—she’s not supposed to get hurt. She’s not supposed be having nightmares. She should be lovely and happy, always, with them.
Finally, Zoey wakes. She sits up abruptly, her posture tense, and buries her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, muffled. “I’m—I must have woken you up, I’m sorry—”
“We’re demons,” Baby cuts off, rising with her. “We don’t actually need sleep.”
“You were having nightmares,” Mystery follows suit, caressing her hair. She’s just woken up from night terrors, and yet her sole concern remains to be the comfort of other people. He wishes she could be selfish, sometimes.
“Are you okay?” Baby asks, frowning. “Whatever you were dreaming about, it looked serious.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Zoey winces. “It’s stupid, and it happened years ago, so—so it d-doesn’t even matter.”
Behind her covered hands, she’s still crying. Tears cloud her wide, brown eyes, but whenever they come close to forming droplets, she wipes them immediately as if to deny the fact that she’s even weeping in the first place.
“Of course it matters,” Baby argues. “Don’t do this, Zoey. Don’t play that kind of game on us. You know it’s pointless to keep secrets from a demon.”
She shakes her head, frantic, shutting her eyes so rapidly that wrinkles form around the corners of her lids. It’s like she wants to dispel whatever she’s seeing in her mind—only, it doesn’t seem to be working. They could help her, if she allows them. If she stops hiding things from them and reveals the source of Gwi-Ma’s whispers when he hypnotised her all those months ago at Namsan Tower.
You’re too much, Mystery remembers the words as if they were directed at him, And not enough. But I can give you a place to belong.
“It’s nothing,” Zoey persists. Her chest hitches, rising and falling at an irregular pace, and her fingers are shaking. “It’s—compared to what you guys have been through, it’s honestly nothing, I don’t even know w-why I’m still dreaming about it, I swear this doesn’t happen every n-night—”
“Breathe,” Mystery rumbles, slipping traces of dokkaebi magic into that one, single word. His power is nowhere near Gwi-Ma’s level, but he’s capable of small nudges here and there when it matters. It seems to work; Zoey’s breathing evens out, and the tremors running through her hands begin to stabilise slowly.
“You can’t compare our lives,” Baby says once she’s calmed down. “We come from different eras. But you’re hurting, and we want to know why.”
Zoey doesn’t speak for several seconds, choosing instead to stare at the bedsheets. The formidable hunter who defeated them after their final performance is no more; in her place sits a frightened little girl, her hollow eyes brimming with ghosts from some distant past.
“You both know I grew up in America,” she starts, sounding uncharacteristically quiet. “I loved—I love the States. But I wasn’t always happy there.”
Mystery places a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles down the length of her spine.
“It’s—it’s different there. America is different from Korea. You have to understand,” Zoey gestures vaguely, then drops her hands, giving up. “In here, everyone is—we mostly have the same ethnicity, you know? But America, people look—people can look different from one another. Different skin tones, different eye shapes, and, um, different cultures. And different is good,” she emphasises the phrase, eyes flashing, “Different is always, always good. You learn—we learn from each other through the differences. But it’s—not everyone likes different.”
He feels the air shift with Baby’s anger, and he catches the other man’s eyes. Calm down, he says in the silent, intuitive language that they share.
Under the covers, Baby clenches his fists.
“I looked the way I did, and I acted the way I did, and it—it didn’t sit right with some people. It’s both of those things, you know—if I didn’t look like that, I think people would have had an easier time accepting me,” she goes on, fidgeting. “I’m loud, I’m clingy, I talk too much, and I—I’m always coming up with weird things. My thoughts, my lyrics—before I had Rumi and Mira, they were all just weird.”
“That’s part of what makes you who you are,” Mystery hums.
She smiles weakly, but then it drops. “You wouldn’t say that if you know how I looked back then. I wasn’t good at, um, reading situations. I’d say the wrong thing or make the wrong face, and people would give me this look, like they’re expecting me to just understand whatever stupid thing I did without them having to say it. But I never did understand, because they never told me, and eventually, the reactions didn’t stop at just looks. It would—it got physical.”
Baby laces his fingers with Zoey’s. He bumps his forehead to the side of Zoey’s temple, and Mystery does the same.
“The dream I had, it—it was…” She trembles, wavering. Her lower lip wobbles.
Baby and Mystery wait. Patience is not a trait often found in demons, but for Zoey, they’ll learn.
“Schools h-have this thing called lockers,” she rests her cheek on Baby’s shoulder. “You put—you put your stuff in them, like your books, and your lunch, and—yeah. It—the one in my school was big enough to fit a person. A small person, and they’d have to be really short and skinny, but there’s room. When I w-was—when I—when people were pissed at me, or I was extra annoying that day, sometimes I’d—” she bites her lip, but perseveres— “sometimes I’d get shoved into a locker. They’d grab me and just—just push me in there, and they’d leave me for a couple of hours.”
The room’s energy worsens until it becomes as cold as death. Much of it is Baby’s; he’s always had so much hate in his heart. But Mystery won’t act like he’s playing no part in the sudden drop of temperature.
In his mind, he imagines a smaller, younger version of Zoey, lost in the cold hallway of an unforgiving Western building. This young Zoey says something to a group of evil, faceless people, and they push her inside the nearest locker—which, with what little he knows, appears as a closed wooden shelf. And then she’s trapped in there, hinges locked shut, banging the surface.
Mystery will make them pay for it, somehow. Every single soul in that building, he’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.
“I made a fan magazine of the Sunlight Sisters in my sophomore year,” she smiles that weak, tired smile again. “I wanted to show it off. Didn’t know who’d want to see it, though, since K-pop wasn’t as big of a thing back then as it is now. People still thought being Asian meant being the nerdy character with chunky glasses in those spy movies. So I just… Walked up to the first person I saw in the morning, showed it to them. Big mistake,” she laughs dryly. The sound comes out choked. “Ended up getting shoved into a locker again. That day, they didn’t let me out until school was over. I missed an AP Language test.”
Let me out. Please, I’ve been here long enough. Let me out.
“It’s ridiculous,” Zoey shakes her head again. “You—the two of you probably have nightmares about serious stuff, like—like starving, and war, and—and not having enough money to make it to the end of the week. And Mira has nightmares about her family, and Rumi—oh, Rumi. Meanwhile, my nightmares are just about being shoved into lockers—”
“Stop doing that,” Baby chides, cupping her face. “Just because you went through something different, doesn’t make your shame any less painful than ours. Gods, if you keep thinking that way, it’s only going to make things worse.” He presses his mouth to her nose, “Don’t let Gwi-Ma win. Not while you have us.”
“Sweet Zoey,” Mystery murmurs, drawing her closer. He’s never been good at comfort. Or words, for that matter. He hopes this is enough.
Zoey giggles. She still has teardrops dripping down her cheeks, but the ghosts in her eyes seem to have receded for now. “Thanks for dealing with me tonight,” she says. “Talking about it helps. Usually, when I have nightmares, I go to Mira or Rumi’s room. Or we’ll camp out in the living room and sleep in a big cuddle pile.”
Baby frowns, and Mystery’s chest feels like it’s rotting. The mere thought of anyone else touching Zoey—their Zoey, their sweet, sensitive Zoey—so intimately makes him see red, even if he understands how important her groupmates are to her. Still, though. If Mystery could have it his way, Zoey would be trapped in his and Baby’s arms forever, protected from anything that seeks to cause her harm.
“You’re ours now,” Baby voices Mystery’s objections. “Anytime you need to talk about something, come to us.”
Mystery draws her closer, burying his nose in the crown of her hair. She smells so sweet. Like candied sugar, or citrus.
“You’re not too much,” he ventures, tentative, “And you’re enough. We’ve never once thought otherwise.”
“You belong with us,” Baby completes, silencing Gwi-Ma’s whispers once and for all. Mystery notes that Baby says Zoey belongs with them, instead of to them—which is the opposite of what he whispers when Zoey’s not around to keep them in check. He won’t speak of it, though. “Fuck all of them. You’re better than them—you’ve always been. Now they get to remember that every time they see you on TV.”
Zoey stares at them, wide-eyed, like she can’t believe what they’ve just said. Then she melts into their embrace again, pulling the both of them closer until they’ve got her comfortable sandwiched between them. Mystery tucks her head in the crook of his neck as Baby links his elbow with hers, and she lets out a content, sleepy hum.
How could anyone want to hurt her?
“If it’s worth anything,” Zoey mumbles, “I really did look different back then. If you saw me, you’d understand why I got bullied so bad. Here, let me—” she stretches across the bed to reach for her phone. She opens her gallery and settles on one picture, showing it to them, “See? Tell me this isn’t prime bullying material.”
On the screen is a photo of Zoey—smaller, younger, matching Mystery’s vision of her that he pictured earlier. This Zoey is dressed in a thick hoodie, and he sees hints of metal wires threading between her teeth, visible through her open smile. Do they not feel painful? He makes a note to ask about that later. For now, he stares at the Zoey in the phone; at the same shine in her eyes, the same warmth.
Though this Zoey is an awkward and bumbling version of the Zoey they’ve come to know, he still recognises their Zoey. He thinks that the teenage girl in the photograph is no less beautiful than the woman beside him.
“Still cute,” Baby shrugs.
“You flirt,” Zoey teases, kissing his ear.
“I’m serious,” he purrs, returning her kiss with one of his own.
“Those people you went to school with,” Mystery says, “They never should have treated you the way they did, no matter how you looked.”
“They must’ve been a bunch of sheep,” Baby scoffs. “Couldn’t form an original thought even if their lives depended on it. I bet they’re all miserable now.”
“You’re being mean,” Zoey pinches Baby’s cheek, then kisses Mystery’s.
“And you’re being too nice,” he retorts, squeezing her face.
“Then it’s a good thing I have you both,” she chirps.
She speaks with an easy tone, but Mystery’s inclined to agree. Yes, it is a good thing she has them both. They’ll take care of her on those days where she neglects to take care of herself.
Mystery nuzzles Zoey’s jawline. “Hot chocolate?” He offers, intuitive. “So you’ll sleep better.”
Zoey nods eagerly, and before she senses either of them move, Baby gathers her close and carries her like a bride. She squeaks, clinging to his shoulders, and then they’re both laughing and singing as they head to the kitchen with Mystery behind them. This is his favourite part of his new life, he thinks; simply watching his lovers being together. He doesn’t even have to join in, sometimes—seeing the newfound light in Baby’s features and the joy that Zoey radiates is enough to remind Mystery of what he has. What he doesn’t deserve, but possesses anyway.
They make hot chocolate, that night—all three of them. Zoey taught them, some few weeks ago, and he’s proud to say his hot chocolate is getting better. They sip away at their sweet treats and cuddle in the living room, Zoey tangled on their laps. With a bit of effort, Baby and Mystery manage to cajole her into talking more about her life in the West; about school and all its horrors, about how home failed to make her feel safe.
She’s nowhere near as ‘American’ as fans make her out to be, she explains. She barely had any friends there, and what little friends she had never stood up for her when it mattered. The lockers were just one link in a larger chain of torment; the physical that she mentioned earlier included hands gripping hard enough to bruise and moments of humiliation that would forever be embedded in her mind.
Lunchtimes were spent alone in the bathroom, and free periods were spent in the corner of a staircase, writing lyrics and composing beats—if only to escape her own solitude. But just when she found solace in her songwriting, her family’s disapproval weighed on her like an anchor. It seems at every turn in her life, there was always someone demanding her to conform, to please, to mould herself into whatever they wanted her to be.
And here she is now, their girlfriend. Still trying to conform sometimes, still trying to please. Mystery often catches her observing people’s reactions to something, before adjusting her reaction to theirs—as if it’d kill her to break from the fray. And as much as he finds it… Exhilarating, there’s still a kind of sadness at her clinginess in bed, at the way she’d constantly ask if they’re feeling good, too.
They’re working on it. By the gods, they’re working on it.
In time, Zoey will learn to be selfish. She will learn to be angry and vengeful and greedy, and all the things she needs to keep the nightmares away.
If not, well.
Baby and Mystery will be those things for her.
*
Later, when morning comes, they make pancakes while Zoey’s in the shower. She doesn’t know this, of course; it’s meant to be a surprise for her.
(The pancakes come out burnt and scraggly. No matter. Zoey’s going to appreciate it anyway.)
“I’ll kill them,” Baby murmurs under his breath once they’re done cooking breakfast. He’s leaning on the kitchen counter, gripping the marble hard enough that the heat of his demon magic begins to melt the edges. “I’ll kill them all.”
“How?” Mystery asks, voice low. It’s a question of practicality, not impossibility. He doesn’t need to clarify who Baby means. He’s falling into step immediately, a silent declaration of, If you’re doing this, then so am I.
Baby sets his jaw, teeth grinding together. “Our latest comeback was a hit,” he says. “Jinu says if we keep this up, we’ll have a world tour soon. We could pitch that city of hers.”
“He’ll see right through us.”
“He’ll let it slide.” He has to, is the rest of the sentence that remains unspoken.
“Hm,” Mystery considers. “I haven’t eaten souls in a while.”
Baby recoils, disgusted. “Who says we’re going to eat their souls?”
Ah. They’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Mystery’s fine with that.
His teeth could use the sharpening.