Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You might think of demons as mere stories invented to discipline disobedient children. Monsters of nighttime tales, fables shaped to scare and domesticate. Or, at best, scapegoats for cowardly adults who prefer to dump their own misery onto invisible shoulders. That is the illusion, the sweet dream of those who have never had the misfortune of facing such horrors.

When you see them for the first time, you realize that horns and tridents would be tame caricatures, lucky charms compared to what actually crawls, slithers, and rises through the cracks of reality. Creatures so abyssal they would make anyone beg for blindness. You would wish to lock yourself in a room without windows, never face the night, never let darkness touch you. And for many, the idea of taking their own life might seem like relief. But then the cursed thought comes: what if there’s something beyond? What if the other side is just another iron gate opening straight to hell, with those things waiting? The mere possibility is enough to paralyze even the bravest.

The world becomes even crueler once you accept that they exist. How can you live in peace knowing there is something out there — older, more patient, thirsting — that wants not just your blood, but everything that makes you human? How can you hold a smile knowing that somewhere in an alley, forest, or forgotten ruin, eyes are waiting for the right moment to tear you apart?

It is in this space between anguish and madness that hunters emerge. Men and women condemned. People who have abandoned any pretense of normalcy to face daily the nightmares that walk and breathe. Each of them is paid in gold, in glory, in morbid respect. But the price never appears in books: what is paid is sanity itself. What is lost is the soul.

Statistics do not lie: a hunter rarely survives more than ten years without wishing to shove their own weapon into their mouth. Each battle leaves invisible scars, each mission steals a piece of the mind.

Yet, exceptions exist. They always do. And it is they who make the rules seem fragile, almost comical. Among all, Celine is the name that hovers like shadow and halo.

Celine was, in her days of glory, a Honmoon. That word, heavy with superstition and fear, still makes demons tremble when they hear it. Honmoons are rare. They are not just strong; they are almost mythical. Women chosen, forged at the limit, whose hearts beat with a power beyond human flesh.

And the greatest of their gifts is not strength, nor speed, nor endurance. It is what happens when their hands close around a weapon. Swords, scythes, pistols, bows — everything they touch becomes a Honmoon weapon. An extension not only of their skill but of their essence.

Ordinary weapons can wound demons. They can draw screams, open wounds, even make them beg for death. But they never destroy them. At most, they force them to retreat, to return to hell emptied and humiliated, only to come back later hungrier, more vengeful, closer to the apocalypse.

Honmoon weapons, however, leave no ellipses. When one pierces a demon, nothing remains but ashes and silence. The end is absolute.

Celine was living proof of this. An icon for a generation that grew up between fear and hope. For young hunters, her name was both legend and curse.

But even legends bleed. And when they bleed, they leave behind orphans, helpless followers, broken promises. Celine survived what no other Honmoon of her generation could endure. Those who fought alongside her now lie only as names engraved on cold stones, while she still walks, carrying on her body scars as deep as those of the soul.

She is the survivor. And that title does not sound like glory — it sounds like condemnation.

It was under her shadow that the new generation was born. The triad that, against all odds, inherited the weight of a destiny that no sane person would wish for. Zoey, Mira, and Rumi: three names whispered with reverence and expectation, as if humanity’s future depended on every move they made. And, in a way, it does.

Zoey, the youngest, is the spark that will not extinguish. Her eyes seem to laugh even in the face of horror, as if mocking death itself. Her joy is not lightness — it is a double-edged blade. A stubborn, desperate joy that hides an understanding of the hell she lives in. Between throwing weapons and rapid-fire pistols, her fingers dance as if slaughter were music.

Mira, on the other hand, is the opposite. A tall, destructive flame that never bows. Tall, strong, a wall of flesh and bone. With every swing of her woldo, it feels as though the ground trembles, as if the demons themselves hesitate to advance. But behind the fury, there is a hole impossible to fill: the brother who fell to a demon before her eyes. Every fight is revenge; every victory, insufficient.

And then Rumi. If Zoey is spark and Mira is flame, Rumi is the blazing heart of the bonfire. A natural leader, body trained to exhaustion, instinct so precise it feels like a premonition. Her blade cuts like decision, like sentence. Strength and clarity — her cruelty is as steady and real as the highest notes a singer could reach.

Three young hearts ablaze, each broken in a different way. And all of them, inevitably, bound to Celine.

She shaped them. Trained them with an iron fist, between pain and discipline, between insults and demands bordering on cruelty. Perhaps because she knew tenderness has no place on the battlefield against monsters with no compassion. Perhaps because carrying the burden of a lost generation had made her hard, a rock refusing to break.

To the young, Celine is both mother and executioner. Idol and shadow.

And the world gives them no time for doubt. For while they train, while fury tempers them, demons continue to emerge. Each night brings new rumors: devastated villages, bodies drained to bare bones, entire battalions swallowed by something unnamed.

And yet, around these three, there is a spark of hope. Hope that, if not carefully nurtured, could very well become a flame that consumes everything.

The generation of new Honmoons is ready to take the stage. And the stage is already soaked in blood. 

• ★ •

The alarms didn’t just sound — they tore through the night of Seoul like a metallic howl, echoing across skyscrapers and alleys. Too late, too loud. When the siren finds its voice, the blood is already flowing.

Gwishi demons had seized Gangnam Station. Beasts of twisted bones and greasy fur, resembling deformed coyotes, leapt across the tracks, shredding anything alive. Children torn apart, passengers reduced to crimson stains against white tiles. An urban carnage, as public as it was inevitable.

The Organization tried to contain it, but reports were clear: a delay of seconds meant dozens dead. The Gwishi were fast, voracious, and knew no retreat.

In the underground barracks, three figures were already rising without hesitation.

The uniform awaited them like a funeral ritual: reinforced black fabric, fitted to the body like a second skin. The hunters’ emblem on the shoulder, nearly erased by time and the blood of past battles. Across the chest, a protective vest — no luck in a single strike would save lives, but it would prolong seconds of resistance. Boots that echoed firmly against the metal floor. Combat gloves that hissed as fists closed.

Zoey was the first to finish. She tightened the vest straps with a smile that seemed out of place amid the urgency, as if daring terror itself to follow. Her hair, tied in braided buns, bounced with haste, and the metallic jingle of her twin pistols alongside the set of blades kept rhythm with her movements.

Mira drew the woldo from the rack as if tearing a blade from an enemy’s flesh. The weapon, too heavy for ordinary hands, rested naturally on her slender shoulders. The Honmoon energy glimmered around the blade — an iridescence blessed against every curse that filled the air. She fastened her boot buckles with a glare, as though already seeing the monsters before her.

Rumi, last, closed her gloves, each movement measured, almost ceremonial. Her expression was absolute silence, brown eyes reflecting the coldness of steel. Strapped to her hip, the straight combat blade seemed an extension of her body. She didn’t need to speak; the air around her carried its own weight.

Celine watched from a distance, arms crossed, clad in nothing but her black overcoat. She no longer needed to mingle with them — her time on the battlefield had passed. But the shadow of her presence was enough to weigh on the shoulders of the new generation.

“Little Wolf is ready.” Bobby’s voice over the communicator broke the moment — dry, urgent.

The vehicle waited for them at the exit: an armored car, painted matte black with details reminiscent of najeonchilgi, heavy lines and an engine that roared like a beast chained. Reinforced walls resisted bullets, claws, even demonic fire. They had nicknamed it Little Wolf — a cruel irony for a steel beast with teeth enough to tear through an entire hell.

The rear door opened with a hydraulic click. The smell of oil and gunpowder escaped. One by one, they boarded: Zoey leaping with lightness, Mira almost crushing the step under the weight of her fury, Rumi entering in absolute silence, as if accepting the sentence of an invisible tribunal.

When the door closed behind them, the engine’s roar swallowed the quiet. Little Wolf surged through the city’s secret tunnels like an enraged animal, carrying with it the last wall between Gangnam and absolute chaos.

The Little Wolf burst onto the surface with the deep roar of its engine and the stench of gasoline mingled with the ozone of the rainy night. The streets around Gangnam Station were deserted, barricades hastily erected, police sirens blending with the distant sound of screams. On the horizon, columns of smoke rose from the underground, as if the entire subway system were breathing sulfur.

The rear door opened with a metallic click. The three Honmoons leapt onto the soaked asphalt. The air was thick with iron — the scent of fresh human blood.

Ordinary hunters were already on site, lined up behind armored cars, weapons aimed at the station entrance. Gunfire erupted in short bursts, but the sound of bones being crushed and flesh torn drowned out even the machine guns. One hunter staggered, an arm ripped off, while another vomited black blood after being impaled by claws extending beyond the flesh.

And then the enemy appeared.

From the broken escalators, the Gwishi creatures ascended. If hell had zoos, they would be its most popular exhibit. Long, quadrupedal bodies, muscles taut like cords. Skeletal coyote heads, mouths full of teeth too sharp to be natural. Their eyes were golden spheres, shining with sick fury. Each step left scorched marks on the floor, as if matter itself refused to support their paws.

They came in packs, howling in unison. Howls that resonated like the wails of a thousand dead being dragged into the earth.

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cut through the chaos. “Front line.”

Mira was already in motion. The woldo spun in the air and descended in an arc, shattering floor tiles, the blade sinking into the skull of the first beast to leap. Black blood sprayed like boiling oil, splattering the armor plates. A second Gwishi lunged from behind — Mira swung the weapon back and, in a lateral motion, severed its front legs. The creature fell screaming, dragging itself across the floor until she crushed its head with her boot.

Zoey ran beside her, each step punctuated by the dry crack of gunfire. Her pistols danced in her hands like toys, yet every bullet pierced a skull or shattered a golden eye. The dexterity was absurd: two Gwishi jumped simultaneously, and with an acrobatic spin, she fired mid-air, each projectile tearing through throats that opened like ripped velvet. When she landed, she was smiling — teeth clenched in defiance.

“Send more if you want, these ones are falling too easily.” She spat the blood that had splattered into her mouth, wiping her lips with the back of her glove.

Rumi moved like a living blade. Her sword gleamed under the light of the burning station, each cut too precise to be human. A Gwishi leapt — she twisted her body and drove her blade upward through its belly, opening it to the throat. Another tried to grab her from the side; she twisted her wrist, driving the sword through its jaw and ripping out its monstrous tongue. Her expression remained unchanged — eyes fixed, cold, as if every strike were just exact calculation.

Behind them, the ordinary hunters regrouped, catching their breath at the sight of the Honmoons in action. One shouted, voice hoarse:

“They’re breaking through! Advance!”

But the Gwishi’s response was immediate. The entire floor seemed to tremble. From the underground, a deeper, more resonant howl traveled through the structure. The horde of infernal coyotes made way. And from it emerged a larger one — twice the size of the others, skin stretched over irregular muscles, with bony spikes jutting from its spine like blades. The alpha. Its golden eyes were slits burning like furnaces.

It descended the steps slowly, each one cracking the concrete. It stopped before the hunters, baring teeth still dripping with fresh human blood.

Mira stepped forward two paces, woldo in hand. “This one’s mine.”

“Don’t screw up.” Rumi didn’t raise her voice, but the tone was pure steel. “Focus.”

The alpha Gwishi roared, and the sound that escaped was not animal. It was as if a hundred human voices were crying together, echoing through the station. Human hunters covered their ears, some bleeding from the nose.

And then hell erupted.

The alpha leapt, knocking down three of its own minions in the impact. Mira raised the woldo and blocked the strike, sparks flying from the friction between steel and bone. The floor cracked beneath her feet. Zoey fired relentlessly, bullets ricocheting off the monster’s back, which seemed made of living stone. Rumi spun her sword and ran along its flank, aiming for the creature’s joints.

Blood spurted, the air filled with screams and gunpowder. Gangnam Station, one of the busiest in the world, was now just a slaughterhouse illuminated by broken lights and the fury of three Honmoons.

The alpha crashed onto Mira like a living avalanche. Its claws ripped through concrete, each strike capable of splitting a car in half. The woldo vibrated in the air, but the monster’s strength was immense. The clash of blade and bone generated a shockwave that sent shards of glass scattering across the station. Mira stepped back three paces, boots sinking into the cracked floor, spitting blood that burned her throat.

“Finally, something worth it!” she roared, spinning the weapon in a circle before striking again.

The alpha responded with a guttural howl, opening its jaw at an impossible angle, triple rows of teeth meshing like gears. It bit the blade, locking the metal between its fangs. The force was so great the woldo groaned as if it might snap in two. Mira planted her feet firmly, pulling with all the rage in her body until her muscles burned like embers.

That’s when Zoey entered the fray.

She ran along the destroyed escalator railing, firing in arcs. Each bullet pierced flesh and exploded in sparks against hardened bones. The alpha shook its head in irritation and threw Mira against the wall like a rag doll. The impact sent tiles cascading down.

“Mira!” Zoey shouted, but didn’t stop. She landed nimbly on the beast’s back, unloading her pistols directly into its skull. The monster’s golden eyes turned to her, as if the bullets were mere mosquito bites.

The creature arched its body and hurled Zoey through the hall. She landed on her back against a metal bench that bent under the impact. The air left her lungs with a painful snap.

Rumi moved silently. As chaos spread, she ran low, dodging paws and debris, sword raised at her hip. In a leap, she struck the alpha’s flank, blade sinking deep into its rear joint. The monster let out a roar that vibrated the broken windows.

“Target the joints!” she shouted at last.

Mira was already up, blood streaming from her forehead, insane grin on her face. She swung the woldo in a double arc, severing half of the alpha’s front leg. The floor shook as it fell to the side, yet it still roared, still a mountain of bone and muscle trying to rise.

Zoey reappeared, coughing but laughing. “Who said a dog can’t learn a new trick?” She swapped magazines and began firing straight into the creature’s open mouth. Each shot exploded inside the skull, scattering shards of rotting flesh.

Even then, the beast did not die. The alpha Gwishi rolled across the floor, sweeping everything around. Human hunters were thrown like rag dolls. One tried to stand, but was crushed by the weight of its bony tail, spilling entrails across the floor.

Rumi advanced again, but the monster spun, colliding with her side with its head. The impact threw her against a support column. She fell to her knees, spitting thick blood. Her brown eyes burned with fury, but also with something she hid: the beastly instinct clawing to escape.

Zoey ran to her. “Stay up, leader. This thing won’t fall by itself.”

Rumi rose, leaning on her sword. “Mira, again. I open.”

She charged, leaping onto the monster’s side and plunging the blade into the alpha’s shoulder. The Gwishi roared and rose instinctively, exposing its neck.

“Now!” Rumi shouted.

Mira exploded forward, woldo spinning like a flaming scythe. The strike cut through the beast’s throat side to side, black blood gushing in a torrent. The blade almost got stuck in bone, but she pulled with brute strength, ripping away part of the lower jaw.

The alpha fell to its knees, still roaring, still trying to advance. Zoey leapt again, driving a pistol straight into the left eye and emptying the magazine. The skull exploded in black mass and sulfurous smoke.

For a moment, silence.

Then the headless alpha Gwishi still took three steps forward, knocking down the station turnstiles before finally collapsing. The floor shuddered under the carcass’s weight.

Around them, the other Gwishi hesitated. Without their leader, the howls turned into guttural, confused, desperate cries.

Rumi wiped the blood from her face with the back of her glove, panting. “Finish them. No mercy.” She pointed toward the anguished demons.

And the Honmoons moved like shadows, falling on the remaining pack. Mira crushing skulls with circular swings, Zoey spinning through gunfire and acrobatics, Rumi cutting with surgical precision. The human hunters could only watch, unable to match their speed.

When the last Gwishi fell, the hall was unrecognizable: a mosaic of entrails, blood streaming down the steps, human and demon bodies intertwined in a grotesque panorama.

The three exchanged silent glances. The job was done. Gangnam Station had been purged.

But the scent in the air was not victory — it was the prelude to the realization that this had been just another normal day in a damned city.

• ★ •

The silence that followed the fall of the last Gwishi was not peace — it was merely the heavy breathing of the survivors trying to convince themselves they were still alive. The air was thick with iron, gunpowder, and smoke. On the floor, indistinguishable pieces of flesh formed a slippery carpet.

Zoey cleaned her pistols with almost automatic movements, still smiling nervously, as if unable to tell the difference between adrenaline, grief, and madness. Mira, woldo resting on her shoulder, scanned the area for another enemy, her face smeared with black and human blood, eyes sparking as if craving more.

Rumi, however, could barely breathe.

The smell of human blood clung to the air. Not just the raw stench of death, but something sweeter, metallic, that seemed to coat her tongue, climb her palate, even itch her insides. It was as if every drop spilled on the floor were a summons. Her throat burned, her stomach twisted. The uniform clung to her skin, too tight, as if her body were expanding under the weight of a desire she dared not name.

Hunger.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to stifle the impulse, but revulsion followed — the hatred of herself. Her nails dug into her palms through the gloves, and only the pain kept her standing. She could not allow anyone to see. Not Zoey, with her insane laughter, nor Mira, with her blatant brutality. And certainly not the ordinary hunters, who looked at them as soldiers look at gods.

When she opened her eyes, Rumi returned to the role the world demanded: leader. Her expression closed, posture straight, the sword sheathed silently.

“Let’s go.” Her voice was firm, even though the words nearly choked in her throat. “We need the reports.”

They moved through the debris toward the containment point. A group of ordinary hunters was gathered, uniforms torn, some still stained with their own blood. An Organization officer, dark suit wrinkled, bulletproof vest worn, waited with a clipboard and a tired look.

“Honmoons.” He greeted them with a trembling voice, as if speaking to deities. “The situation was… contained. But…” He hesitated, lowering his eyes to the paper. “We counted forty-three dead. Twenty-eight civilians, fifteen hunters. Injured… we don’t know how many will survive.”

Zoey grimaced, kicking a piece of rubble. “Forty-three because it took you so long to call us. Always the same story. You don’t even seem to consider that these are people with families, routines. Damn it, this can’t keep happening!”

Mira spat blood to the ground, glaring at the man. “If only you had held the line for five more minutes…” She let the sentence hang, dripping with contempt. “The Organization relies too much on us, has grown lazy. It’s always like this.”

Rumi kept her face impassive, even as the smell of fresh blood on the injured’s bandages made her whole body shiver. She crossed her arms behind her back, like an officer inspecting troops.

“The main enemy of this wave has been eliminated.” She spoke, each syllable measured. “But if there was an alpha Gwishi, it means the breach in the veil is larger than reported. I want immediate mapping of the underground area. Every tunnel, every entrance. And send reinforcements for evacuation.” She turned to the officer, eyes like blades against his throat. “No family should return home under the lie that this was an ‘isolated incident.’”

The man swallowed hard, but noted everything.

Behind her, Zoey and Mira exchanged glances. They knew something in Rumi was off — the way she delayed speaking, the way her eyes seemed too fixed, too hard. But no one questioned it. Not then.

Rumi took a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb of hunger gnawing at her. The blood in the air was a constant temptation, but she transformed it into fuel for discipline. The leader the world saw was a mask, and it was this mask that would keep everyone alive.

She lifted her chin, facing the other hunters. “Gather your wounded. We will hold the rear until the evacuation is complete.” Her words were decisive, and in that moment, the lower-ranking teams knew they had no power to question.

The evacuation dragged on amid the unbearable stench of burnt flesh. Improvised stretchers carried groaning survivors, their eyes vacant, as if already dead inside. Zoey helped push a barricade to clear the way, still spitting nervous jokes to keep from collapsing. Mira kept the woldo raised, scanning the alleys like a sentinel hungry for revenge.

Rumi remained still until the last civilian had left the hall. Only then did she take a deep breath and order the withdrawal.

As she moved, her steps remained tense. The Little Wolf waited on the asphalt, headlights glowing like the eyes of a beast. The rear door hissed hydraulically, swallowing the trio back into the armored belly. When the door shut, the engine’s growl drowned out the sounds of the outside world.

Inside, silence weighed heavy.

Zoey broke it first. “Forty-three dead. And what do you think those little chiefs’ faces will look like? Bet they’ll call it ‘efficient.’” She laughed, humorless, carrying the spent pistols in her lap. “Efficient my ass.”

Mira snorted, wiping dried blood from her cheek with her glove. “The problem wasn’t the killing. It was the timing. They sent us too late. Always. As if we were pets they could release once the house is already on fire.”

Rumi didn’t answer immediately. The Little Wolf swayed through curves, but she stayed rigid, hands resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The image of blood spread across the hall still burned inside her. The metallic taste clung to her tongue.

Zoey noticed the leader’s silence. “Hey, Rumi… you really okay?” she asked casually, but there was hidden concern in her voice.

“I am.” The reply came too firm, almost cutting. “We need to stay focused. The alpha Gwishi was a signal. This wasn’t random.”

Mira spun the woldo before securing it to the car’s magnetic wall. “Then let them come. For every monster they throw at us, I’ll cut down two.”

• ★ •

The car trembled as it passed through the underground tunnel connecting the city’s outer areas to the heart of the Hunters’ Confederation. The administrative center rose above Seoul like a military labyrinth of steel and concrete. There, political decisions, strategies, and judgments were made far from the eyes of a population sleeping in ignorance.

The Little Wolf parked at a restricted platform. Armored doors opened with multiple codes. Armed guards lined up but dared not lift their eyes as the three Honmoons passed. Their steps echoed down the corridor, boots wet with dried blood against the polished floor.

They ascended to the main command room. A vast space, walls lined with surveillance screens showing demonic outbreaks across the globe. Digital maps blinked in red. The air was heavy, thick with authority.

And at the center, surrounded by other Confederation superiors, stood Celine.

The black coat fell over her shoulders like a shroud. Hair tied in a tight bun, gaze like steel. She seemed taller than remembered, or perhaps it was just her overwhelming presence.

When the trio entered, conversations ceased.

Celine did not smile. Did not greet. She merely watched in silence, like a predator assessing whether her prey was alive or dead.

“Report.” Her voice sliced the air, dry, leaving no room for embellishment.

Rumi stepped forward, ignoring the throb of hunger and the tension still gnawing at her inside. Her posture was rigid, disciplined. She was the leader, and nothing in the world could change that now.

“Alpha Gwishi eliminated. Forty-three confirmed dead. Breach in the veil requires immediate investigation. Continuous reinforcement in Gangnam recommended until secondary threats are ruled out.”

Celine’s gaze did not move. It stayed fixed on her, heavy, almost piercing through her. For a moment, Rumi felt as if her skin were transparent, as if the woman could see the demonic blood burning in her veins.

But Celine merely raised her chin. “Sit. We need to discuss what this means.”

And the three obeyed, carrying with them the dust, the blood, and the shadow of what they had left behind at the station.

The Confederation command hall was thick with cigarette smoke and muffled voices. Generals, ministers, and operations chiefs spoke over one another, spitting numbers, partial reports, victim graphs. The room vibrated like a hive in fury.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey sat before the dark steel oval table. Three battle-drenched presences in a sea of lined suits. They still wore the black uniform, boots marked with blood, gloves hardened by the heat of combat. The contrast was grotesque — and deliberate.

One advisor, too old to hold a rifle, pointed at them with trembling fingers. “Forty-three civilians dead!” His voice rasped. “You call this a victory? This isn’t efficiency, this is a slaughter spectacle!”

Zoey twisted a crooked smile, but Rumi held her back with a glance. She herself responded: “There was no room to maneuver. If we had been sent earlier, the number would have been lower.”

Another superior, in a gray uniform, scoffed. “Always the same excuse. ‘If we had arrived sooner.’ We are tired of this. The public doesn’t want excuses. They want to believe you are invincible.”

Mira leaned forward, slamming her gloved palm on the table with a crash that silenced many. “Invincible? We’re hunters, not gods. Want miracles? Pray to the heavens. We do what must be done, and what we did today was prevent hundreds from dying.”

The room trembled. Looks of contempt now mingled with fear.

Celine, silent until then, raised a hand. That gesture alone brought the room to quiet.

She looked at the three, slowly.

“The truth—” she began, “is that you three are our last wall. And a wall cannot crack. Cannot fail.” Her voice cut sharply without raising tone. “Today you won, but you won dirty. Every body on the ground is a fracture.”

Rumi felt the weight fall on her like molten iron. Her throat burned. Inside her, the smell still pulsed — the call of flesh — and resisting it made her shiver slightly. But she did not look away.

“There was no field failure,” she said. “The death toll is not a reflection of our action, but of the delayed response. If you want someone accountable, hold the chain of command accountable.”

A murmur of indignation ran through the officers. But Celine remained motionless, watching her.

Zoey bit her lip but did not intervene. Mira, arms crossed, looked ready to crush the skull of anyone who opened their mouth against the team.

Finally, Celine concluded, “It is decided. The Gangnam case will be reported to the media as a successful containment. Casualties will be justified as inevitable given the nature of the attack.” She turned to the other superiors. “Session adjourned.”

The officers rose in silence, some muttering, others casting venomous glances at the trio. In minutes, only the Honmoons and Celine remained in the room.

Celine collected the papers before her without raising her eyes. “Mira. Zoey. Give me a few minutes with Rumi.” The two hesitated, then obeyed, leaving through the side door.

The silence now was different. Heavy, intimate, suffocating.

Rumi remained standing, rigid. Her heart raced. Celine rose, walking slowly around the table, each step echoing like a hammer. “You’re trembling.” Not a question. A statement.

Rumi clenched her fists. “Just adrenaline.”

Celine stopped in front of her. Her face was inches from hers, eyes cold, cutting. “Don’t lie to me.” Her tone was low, almost a whisper, but carried threat. “I saw it in your eyes while watching through the monitoring drones. I felt it. The blood stirred you, didn’t it?”

Rumi’s throat tightened. She tried to hold the gaze, but the weight was overwhelming.

“I… I maintained control.” Her voice was dry, unconvincing.

Celine leaned closer still, as if she wanted to hear even her breathing. “For now.”

And silence returned, dense as a cell. Celine stepped back just enough for Rumi to breathe. The flick of a lighter cut through the quiet; the red tip of a cigarette glowed on the veteran’s face. She drew slowly, exhaling smoke toward the metallic ceiling.

“You think you fool me, girl?” Her voice was cold steel, yet not without poisonous sweetness. “I saw your jaw lock on the field. Saw how you hesitated stepping into the blood pool. You didn’t just want to kill… to do your duty. Oh no… you wanted… to prove.”

Rumi swallowed hard, shoulders stiff. “I… I didn’t…” she began, but stopped. The lie would be obvious.

Celine smiled, a smile without warmth, only calculation. “You are different. Always were. The beast inside you is not ordinary. Not even common demons could bear it. It’s a crooked thing, a mistake, something that should have been snuffed out at birth.” She drew a final drag and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, as if speaking of herself. “But, ironically, that is what makes you essential.”

Rumi breathed deeply, almost panting. With each word, she felt the beast writhing in her flesh, as if recognizing the call.

“Then eliminate me.” The phrase slipped like a razor. “If I’m a risk, cut me from the wall I defend so fiercely.”

Celine laughed, short and low. She stepped close again, touching her shoulder with a gloved hand. “Oh no, my dear. You don’t understand. A risk can be controlled. Channeled. That’s why suppressors exist.”

Rumi looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of her own blood rose to her tongue. "They’re already destroying me. My body can’t take it anymore.”

“So what?” Celine lifted her chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You are not a body, Rumi. You are a Honmoon. Your duty is to endure the unbearable. There is no room for weakness. No room for humanity.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink. “Either you carry this beast, or it carries you.”

The air reeked of tobacco and iron. “Then keep doubling the dose. Three times, if necessary. Bury that hunger deep in your stomach until it forgets what it is.” Her tone softened, almost maternal. “Do this, and you remain at the top. Do this, and the world continues to believe Honmoons never falter.”

Rumi closed her eyes, trying to expel the knot of nausea and rage rising inside her.

Celine leaned to her ear, whispering as if a confession: “You are not a person. You are a wall. And walls do not bleed.”

Celine’s hand released her chin, and the cold absence almost hurt more than the touch. Silence again. And within the silence, the beast throbbed in Rumi’s chest, famished.

• ★ • 

She left the hall with stiff shoulders, as if every vertebra were under watch. The metal door closed behind her, muffling the smell of smoke and command. The corridor was empty, except for Zoey and Mira leaning against the wall.

Zoey raised her eyes first. She tried to force a short, playful smile, but the tension etched across her face betrayed concern. “So… still alive?” she murmured.

Mira said nothing. She just studied Rumi with a gaze that seemed to search for invisible cracks.

“Let’s go.” Rumi cut in, voice firm, almost rehearsed. “Done for today.”

Neither of them pressed. They followed in silence through the Confederation’s labyrinth: gray concrete corridors, cold lights, the echo of heavy boots marking each step. The place never slept — there were always voices, machines, guards, reports being carried — but at the same time, there was a silence that swallowed everything, the silence of duty.

Outside, the night draped the complex like a dense veil. The wind carried the smell of wet grass mixed with kerosene from the stationed helicopters. Among blocks of administrative buildings, one stood apart, its windows darkened: the Honmoons’ residence.

Home. That’s what they called it, but it wasn’t. No neighbors, no warmth. Just a building erected to keep them close, like weapons in an arsenal.

The Little Wolf parked before the entrance. They stepped down slowly, the weight of the night still clinging to their clothes. The perimeter was protected by high fences, watchtowers, and invisible sensors. Isolation was absolute.

The building’s lobby was empty, lit only by yellowed lamps. No reception, just silence and the sound of their own breaths. Automatic doors opened, revealing the elevator.

Inside, the three stood side by side, each sinking into their own exhaustion. Zoey drummed her fingers against her leg, restless. Mira kept her fists clenched, as if still in the field. Rumi stared at the metallic panel, avoiding any reflection that might betray eyes still tainted by hunger.

The elevator rose in silence, stopping at the top floor. Here was their exclusive floor — spacious, yet cold, made for three human weapons. A short corridor led to three individual suites, plus a common room with sofas and an improvised meeting table.

The door opened with a whisper.

The space was too quiet, almost serene, but serenity as prison. It was where they lived, where they slept, where they bled in silence. Always there, always near. Never a home.

Zoey tossed her jacket onto the sofa and stretched exaggeratedly. “Home sweet home, huh?” The irony sounded weak, a feeble attempt to break the mood.

Mira just grunted and went straight to her door. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t want to dream that smell.” Her voice was dry, leaving no room for reply.

Zoey stayed in the room, fiddling with her boots. Her eyes drifted to Rumi, who remained rigid at the entrance.

“And you?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Rumi took a moment to respond. Inside, the beast stirred, demanding, begging, clawing. But she simply said, “…I’ll write the report.”

The answer made Zoey’s expression falter, though it wasn’t as if her tact mattered much here. Mira and Zoey did not push or try to pry into Rumi’s struggles at the moment. There was only silence and acquiescence; after all, they knew: this would never be a home. It was a gilded cell, an altar built to keep the monster caged. The monster of her outbursts — the monster of the anguish of being what they were. But there was no room to complain. Hunters existed because it was necessary.

• ★ •

Rumi straightened the papers, aligning each sheet with military precision. The reports were ready: data on the recruits, response failures, possible adjustment points for the next wave. Being a Honmoon wasn’t enough; she was also expected to shape those who would come after. The weight never left her shoulders.

She glanced at her phone: 2:17 a.m. Midnight still chewed on the Confederation and the city outside, indifferent. She muttered under her breath, a hoarse sound, almost a growl. Zoey and Mira were likely at their sleep limit, or at least trying. She, however, was not. Her body was exhausted, but her blood burned inside, restless.

She pushed the chair back and switched off the lamp. Her room — functional to the bone, empty, devoid of life — was a caricature of her own existence. Nothing beyond the essentials, nothing beyond what sustained the fight. No room for memories, no room for personality. Only weapons, uniforms, manuals.

She walked through the silent room. The cold floor echoed her steps in muted repetitions. She reached the kitchen and put water on to heat. This ritual was her lifeline: mint tea, simple, constant, a small lie of normalcy.

Leaning against the counter, she waited. The whistle of the kettle cut through the midnight silence in a sharp hiss. She prepared the infusion with automatic movements, her hands already memorized for the gesture. She sat at the table with the steaming mug. She inhaled the menthol vapor, trying to force her mind to relax.

But memory would not relent.

The alpha Gwishi’s scream tearing through the station concourse. Blood spattering against her blade. The Honmoon energy glinting, cold and absolute, slicing flesh that should never have existed. The heat of demon blood mingling with human, scattered across the floor.

Rumi closed her eyes. For a moment, she wasn’t in the kitchen — she was back on the battlefield. And before she realized it, her tongue brushed her teeth. A quick, instinctive lick, revealing the sharp, protruding fangs, ready.

The shock was immediate. The mug trembled in her hand. Her heart raced, her breathing uneven. The steam from the tea did not mask the metallic taste that climbed insistently from memory to mouth.

She sprang to her feet, almost spilling the hot liquid over herself. Her body moved before her mind. She ran down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, hand already on the latch.

The door slammed behind her. Rumi faced the mirror.

The fangs were still there. Small, almost imperceptible — but present. A cruel reminder that the monster never slept.

Her breathing was heavy. Her hand gripped the sink, bracing herself. Eyes fixed on the reflection. For a moment, it was as if she were not herself staring back.

Rumi slammed open the bathroom cabinet. Bottles of painkillers, antiseptics, gauze — nothing she needed. Her heart hammered in her chest like it wanted to escape. She yanked the second shelf, hands trembling, sending glass shattering across the floor.

“Where…?” The voice was hoarse, strangled, as if it wasn’t entirely hers.

Every second without the suppressors was gasoline on a fire. The beast inside her roared — not with sound, but in pulses that raced through her blood.

Then came the snap. Literal. Her bones complained, twisted from the inside out. Her spine arched, creaking. The skin on her chest glowed: demonic patterns. The mark that had always remained discreet, centered over her heart, now spread like iridescent lightning fracturing the glass of her body.

Rumi gasped, gripping the fabric of her own shirt. The cloth strained, stretching, tight. Every seam seemed about to burst. Her muscles swelled beneath her skin, a strange, brutal strength that didn’t seem entirely hers — at least, that’s what she tried to believe, every single day.

Her vision blurred, saturated red. The imagined scent of the station’s blood returned, more intense, almost tangible. She stumbled against the sink, scraping the marble until it chipped. “Suppressors…” she whispered, as if repeating it would make them appear.

But the shadow in her body waited for nothing. The glowing patterns spread faster, crawling up her neck, down her arms, across her legs. Iridescent roots, alive, pulsing against flesh.

Her jaw snapped. Teeth clashed. Fangs forced their way out. Her body demanded surrender, demanded release. Rumi dropped to her knees on the cold floor, breath failing. The world spun, narrow, fevered. Then, among the shards scattered on the tiles, she saw the transparent bottle. White label marked with the Confederation’s seal.

The initial suppressors.

The beast roared louder, as if it knew it would be contained.

Rumi extended a trembling hand, snatching the bottle from the shards. It nearly slipped from her sweaty fingers, but she forced it open violently, spilling half the pills to the floor. It didn’t matter. She shoved three into her mouth at once, swallowing dry, feeling the rough edges scratch her throat.

Phase one. Short-term. An initial block, but insufficient .

Her body still groaned. Muscle fibers throbbed beneath the skin as if wanting to tear her from the inside out. Veins pulsed under the iridescent patterns, each heartbeat a drum. She panted, each breath sounding almost animalistic.

With nimble fingers, despite the tremor, she opened a drawer and grabbed the reinforced glass syringe. She unwrapped the sterile vial, loaded the medication, the sharp tip gleaming under the cold bathroom light. Without hesitation, she lifted her shirt, exposing the abdomen already streaked with lightning-like lines.

Using the muscle tension, she pressed the needle between two protruding fibers. The thick liquid invaded her bloodstream, burning. The muffled scream that escaped echoed off the tiles, stifled, almost inhuman.

Phase two. Mid-term. A stronger wall, but still not permanent.

Rumi struggled to breathe but managed to rise, eyes fixed on the cracked mirror. The reflection showed a stranger — veins pulsing, jaw distorted, iridescence alive like liquid fire coursing through every inch of skin.

Phase three. The final step.

She grabbed the small white device, smooth, the size of a thick coin. Innocent, discreet — almost medical. She applied the adhesive with trembling hands, then pressed the device against her upper arm near the shoulder, hearing the click. A cold surge coursed through her veins like ice, spreading slowly, stabilizing, rooting.

Long-term. The final weight of the cage.

For minutes, her body resisted, trying to erupt against the chemical prison. Bones ached, fibers burned, the iridescent patterns still snaked across her skin like lightning trying to escape. But slowly, they dimmed, receding, until they settled back over the familiar mark above her heart.

Rumi slumped against the wall, panting, sweating, every muscle still throbbing. The entire bathroom smelled of chemical blood — not real, but the blood inside her.

She raised a hand to her lips. The fangs were still there, throbbing. She pressed them back with her tongue, forcing control. She closed her eyes. The beast was back in the cage. But the cage was cracked. Tears streamed down her brown eyes, the remnants of amber still glimmering.

She sank against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She tried to steady her breathing, but her throat burned, dry, tainted with the chemical taste of the pills and the persistent iron tang of her own fangs.

The suppressors were beginning to take effect. The iridescent glow on her skin receded, like rivers forced back into their beds. The prominent veins cooled, the body that had threatened to tear itself apart finally yielding. But the memory of the sensation — muscles ripping from within, bones straining against flesh — still made her tremble.

It was in the private bathroom that she kept everything. A false compartment behind the towel cabinet. Always locked. Always clean. No one entered there — not Zoey, not Mira. Only her and the secret that kept her alive — or imprisoned.

For several minutes, she remained there, staring at the floor as if she could dissolve into the tiles. She thought of Celine, of the sharp words disguised as care. She thought of Zoey’s ever-curious gaze. She thought of Mira’s fury, which would certainly never understand.

Fear gnawed deeper than pain. Fear that one day, even that bathroom would not suffice.

When she finally rose, she washed her hands carefully, as if she could scrub away what she had done. She dried her face, poured cold water over her neck, trying to compose herself. She didn’t want to stumble out, didn’t want to leave a trace.

She left the bathroom and returned to the dark room. The tea in the kitchen had gone cold, ignored. Her body begged for movement, but her mind dragged her down.

She lay down without changing clothes. The mattress felt harder than ever, the ceiling lower, the room suffocating.

The moment her eyelids gave way, she dreamed that the walls were covered in iridescent patterns, veins of light cracking through the concrete. And she dreamed that, deep down, there would never be enough suppressors in the world.

• ★ •

The clock read one in the afternoon when Rumi opened her eyes. Her body still felt heavy, as if she had crawled through a battlefield of remnants. Her mind, clouded, throbbed with echoes from the previous night. She dragged herself out of bed, tied her hair haphazardly, and left the room.

The living room was bathed in the soft light of early afternoon, filtered through the blinds. And it was there that the scene hit her: Zoey mounted over Mira, hands firm on her shoulders, mouth pressed against hers with a hunger disguised as affection. Mira, always the toughest, lay relaxed, holding Zoey’s waist as if nothing in the world could disturb them.

The snap of the door closing behind Rumi was enough to shatter the moment. Zoey pulled back quickly, lips still moist, staring at Rumi with wide eyes. Mira simply brushed her hand over her face, uncomfortable but not ashamed.

“Rumi…” Zoey tried to laugh, nervous. “You slept in, huh?”

“Yeah. Not my usual.” Rumi replied dryly, heading straight for the kitchen. Her voice sounded hoarse, lifeless.

Mira lifted her torso from the sofa, adjusting her posture. “Everything okay with you? You seem… different. Are you in pain?”

Rumi grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, opened it, and drank it in a single gulp without looking at them. “Just tired. The report was long.”

Zoey frowned, biting her lip, still flushed from being caught. “Tired, just tired? You’re pale. Didn’t even look like you’d slept.”

“I did sleep,” Rumi cut in, already stepping away, leaning on the counter. “It’s nothing.”

Silence hung heavy. Zoey and Mira exchanged quick glances, sensing something was off but unsure how to press.

Rumi kept her eyes fixed on the bottle in her hand, avoiding any eye contact. She knew that if she looked at them, they would see more than they should. The metallic taste still lingered in her mouth. The iridescent scar, hidden beneath her shirt, still burned like embers.

“Changing the subject,” she said finally, with false calm, “any updates from the Confederation?”

Mira huffed, impatient. “Not yet. Just orders to stay on standby.”

Zoey, however, didn’t take her eyes off Rumi. “You know you don’t have to pretend with us, right?”

Rumi forced a hollow, half-smile. Her smiles had always been the strangest and most fragile of the three. “Pretend what? I just need coffee.”

“Coffee without lunch?” Zoey let it slip, still sitting on the sofa, her tone low, almost guilty at the comment. “Your stomach’s going to hurt…”

Rumi only turned her head, expression unchanged. “No problem.” The reply came sharp, cold, shutting down any attempt at concern.

Zoey swallowed the words she was about to say. Mira, still adjusting her blouse, let out a heavy sigh, slapping her hand against her thigh. “It’s a problem, yes.” Her gaze cut across the room to Rumi. “And since you want to change the subject, I’ll remind you of something you seem to have forgotten: recruits’ training. Three PM.”

Rumi froze mid-motion, the mug raised to her lips. Steam from the coffee curled before her face, fogging her tired eyes. “Training?” she murmured, as if the word carried weight.

“Yes. Thursday, remember?” Mira crossed her arms, tone harsh but with a trace of provocation. “If you don’t show up, Celine will rip your head off.”

Zoey tried to ease the tension, forcing a smile. “Better take extra coffee then. Don’t want you collapsing on the mat.”

Rumi took a long sip, ignoring the burn on her tongue. When she spoke, it was with the calm of someone who knew exactly how carefully she had to maintain the façade. “Don’t worry about me. Just be ready at three.”

Silence fell in the room. Zoey bit her lip, uneasy. Mira simply watched Rumi like one studies a dangerous puzzle.

And Rumi leaned on the coffee as if it were the last line between her and the abyss. She left the room like a ghost. The dry click of her bedroom door was the only trace of her passage, leaving behind only silence, broken by the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Zoey sank into the sofa, shoulders slumping, resting her head against the back. The sigh she released carried more than just fatigue. “She disappears even when she’s right in front of us,” she murmured, biting her lip. “It’s like… she’s not really part of us… not anymore.”

Mira shifted beside her, stretching an arm over the back to pull Zoey close. The dark-haired girl rested her head on Mira’s chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

“Rumi’s always been like that,” Mira’s voice was deep, steady, but tinged with a shadow of resentment. “Always.”

Zoey closed her eyes briefly, savoring the closeness. “You talk like it’s normal.”

“It’s not normal,” Mira replied, running her hand through Zoey’s short hair, fingers entwining. “But that’s just her way. She carries too much alone.”

Zoey lifted her face, looking at her closely, pale eyes catching the light filtering through the blinds. “And us? Aren’t we supposed to carry it with her?” The question came wounded, almost a confession.

Mira didn’t answer right away. She held Zoey’s chin and pulled her into a slow kiss. It wasn’t the same as the stolen moment from minutes before. This one was slower, more intimate, filled with a tenderness they both knew was an attempt to patch cracks that weren’t theirs.

When they pulled apart, Mira pressed her forehead to Zoey’s. “Maybe she thinks if we know everything, we’ll break too.”

Zoey gave a sheepish smile, the kind she always made to hide pain. “What she doesn’t realize is that she breaks us anyway.”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the quiet complicity of two people who loved each other deeply, even in a life that allowed no room for love. Mira wrapped an arm around Zoey, pulling her to lie across her lap, caressing her cheek with calloused fingers.

“She’s our leader,” Mira murmured, almost to herself. “But I wish, just once, she could be our friend.”

Zoey closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the warmth of the redhead, heart pounding. “Me too,” she whispered. “Sometimes it feels like there are three of us, but at the same time, only two.”

Rumi’s absence, even just a few meters away, weighed heavier than any battlefield wound.

Zoey let out a soft sigh as Mira pulled her closer, sinking her into the embrace as if there were a refuge the world couldn’t invade. Mira’s loose black shirt carried the scent of cheap soap mixed with the lingering sweat from the previous night, and to Zoey, it smelled like home.

“But… at least with you, there’s finally a little peace…” Zoey murmured, tracing the tip of her fingers along Mira’s arm, feeling the warm skin over the slender limbs.

Mira let out a short, hoarse laugh. “Peace? Here? Do you even know where we live?” Her half-lidded eyes carried more tenderness than irony.

Zoey lifted her face, dark hair brushing her cheek. “Doesn’t matter.” She gave a crooked smile. “When I’m with you, even this place feels less like a prison.”

Mira studied her for a few seconds, too serious for the light tone. Then she cupped Zoey’s face in both hands, rough fingers contrasting with the gentleness of the gesture. “Do you have any idea how much I think about you? How I cling to you when everything seems to collapse?”

Zoey blushed, looking away. “Mira… don’t say things like that…” But the smile betrayed her.

“I say it because it’s true.” Mira lifted her, letting Zoey slip from her lap to lie against her chest. Zoey’s white shirt bunched up, but she didn’t care. She rested her head, listening to Mira’s heart beat steady and strong.

Mira’s fingers ran through her hair slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing each strand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I might have lost my mind already.”

Zoey rose just enough to kiss her again, this time unhurried, savoring the rare moment without blood, without screams, without monsters. Just the two of them.

When they pulled apart, Zoey rested her forehead on Mira’s shoulder. “Then don’t ever let me go. Not even if this world collapses.”

Mira wrapped her arms tighter around her, closing her eyes. “I won’t let go. Not even dead.”

The room seemed suspended in time: sunlight streaked across the floor through the blinds, the silence broken only by their gentle breathing. Casual clothes, skin against skin, quiet words — it was the closest thing to normalcy they’d ever know.

And in that stolen moment, Mira and Zoey allowed themselves to believe, even if it was a lie, that they were just two young women — loving each other like breathing — living an ordinary afternoon.

• ★ •

The Confederation’s armored transport crossed through Jeju’s iron gates as if swallowed by the perimeter itself. The island, transformed into a fortress since the founding of the UN, was the heart of order. And in the heart of the island rose the sight no Honmoon could ever forget: the Dangsan.

The colossal tree, older than any human empire, spread its gray-black crown across the sky. Its roots, thick as ramparts, burrowed so deep it was impossible to guess how far they reached. From its trunk emanated a vibrating, cruel energy, pulsing in rhythm with the ground itself. And from it was born the Veil, the translucent curtain invisible to ordinary eyes, yet felt by the Honmoons like searing iron against their skin. It was the thin wall separating the human world from the infernal abyss.

The Confederation’s main building in Jeju had been built as a ring encircling this natural dome. A perfect circle of reinforced concrete, bulletproof glass, and long corridors that opened to the inevitable sight of the tree. Everything there existed to remind the hunters why they did.

Zoey, Mira, and Rumi stepped down from the Little Wolf in silence. They had traded casual jackets for training uniforms: black, functional, stripped of combat plating, but still heavy. Side by side, they walked down the wide corridors, their footsteps echoing against the metallic floor.

To the left, the hall opened into enormous windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Beyond them lay the full vision of the dome that shielded the Dangsan. Afternoon light filtered through, tinting the Veil with liquid-like reflections. The tree seemed to pulse, each branch like veins carrying the world’s blood.

Zoey paused for a second, pressing her hand against the cold glass. “Sometimes I think… if that thing stops breathing, so do we.” Her voice came out low, almost a whisper.

Mira walked past without looking, her jaw tight. “Well… we’re not here to think. Just look, and remember what we’re forced to do.”

Rumi moved in the middle, never slowing. She refused to grant the Veil more power over her than it already held. Her chest burned faintly, the iridescent scar reacting in silence. She only adjusted her gloves, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The corridor ended at a reinforced double door. The Training Center. Inside, the shouts of recruits, the dry thuds of impacts, and the clatter of wooden weapons echoed, composing a symphony of human effort.

Rumi drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed the door open. Here, she — they — had to be nothing more or less than what everyone expected: the wall, the heroines, the Honmoon.

The noise died almost the instant the doors swung open. The air, thick with sweat, tatami dust, and cold iron, seemed to compress when the recruits realized who had entered.

The three Honmoons.

Black uniforms, firm boots, each one bearing on her body the marks of battles the recruits had only read about in reports or heard whispered in the dormitories. Zoey was the first to cross the threshold, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall as if it were a battlefield. Mira followed close behind, her stride hard, implacable, every muscle radiating authority. Rumi, at the center, wore a neutral, direct expression — the perfect mask to hide the storm inside.

One of the instructors lifted his whistle but never had to blow it. The recruits were already lined up, their eyes a mix of respect, fear, and youthful thrill.

“Attention.” Captain Park’s voice, the training wing’s supervisor, cut through the space. He approached them with a stern face, though there was something almost reverential in his posture. “Honmoons. Welcome back to Jeju.”

Mira crossed her arms, scanning the lines of sweat-drenched youths. “How many dropped out since the last trial?” she asked bluntly.

Park adjusted his vest. “Sixteen. Some couldn’t handle the physical strain. Others… couldn’t endure their first exposure to the Veil.”

Zoey let out a dry laugh, tilting her head. “Sixteen’s still too few — most of them still haven’t grasped reality. These kids have no clue what it’s like to watch a Gwishi drive through the chest of someone you know.”

A murmur of discomfort rippled through the line of recruits, but none dared lower their gaze.

Rumi stepped forward, chin raised. Her voice rang firm, almost militaristic “You’re here because you chose the worst profession in the world. Forget glory, forget recognition. Out there, what waits for you is pain, loss, and monsters that feed on the flesh of the innocent. If you can’t handle that, quit now.”

The silence was so heavy that even the distant pulse of the Dangsan seemed to seep into the hall. One of the recruits actually walked out.

Captain Park cleared his throat, trying to reclaim control. “Today, you’ll take part in an exercise under the supervision of the Honmoons. Stay sharp. Watch, learn.”

Zoey shot Mira a quick, almost conspiratorial glance. “Looks like we get to play teachers.”

Mira didn’t smile. “If they stick around, good. If not, that’s less dead weight in the future.”

Rumi said nothing. She simply walked to the center of the tatami, the recruits parting as though her very presence were an invisible blade cutting through the air.

While the recruits held their stance, the three Honmoons approached Captain Park and the other training wing supervisors, where a large holographic screen floated above the center of the tatami, bathing the hall in cold, metallic light.

“We need to reinforce one point,” Rumi began, her tone firm. “The demonic hierarchy isn’t just theory. It defines how you survive. There are hunters all over the world, but Korea requires constant oversight. This is the cradle of Honmoon energy. That’s why the three of us cannot leave the country.”

Zoey added, her smile never reaching her eyes. “It’s not privilege, it’s prison. But it’s also the reason you’re here. Each one of you must understand that the presence of the Honmoon triad is the thin line between survival and massacre.”

Mira pointed to the screen, where four images materialized in hologram — each displaying the grotesque, distinct visage of a different type of demon.

“First category,” she said, voice low and steady. “Dokkaebi. Violent, irrational, ravenous goblins. They attack in packs and adapt quickly. Never underestimate their numbers. A lone hunter can’t handle more than three without specialized equipment.”

The hologram shifted. A tall, pale specter appeared, golden eyes gleaming.

“Bhoota. Specters with a human guise, but amplified strength, teleportation, and shadow manipulation. Beware: they prey on fear. Never split up.”

Rumi continued, each word measured, as though her syllables sharpened invisible blades inside the recruits’ minds. “Gwishi. Vengeful spirits turned monsters: vampires, werewolves, murderous sirens, ghouls — things like that. Each one with specific weaknesses, but all lethal if underestimated. Learn to identify vital points. Always prioritize the neck, in all three cases.”

The final image emerged, towering, almost divine in its monstrosity.

“...Magwi. Demon kings, dragons, supreme entities. Strength, intelligence, and malice in proportions the human mind cannot withstand. A single Honmoon might survive them… but to win? That takes flawless teamwork — if you’re willing to sacrifice what’s left of your sanity.”

Zoey gestured, hammering in the weight of her words. “Each type of demon demands different techniques, different weapons, and above all, absolute respect. Underestimate any of them, and there’s no excuse that can save you.”

“Today,” Mira said, turning her gaze back to the lined-up recruits, “you’ll learn to identify, neutralize, and eliminate all four categories in simulated exercises. Watch, ask questions — but remember: no one survives if they ignore the hierarchy.”

The hall was thick with tension. Even the youngest recruits could feel the Honmoons’ presence like a wave of energy, a silent reminder that this wasn’t just training: it was preparation for war.

Rumi crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping over each recruit. Her voice was firm but quiet, almost a whisper that seemed to pierce their skulls. “Learn fast. The Dangsan does not tolerate mistakes.”

Behind them, the hologram of the colossal tree flickered, reminding everyone that here, the veil between the human and infernal worlds was as thin as paper, and the lesson wasn’t only about killing — but about surviving in a world that never forgives failure.

The training field erupted into motion as the holograms gained physical form: Dokkaebi appeared first. Small, fast, grotesque, attacking in choreographed packs. The recruits moved into blocks, trying to respond, but the raw energy of the simulated goblins was overwhelming. Zoey stayed a few meters away, her eyes tracking each strike.

“They need to remember speed isn’t everything,” she muttered, almost to herself. “But if they falter, they’ll be clawed before they even notice.”

Mira, arms crossed, watched every recruit with a cutting gaze. “See how they lose their stance when they react emotionally. Fear is visible. I’m already seeing four fatal mistakes.”

Rumi stayed silent, but her mind wasn’t only on the training. As she analyzed the movements, she felt something that made her shiver: the beast’s instinct, the force inside her calculating each blow as if it were real.

The judgment pressed down on the rookies as harshly as the high-end holograms. The native sharpness of her dual nature. Superiority in both of her bloodlines.

The holographic screen shifted to the Bhoota. Tall, pale, golden eyes glinting with simulated malice. They teleported, testing the recruits’ reflexes and presence of mind. Zoey stepped forward just slightly, pointing discreetly at one recruit who recoiled on instinct. “He won’t react fast enough. He thinks, but he doesn’t feel. Not enough.”

Mira scoffed, her eyes following the group’s stumbles. “They don’t notice when they’re being manipulated. Every hesitation is an opening. They think they’re defending, but they’re just dancing to the monsters’ rhythm.”

Rumi swallowed hard. The phantom scent of fear, the pressure crushing the recruits — it all stirred something inside her awake. The feeling was both painful and intoxicating. She knew she could crush any one of them without effort. But it was forbidden. She looked at each of those poor kids, sacrificing their youth so others could live theirs in peace. She tasted both sides. Prey and hunter. And she drowned under the guilt.

The next wave came: Gwishi. Vengeful spirits in twisted forms, mixing claws, fangs, and inhuman speed. The recruits now turned to face predators far more complex. From her safe distance, Rumi stood still, her black eyes like steel tracking every movement, calculating, measuring.

Zoey whispered low, just for Mira. “They’ll get lost if they don’t focus. Each Gwishi is different. A unique strategy for every one.”

Mira exhaled. “Learning that fast is the difference between coming back alive or becoming a statistic.”

The training center felt small under the shadow of the Dangsan, but to Rumi, every movement, every breath of the recruits, every strike and block was a mirror of herself. A reflection of everything she could be — if she chose to abandon discipline and surrender to the chaos burning inside her.

The entire mat was a stage for artificial war. The holograms of the Gwishi multiplied into diverse forms: one with claws long as blades, another with a mouth torn from ear to ear, another moving on all fours like a possessed hound. The simulation spared nothing; it was a faithful portrait of the hell awaiting the recruits outside.

One of the young hunters tried to get too close to a spectral Gwishi. The creature raised its deformed arm and tore through his defense with a brutality that ripped the air from his lungs. He collapsed backward, coughing, his chest marked by the impact of the solid illusion.

Zoey let out a short whistle, almost mocking. “They warned you not to cling. Gwishi aren’t lightweight — they’re brutal as hell. If you get close without killing, you’re just a toy. Don’t think you’ll ever handle them head-on alone. Sometimes even I think it’s bullshit!”

Mira didn’t laugh. She was serious, analyzing every step, every mistake. “That one would already be dead. And the problem isn’t him falling. In real life, when one drops, the rest lose focus. And losing focus against a Gwishi is asking to have your heart ripped out through your mouth.”

The recruits regrouped. Two tried to circle one of the abominations, but their timing was off. The Gwishi leapt between them, shattering their formation, forcing them to retreat stumbling.

“They’re stupid,” Mira said flatly. “The trick isn’t just isolating — it’s using synchronicity with the others to crush it. Never a direct, solitary clash. Force the monster to miss, don’t throw yourselves into its mouth.”

Zoey added, her voice calm, “And don’t look into their eyes. They manipulate even fear.”

Rumi stood watching with arms crossed, posture flawless. But inside, her heart pounded to another rhythm. Every movement of those monsters vibrated in her nerves as something far too familiar. That gleam in the Gwishi’s eyes, that insatiable hunger… she knew it. She felt it inside her.

With every failed strike from a recruit, with every simulation of flesh being torn, she thought, I’d be worse. I wouldn’t give them a chance to escape. I’d crush their bones before they even realized they were being hunted.

A Gwishi charged the line. The hologram had no scent, no real blood, but Rumi swore she could taste the metallic fragrance on her tongue. Her jaw clenched, her fangs throbbing beneath the gum.

She turned her gaze away not to lose herself. She had to hold discipline. She had to remember who she was. Honmoon, not abomination. Leader, not beast.

Zoey noticed the tension in her face and exchanged a quick look with Mira, but neither said a word. They respected her silence, even without understanding.

The training pressed on with growing intensity. The recruits’ bodies now dripped with sweat, breaths ragged, muscles strained to their limit. The weapons they wielded were ordinary, incapable of killing, only delaying. That was the lesson: without Honmoons, demons always return.

“That’s the point,” Mira explained, to both the instructors and the recruits still standing. “You can bleed a Gwishi to the end of the world. If there’s no Honmoon, it comes back. That’s why the hierarchy exists. That’s why we exist.”

Her words echoed through the training ground.

Rumi closed her fists discreetly. Every letter weighed as a warning to herself too: to exist as a Honmoon, to exist as a wall. Never as the thing burning inside.

The lights on the mat shifted in tone. The hologram, once just a machine of lethal illusions, reconfigured itself. A thunderous sound rippled through the floor, as if the building itself breathed in sync with the terror about to be born. The recruits, still panting from the clash against the Gwishi, exchanged nervous glances.

“Wait…” one of them murmured. “Weren’t we stopping at the Gwishi?”

Zoey curved her lips into a crooked smile, resting her elbows on the railing of the observation gallery. “Surprise.”

Mira didn’t smile. Her jaw was set tight, her eyes locked on the central dome. “If you can’t even bear to look, then you’ll never have a chance to fight.”

The air trembled. The entire ceiling seemed to suck the light into a single point. And then it appeared.

A Magwi.

The illusion had been toned down by the technicians — yet even the weakened version was enough to drive recruits to their knees under the weight of its spiritual pressure. A body of impossible proportions, skin black and cracked like burning coal, twisted wings dragging through the air like blades. Its eyes were pits of viscous red. Its mere presence made the space groan.

The terror was physical. The simulated aura was overwhelming. The air vibrated, heavy with noise, the stench of cadaverous rot spreading. The environment was too close to reality — even in reduced form.

One recruit vomited, unable to withstand the pressure. Another began to cry, sobbing with the rifle trembling in his hands. Those still standing raised their weapons, but their fingers locked stiff on the triggers.

Zoey whispered, just for Mira and Rumi to hear, “And these are the chosen of the new generation. If a ghost of a Magwi already breaks them… imagine the real thing.”

“Do you feel it?” Mira’s voice was grave. “This isn’t combat. This is despair. A Magwi doesn’t fight, it devours. You don’t defeat a Magwi. You survive the encounter, if you’re lucky enough to have a Honmoon nearby.”

The monster took a step, and just the impact against the floor spread holographic cracks across the mat. It was only an echo, yet it felt far too real.

Rumi didn’t blink. Her eyes stayed fixed on the creature, while inside her the beast stirred, restless, vibrating like a caged animal recognizing a rival. Her heart pounded, her body broke into a cold sweat. Part of her wanted to rise, to leap down there and tear out the creature’s throat. Another part trembled with the certainty that if she did, she would lose what scraps of humanity she still had left. What a wretched existence — what was meant to be a lesson of motivation for the recruits turned into a monotonous pastime of feeding the ego of her worst side, while her human half withered further with each breath.

The simulation room blared alarms, the technicians shutting down the projection before the recruits collapsed en masse. The Magwi dissolved into sparks of energy, but the silence that remained was suffocating. Many were still on the floor, sweating, pale, some sobbing softly.

Mira turned to the superiors. "This is what they must understand. Dokkaebi bite. Bhoota manipulate. Gwishi destroy. But Magwi… they erase hope.”

Zoey stretched, breaking the tension. “Congratulations, recruits. You’ve just met the line between the living and the dead. Maybe some of you would rather die than deal with this.”

The mat still reeked of sweat and fear. The recruits lay scattered across the floor, some struggling to catch their breath, others staring blankly, silent, as if the Magwi still loomed before their eyes. The superiors whispered among themselves, scribbling notes, trying to disguise their own discomfort.

Zoey stepped away from the observation rail, leaning her shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. Her eyes gleamed with that tired irony that masked something far crueler.

“Look at this…” she muttered, low, but loud enough for Mira to hear. “This is our army? Kids crying at the sight of a shadow, officers hiding behind clipboards, people who’ll never hold a city against a real attack.” She let out a humorless laugh, a dry puff through her nose. “The whole damn world is screwed. And the wall holding back hell is just three miserable women, trapped inside their own skin. Us.”

Mira didn’t answer. Her jaw was rigid, eyes locked on the recruits as if she wanted to crush every weakness into steel. Zoey, however, went on, without her usual levity “You know the funniest part? Humanity thinks it can live in peace. Goes to school, buys houses, falls in love, has kids… all of it only exists because three Honmoons haven’t broken yet. If one of us falls, just one, everything collapses.” She kicked at the floor, lightly, as if to shove away the weight of the thought.

“You know what we are? Plugs in a sinking boat. Hell already won. Time is all that’s left.”

Rumi heard. She didn’t comment. But the words echoed deep, because inside her, the beast throbbed as if in agreement.

Finally Mira spoke, firm “Then we won’t fall.”

Zoey glanced at her from the side, a bitter half-smile tugging at her lips. “You say that like it’s simple.”

Rumi drew in a deep breath, masking the tremor in her hands. The leader had to rise. She had to be the foundation even while crumbling inside.

“We’ll end it here for today,” she said, her voice calm, cold. “They’ve already learned the lesson.”

The superiors nodded, almost relieved. The recruits began to be gathered by the instructors, dragging heavy steps, eyes fixed to the ground.

Meanwhile, in Zoey’s mind, the same sentence echoed mercilessly: three women against all of hell.

The training center slowly emptied. The noise of recruits being rounded up faded down the corridors, officers dispersed with papers and tense stares. Only the Honmoons remained, walking through the circular glass hallway, where the sight of the colossal Dangsan dome dominated the horizon. The tree pulsed, as if it were breathing, spreading that ethereal glow that separated the human world from hell.

Zoey trailed a few steps behind Rumi, who walked ahead, rigid and silent. Mira, beside Zoey, noticed the way she kept her eyes lowered, so unlike her usual irreverence. Her silence weighed heavier than any sarcasm.

“What is it now?” Mira asked, her tone half sharp, half concerned.

Zoey took her time to answer. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her casual jacket over the uniform, her fingers tapping nervously against the fabric. “Did you see their faces in there?” she murmured. “The recruits, the generals… all looking at us like we’re walls, monsters, goddesses… anything but human. It’s too much… expectation…”

Mira frowned. “And isn’t that what we are?”

Zoey let out a humorless laugh, low. “I’m not, Mira. I’m just a girl who… tries not to shake when someone expects me to save the world.” She bit her lip, eyes still downcast. “And if one day I fail? If I hesitate, if I lose focus… it’s not just me who falls. It’s everyone.”

Mira stopped walking. She grabbed Zoey’s arm and pulled her to face her. The corridor was empty, the glass reflecting the light of the tree, giving the scene an almost sacred tone.

“Zoey.” Her voice came out firm, like hammered steel. “You’ve never been alone. Not once. If you fall, I fall with you. And you know what? I’d rather die in hell with you than live in this world without you.”

Zoey lifted her eyes, and for an instant all her bravado collapsed. The mask of jokes, false optimism, fearless girl — fell away. What remained was raw fear.

She smiled crookedly, a smile full of pain.“You talk like it’s easy to carry this weight.”

Mira stepped closer, resting her forehead against hers. “It’s not easy. That’s why we share it.”

Zoey closed her eyes, breathing deep, as if Mira’s warmth was the only place where she could feel alive. The touch of hands, the firm grip, the lips she knew were just inches away.

And deep down, even there, even in that stolen moment of intimacy, she knew: the fear would never vanish. It only hid, in the silence between kisses, in ragged breaths, in a love that was also a trench.

Up ahead, Rumi walked alone, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. But her shadow, cast against the glass, seemed heavier than her own body.

• ★ •

The flight back from Jeju to Seoul was short, but silent. The Confederation helicopter landed in the middle of the militarized courtyard, surrounded by electric fences, floodlights, and armed guards. The base was a living fortress, cold, metallic, a pulsing heart that never slept.

The three disembarked from the aircraft. The rotor wash scattered Zoey’s loose hair and Mira’s jacket, while Rumi led the way, posture erect, as if she were carrying the weight of all the concrete around them. The soldiers on the perimeter stopped to stare — not out of genuine respect, but from that mix of fear and fascination that always followed them.

They passed through the steel corridor, where every door had scanners and biometric locks. The sound of their own steps echoed like hammer strikes. After crossing the final checkpoint, the Confederation loomed before them: the living hive of Hunters, divided into tiers of housing, command, research, and training.

The Honmoons’ building stood farther apart, raised in a reserved sector and guarded by inner walls. There was no luxury, no freedom. It was comfortable, clean, isolated — but it was also a prison of white walls.

When they entered the lobby of the quarters, the atmosphere wavered between military silence and the false idea of home. Minimalist furniture, corridors too wide, everything lit by artificial lamps. Mira was the first to let out a heavy sigh, throwing herself against the back of the sofa.

“Uh, here again, um? Cute little house.,” she muttered with sarcasm, kicking off her sneakers and tossing them into a corner.

Zoey walked slowly to the open kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water. She drank in long gulps, her body still tense from the memory of the simulation and the Magwi.

Rumi stood for a few seconds in the middle of the room, surveying the space as if it were hostile territory. Then she said only “Rest. Meet tomorrow morning.”

And she went straight to her room. The door shut with a dry thud, muffling the click of the automatic lock.

Mira followed the leader with her eyes until the last second, her face marked with concern. Then she turned to Zoey.

“She’s getting worse. Like, a lot.” Her voice came out almost a whisper.

Zoey set the bottle on the counter, crossed her arms, and replied, “I know.”

Silence returned, heavy as the base’s steel. Outside, the Confederation buzzed with artificial lights, but inside that reserved building, the sensation was pure claustrophobia.

This was what they called “home.”

• ★ •

The steam from the shower wrapped around Rumi like a dense cocoon. Hot water poured in torrents, striking against skin etched with old scars — scars no one but her remembered the origin of. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cold tile, her breath heavy, muffled by the fall of water.

Suddenly, flashes — not from the Gangnam mission, not from the trip — or any specific battle or report — but from the night before. Her bathroom overtaken by the reflection of iridescent patterns tearing across her skin, bones cracking under pressure, the sensation that her body was no longer hers but a shell in mutation. The desperation of clawing for the suppressors. That feeling of being seconds away from unraveling into pure monstrosity.

Her eyes snapped open, dragging in a deep breath. The memory still burned in her throat like acid.

She stepped out of the shower and let herself sink down before the fogged mirror. Wiping her face with the towel, the blurred surface slowly unveiled itself.

She looked at herself. A body rigid, disciplined, shaped by years of training. Muscles firm and sculpted, built to kill and endure, yet so far from anything human. Her abdomen still bore the mark of the injection site, her arm showing the faint ridge of the suppression device. Every mark reminded her she was not only the perfect soldier — she was also an unstable vessel, a secret carved into living flesh.

The mirror reflected more questions than answers. Rumi traced her fingers along the iridescent mark on her chest, as if she could pull from it the solution to something impossible.

“Honmoons do not falter.” Celine’s words echoed in her mind like iron striking iron.

What did her mother think? Love? Weakness? Or simply no choice at all — a victim bent by a force that should never have touched the human world? The doubt gnawed harder than the memory itself — because Celine’s silence always weighed heavy whenever the subject arose.

Her eyes followed every detail she could recall of her own metamorphosis. She was not a Dokkaebi — there was no famished savagery, no grotesque smallness. Nor a Bhoota — shadows did not belong to her, nor the cruel elegance of those beings. Gwishi? Celine claimed yes, that she was closest to them. But no. That felt insufficient, forced, as if someone had tried to shove her body into a uniform it could never fit.

Memories of the outburst took shape: fur spreading across her back, the purple burning at the edges of her vision, the animalistic yet still-too-human sensation.

Eyes that never lost their humanity — and perhaps that was what terrified her most.

Because Magwi were absolute monsters. And she… she was a contradiction that fit nowhere in the hierarchy.

A body larger than the standard. Muscle fibers twitching like ropes on the verge of snapping. Wild teeth, yet her expression never truly fierce. A mistake? A hybrid condemned never to belong — neither in the human world nor among demons?

Guilt…was it in the human blood? Or in the weight of being a Honmoon?

After all, only three per generation. Only three, destined to hold back the fury of hell. Perhaps she was nothing more than an experiment of existence itself, an impossible fusion.

Then she thought the cruelest truth: did it matter? No.

Whatever it was, it would die with her. The world would never see the true form coursing through her veins. One day, the beast sleeping inside her would be buried in the same silence in which it was born.

Rumi drew in a deep breath, the vapor still clouding the mirror around her. Her lips moved almost without sound, a private confession “I know what you are. Nothing.”

And for a moment, the reflected image seemed to return her gaze with darker, deeper eyes, as if the monster within had heard. She simply turned her face, finished drying off, and left the bathroom.

• ★ •

Rumi dressed without haste, each movement weighted as if the fabric of her casual uniform still reminded her of the black armor she never seemed to shed. She pulled the dark long-sleeved shirt over her head, adjusted her training pants, tied her hair into her usual braid. She picked up her phone from the table — screen filled with notifications from superiors, mission reports, small administrative reminders. She replied coldly, mechanically, each keystroke just another cog turning in a machine that never rested.

Only then did she leave the room, crossing the corridor toward the kitchen. Her stomach grumbled faintly — not from hunger — the heavens knew what she truly craved — but from the need to keep her body upright.

But she never made it.

In the living room, the barrier was alive: Mira leaning against the sofa, arms crossed, a sly smile; Zoey sitting on the edge, an old guitar in her arms, polished from care and insistence despite its worn strings. The contrast between the instrument and the weight of their world was almost absurd.

“Rumi…” Zoey began, voice low, carrying a softness that clashed with the hardness of last night. “Stay a while. Sing with us.”

Mira added, leaning forward with her usual directness, softened this time: “Just a little. Like when we were recruits. No orders, no reports, no demons. Just the three of us.”

Rumi froze. The silence between them was dense, threaded with fragments of the past: exhausting nights of training, when instead of sleeping, they gathered around Zoey’s guitar; muffled laughter, voices hoarse from exhaustion but carrying something rare, almost impossible — true joy.

Zoey plucked the strings gently, a simple, repetitive sequence, as if trying to spark memory in Rumi through music. Her gaze was a silent plea, reinforced by Mira’s unwavering firmness: “You’re not running away this time.”

Rumi stayed rooted, immobile, as if the words struck against an internal wall. Her body demanded food. Her mind demanded silence. But something inside her, buried as deep as the beast she concealed, wavered before the sound of the guitar.

Rumi took a deep breath, as if the air could dissolve the weight pressing on her chest. Her eyes lingered on the guitar in Zoey’s hands — it wasn’t just an instrument. It was a relic from a time when they could still be girls, when the world hadn’t yet shown its rot. She reached out slowly, and Zoey handed over the guitar as if offering a sacred weapon.

The touch on the strings sparked an immediate memory. Rumi adjusted the tuning by ear, her fingers instinctively finding the exact positions. The sound resonated low, intimate, as if awakening something dormant in the room’s air.

“Balcony,” she said, flatly, but without harshness.

The three moved there. The balcony was the only space in the residence that could be called home: wide, with discreet plants that, miraculously, Rumi insisted on tending; chairs worn by time; a view of the Confedération’s lit perimeter. Here, the world felt suspended, as if the iron gates were walls against everything breathing outside.

Rumi sat, resting the guitar on her lap, and began. The first chords were simple, almost childish. Zoey joined immediately, her voice light, playfully humming like she had on recruitment days. Mira, who always claimed she had no gift, added a hoarse contralto, still trying to recall the order, but not caring if it wasn’t perfect.

Rumi wavered between the notes and memories. Her voice came last, low at first, then firmer, its tone warm and serene, filling the space alongside the others. There was no flawless technique, no stage — only honesty.

The three voices intertwined like a sturdy rope. The harmony, imperfect and true, seemed to pulse with the walls of the Confedération. For a few moments, they were not hunters, not soldiers, not monsters. They were just Zoey, Mira, and Rumi. Three voices remembering what it meant to be Honmoon: not merely to fight the darkness, but to hold a thread of light when the world shows only shadow.

The sound echoed across the balcony and, for a moment, seemed to pass through not just air, but time itself. Together, the three of them had reclaimed something the Confederation and the weight of the world had almost erased: the ancient magic of the Honmoons.

In the past, before humanity had grown bitter and anxious, before fear and separation spread like weeds, Honmoon hunters protected the world differently. Not just with weapons and brute force, but with music that enchanted the human heart. It was the union of souls, the harmony of voices, and the sincerity of art that created invisible barriers against hell.

Now, it seemed almost mocking. Humans were scattered, unconscious, divided — and demons grew stronger with each step they took away from the light. But there, in that moment, it was different.

As they sang, the veil around the Dangsan — even miles away, the monumental tree sustaining Honmoon energy — pulsed. A living gold, warm and fluid. Rumi felt the vibration ripple through her body, not as command or obligation, but as a caress. A rare moment in which the weight of the beast inside her quieted, the rage and hunger receding.

And, for the first time in a long while, her heart allowed itself to exist simply as itself. No strategies, no suppressors, no masks. Just Rumi. Just body and soul, breathing the peace only this moment could offer.

When they finished singing, they allowed themselves to laugh like people without obligations, without expectations resting on their shoulders.

“I guess if we weren’t in such a stupid ass cruel world, we could have been… hmm. A girl group!” Zoey said, in a dreamy tone.

“Girl group? Seriously? Like Kpop?” Mira asked, sarcastic. But beneath it, there was a trace of interest and appreciation for her girlfriend’s imagination.

“Yes! That’s it!” Zoey exclaimed, animated. “I’d be the lyricist or rapper, or both — I’m damn good at it! You’d be the main dancer or visual! Like, you’re really beautiful, and you already told me you danced before entering this hell,” she pointed at Mira, smiling. “And you!” Now pointing to Rumi, “would be the main vocalist!”

“Me?”

“Yes! Rumi, your voice is beautiful… like a sweet dream. Too bad we get so few chances to hear it…” Zoey said, a sympathetic but genuine lament.

Rumi shrank slightly in her own place. She looked at the guitar in her lap and allowed herself to smile. Not one of those awkward, forced smiles. Just a slight curve of the lips, as real as the beauty of the voices enriching the hearts of the three of them.

It was in moments like these that walls crumbled and flags waved. Because fragility exists behind the fortifications. And there, away from missions, reports, and the world, fragility could be lived without guilt, as a reminder of what the Honmoons truly carried: humanity.