Chapter Text
Heat pulsed at the back of his neck. Jinu looked at the five people beyond the mirror, one by one. Faces hiding or revealing themselves in their own ways. And himself.
They had each tangled with Jinu in different eras, through different stories. But now they existed in one space, under one name.
As the SAJA BOYS.
— "The memories. I want them erased."
He remembered the day he'd said those words. Even when pain struck, he had learned to smile first.
Ten days had come around again. For four hundred years, every ten days.
"Hey. Jinu."
In front of the practice room mirror, Abby—Kangjun—twisted his body and shot him a look. Beneath the crop top, hard-cut abs flashed.
"Should we call it here for today?"
He swept back sweat-dampened hair, checked his reflection's stomach with a quick glance, and lifted the corner of his mouth.
"Tomorrow is the debut. I think we're good."
"The only thing that's 'good' is your abs."
Jinu tossed the words out. The patterns at the back of his neck pulsed hot, but he laughed it off as if it were nothing. Spitting out jokes had become easier than swallowing pain.
Kangjun snorted a "Whatever," but paused to look at him. Jinu was still smiling, but the smile showed its bottom too quickly.
Kangjun straightened his spine and resumed the choreography. The movements resembled something Jinu had seen long ago—a body dancing in flames. Jinu's breath caught. Not now. Not here.
Beside him, Baby—Doyul—stretched halfheartedly in a thick knit sweater. Even under the air conditioning, sweat beaded at the cuffs, but he showed no intention of taking it off.
"Yo, Doyul, it's hot as hell. Why won't you take that off?" Kangjun asked, irritation threading his voice.
Doyul looked away, voice flat.
"So I don't get compared to your abs. Can't stand the sight."
It was a barbed joke, but Jinu noticed the shadow hidden behind it. A kid who always wanted validation but tried to cover himself at the same time. Just like when they'd first met on the street.
"Why compare different genres? You just gotta be number one in cute."
"Jinu-hyung, not cute—chic!"
"Fine. Chic cute."
"Ugh, seriously!"
Romance—Iseo—worked in the corner, organizing each movement while watching the other members. A shirt that outlined his silhouette. A red thread bracelet at his wrist.
His eyes always carried the poem he'd never finished before death came. Someone who didn't hide emotion, but offered it to the stage instead.
Mystery—Eunhui—observed the atmosphere in silence. Fingers moving like they were tapping piano keys. Jinu felt in them the melodies he used to hear long ago.
His face was hidden behind long silver bangs, but the gaze beyond them always seemed to pierce through structure and order. Structure over emotion. Flow. Results.
The SAJA BOYS.
The name sounded like some indecipherable idol group, but behind that stage breathed the rift between the underworld and the living. To stand against the hunters who wove Honmoon, the soul gate, through dance and song, they were about to step into the world.
"Alright, again. Soda Pop."
At leader Jinu's voice, the music exploded. Bright, bouncing beats echoed against the practice room walls.
"Keep the expression—three, four."
Jinu felt his neck respond before his heart. Each time the lightning-shaped patterns flickered faintly, he smiled and continued dancing.
On stage, he always had to smile. As if even pain were part of the rhythm.
The glass wall stretched long. The floor trembled faintly to the speaker vibrations, and the studio air popped with carbonation-like foam. Four drew the line first.
Kangjun threw his body at the beat from the front, and Doyul burst rhythm with just the shape of his mouth. Eunhui matched angles without changing expression, and Iseo held his breath long as it flowed along his shoulder line.
Jinu came in last. Each time his foot touched center position, the rubber floor hummed thin. He inhaled and counted four beats. Arms up, drop, and he imagined stage lights being born from his fingertips.
When he swept his wrist once across the tension-stiff skin at the back of his neck, the demon patterns beneath pulsed faintly. Like a cup of hot water boiling under the skin—quiet, deep heat.
The beat changed. The playful signal shifting into the chorus. When the volume rose, short waveforms jumped from the speakers.
— "You're my soda pop, My little soda pop!"
A fragment of lyrics passed through the space. Sound from the speakers and five shadows in the mirror shook all at once. Not a rehearsal mic—this was singing with the whole body.
Kangjun leapt. Stamped the floor with his toes and twisted his torso to carve trajectory. Beads of sweat scattered midair, meeting the lights and glittering like small stars. He exhaled one beat late and tightened the members' movement lines. A main dancer's responsibility wasn't determined by jump height but by the length of vision. Kangjun had always known that.
Doyul moved his lips quickly. He'd written the rap part lyrics for Soda Pop himself. When rhythm rushed in, words jumped out first. Breath followed late.
"Uh, make me wanna flip the top, 한 모금에 you hit the spot!"
Doyul stepped on his own sentences. He tried to keep his expression light, but his eyes flashed signals that said I want recognition.
Eunhui marked the beat with economized movements, as if his arm length had been cut in half. Even in the middle of the floor rather than in front of a piano, what he needed was order.
Conserving strength resembled conserving emotion. Eunhui in the reflective surface looking down at his face hidden by long bangs looked almost like architecture.
Iseo held his breath long and pushed a soft line from wrist to fingertips. His strength was expression. His weakness was also expression. If he wavered even slightly, faint tremors appeared first at the corners of his mouth. Today those tremors didn't erase easily. Not wanting to know why, he sang longer.
Jinu's turn came. His body knew its own weight. He let out his breath half a beat early. In that moment, small lightning sparked at the back of his neck. From inside toward outside—a force that didn't penetrate flesh but pushed against it. Jinu's body flinched noticeably.
It's fine, He said it briefly to himself. Today, the date just happened to align, nothing more. Ten days had come around again.
"Hyung, did I... do something wrong? Did I mess up?"
Doyul's voice wedged itself between the music. Not loud enough to stop rehearsal, but sincerity erupting from too-close distance tore the thin membrane.
"No." Jinu said. His expression was a well-practiced smile. "Your diction's good. Keep going."
Smiles reflected in mirrors were always more accurate. And accurate things were often cruel. He turned his head slightly to hide the corners of his mouth.
"Kangjun, that jump was good earlier, but on landing—left gaze, one more frame."
The corridor outside the studio. A man reflected in the glass window was on a call.
"...Confirmed. Yes. Venue rental, music distribution, broadcast lines—all on schedule."
The line of his black suit was sleek. The watch thin, the shoes conserving sound. Saheon Choi. Planning Director and CFO of the SAJA BOYS' agency, Apost Entertainment. The industry called him the Shadow Executive. A person whose name remained but whose face did not.
Saheon finished his call in the corridor and pushed through the door. He didn't say a word, but in that instant the studio air subtly organized itself. Instrument positions, the placement of water bottles and the direction of cables—everything quietly found its place.
Jinu cast a glance and said, "The director's here. Straighten up."
Saheon's face was clearly human, but the balance within it was somehow faintly twisted. Even the studio lighting seemed to misalign, avoiding his shadow, and the moment his gaze settled, instinct made the back of one's neck shrink.
Beneath human skin, something not human seemed to lift its head—oppressive presence. Only where he stood did the temperature seem to drop, breaths shortening by one beat.
Kangjun, mid-choreography, lightly stepped on Jinu's shadow then withdrew as if nothing happened. Whether that was consideration or caution, his expression remained empty as if he didn't know himself.
You okay? His eyes asked. His lips stayed closed, his ankles preparing the next movement.
"Once more. That was good, but let's go faster this time." Jinu said.
The set looped again. Beat, movement lines, the length of hands and feet, the trajectory of gazes. The speakers played the same sound, the floor trembled the same way. Repetition creates the stage. And repetition creates hell.
Second chorus. The patterns on Jinu's nape bled a faint red, barely visible. As if the studio sensor had malfunctioned, the lighting blinked once. No one spoke, but everyone saw the flicker simultaneously.
Only Eunhui stared long at the afterglow left in the mirror.
"Hyung, drink some water."
Iseo offered a water bottle. His fingertips trembled slightly.
"Oh, thanks."
His throat moved as if swallowing water, but no water went down.
Without stopping his movements, Eunhui lowered his eyes in silence. His silence approached a vow: I will not ask anything.
Saheon stood at the edge of the mirror. Beyond his glasses, he scanned Jinu once, then each member in turn.
"That's it for today." He said briefly. "Final blocking check tomorrow morning at rehearsal."
"What about the CEO?" Kangjun asked, something mocking in his tone.
The corner of Saheon's mouth moved very slightly. His words ended low and calm, but an inexplicable pressure spread through the air.
"The CEO—on paper— is always busy."
Apost Entertainment's CEO, Gunwoo Ryu. Everyone in the industry knew the name since Saheon had been handing out business cards on his behalf for about half a year. But it was also a face no one had ever seen. Even his precise background was hidden in hazy fog, and only unfounded rumors circulated.
Jinu looked at the mirror one last time. He looked fine. His complexion was a bit pale, but his eyes were clear and his breathing calm. Mirrors always lie clean.
The lights trembled very briefly. It fell and returned in less than half a beat. His body remembered that half-beat precisely.
— Ten days.
He counted internally. Today was that day. Never marked on a calendar. The body knows first. Beneath the skin at the back of the neck, the patterns were slowly, very slowly, opening.
When the speakers cut off, the studio suddenly went quiet. Sweat smell and cosmetic smell, floor cleaner smell—all clumped together and caught at the tip of his nose.
"Hyung."
Doyul called. The voice was small, but the fact he'd called was enough. It felt like the edge of clothing being lightly grasped.
Jinu didn't turn his head in the end. Instead he raised his hand. Pressed thumb and index finger together to form a circle. The signal for I'm fine.
"Kangjun Cha." Saheon called the name. "You'll finalize the blocking."
"Yes." Kangjun answered shortly. His answers were always solid. Before leaving the studio, he threw a glance at Jinu. Their eyes met and wordless understanding passed between them.
Iseo lingered at the door even after shouldering his bag. Eunhui tapped his shoulder once lightly. "Let's go." Words falling one syllable at a time. Only then did Iseo move.
Saheon's gaze paused briefly on Jinu's neck reflected in the mirror. It was a split second, but gold flashed across Jinu's pupils. Saheon's lips wavered faintly, but in the end he turned with his face hardened.
People emptied out. The studio cleared. Only Jinu remained in the mirror.
He turned his back to it. Gripped the back of a chair, bent at the waist, then slowly straightened. Drew one deep breath and exhaled very long. While breath left, the back of his neck grew hot. The process of embers igniting and extinguishing beneath skin. Embers never go out. They're only covered for a while.
The door was knocked twice, softly.
"Jinu-ssi."
The voice was low, polite, and not warm at all.
"The car is ready."
Jinu pressed a towel once against the back of his neck. No red light showed. Already hidden.
"Okay." He answered shortly. His voice was surprisingly calm.
He checked his wristwatch—the second hand seemed to have just stopped mid-circle. Actually what stopped wasn't the watch but his sense of time. Whenever the night that arrived every ten days without error came this close, it was always like this.
He grasped the doorknob. Metal cold.
Once every ten days is fine —bearable. Thinking that was his oldest habit. But today, even that habit felt unusually heavy.
The door opened.
No one stood in the corridor behind the studio. Or perhaps many people were there. Like shadows—leaving names but not faces. Jinu moved his steps slowly. The sound of shoe soles scraping the floor rang loud.
When he turned the corner, the patterns pulsed once more. Too quiet to call pain, too cold to call prayer.
He straightened his body. Not the walk of one being dragged away, but of one ascending the stage.
Tomorrow, their debut. Tonight, the night of imprint.
Not contradiction—completion.
Only one person knew.