Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoey can already feel the flames licking at the side of her face, but she can hardly find it in herself to care. She’s empty. Hollow. A sinister voice draws her forward, whispers sweet nothings into her ear, says he'll take care of her, love her, be her family. Interspersed is poison. She’s always too much, yet somehow never enough. Not good enough, not good at all. It's a deadly combination, a familiar cocktail of promises and pain. 

There’s something cold pulling her toward this burning heat in front of her. On all sides, there are men and women bumping her shoulders, moving at the same funeral procession pace towards…towards—

She’s not sure. 

But whatever it is, it has to be better than this all-consuming emptiness she feels. Mira’s last words, Rumi’s betrayal, the knowledge that she’s failed once again, her thoughts all twist and turn in her brain like a sickening twister of pain.

She couldn’t keep her parents together, couldn’t keep her partners ( and how that word makes her ache, that they never got to be anything more than that) together, couldn’t seal the Honmoon. She can’t even find it in herself to care that the world is ending all around her. 

She takes another step forward. 

The heat is almost unbearable at this point. 

Her feet continue their march, just seconds away from— 

Mira knows the words that are pulling her forward intimately. They call to her like an old friend. They kept her company in the endless halls of her old mansion, filled the silence of rooms gilded in gold and apathy. 

‘Hate,’ they would whisper, in a tone so similar to her motherfatherbrotherherself something she didn’t fully recognize, but had always known, ‘we all hate you, and you know it.’ 

‘Unworthy,’ 

‘Unlovable’ 

‘Untrustworthy.’ 

The voices come back to her without prompting, as if they had never left at all. Maybe that’s why they're so easy to follow, the familiarity of them resonating with every footfall. 

(Maybe she’s just tired, tired of pretending that anyone could ever really love her as she is. Tired of trying to imagine a world where she could hold her heart out and not have it sent back, returned, unopened and unwanted.)

It’s warm. 

The press of bodies all around catch her in their current. They are all waves swaying towards the rocks around a lighthouse on a sunny day. There is no splatter of foam, crack or crash to signify a storm. There is absolutely no fight at all. Mira doesn’t want to fight anymore. The heat is not comforting, far from it. But anything is better than the cold sting of apathy crawling across her like frostbite. 

She keeps walking. 

The flames grow taller, hotter. 

She can see the edge, barely an arms distance away now— 

When Mira and Zoey open their eyes they’re both floating. It is almost too bright to see. The world around them flickers in a cosmic glow. Everything burns bright white, the true nature of their surroundings incomprehensible. 

They’re caught somewhere between infinity and nothing, within the space that emerges when two mirrors are pressed together. The world around Mira is blurred at the edges. With every twitch of her gaze, the landscape fractals and shifts. It’s altogether like nothing she’s ever even thought to know, and yet…there’s an edge to it that’s almost familiar. 

The light is not peaceful. It is not the kind of light that beckons you home. It is almost too much to bear. 

There is a scream trapped somewhere inside Mira’s mouth, but the sheer weight of the aura surrounding her keeps her teeth ground together. Her eyes flicker across the space, taking in everything and nothing all at once. 

‘What — what…what is this — fuckwhatthef — ’ her thoughts refuse to string together. All she can see is Zoey in front of her, not necessarily her...body. But her. She would know her by atoms alone, and her figure writhes in the distance, clearly experiencing the same violent awakening as herself. 

Mira can’t reach out, she can’t comfort her, she doesn’t even know where they are. 

The last thing she remembers was their fight, then walking, then heat—

Then nothing.

Mira feels her eyes well up as she tries to make sense of everything. 

‘God-oh God oh God, I’m dead. Am I dead? Is Zoey— ’ the thought strikes through her like lightning. ‘Is Zoey dead?’ She let Zoey die. Was Rumi — demonliarneverlovedyou —She flinches and aches at just her name. Rumi isn't here. She’ll never see her again. That thought alone is nearly enough to break her. Mira had failed— 

Â̵͕͚͋͋̀̓́̌̈́̈̌̅̚͝͝g̸͓͉̤̺̣͓̖̯͙̙̃͊ä̵̰͓́̔̆̊̍͊̏̇̈́̈́̚͘͝i̶͈͇̻̞͙͐̎̃̓ͅn̶̤̒̐̃̂́̍̕͘͝͝

The sound that scrapes against the very essence of her being can hardly be called a word. But somehow Mira still understands it. Barely. The noise that peels across her consciousness is like hearing a crack of thunder and imagining that within it was the barest hints of a whisper. 

Ẁ̶̰̙r̶̳͐o̴͓̪̅n̷̿ͅg̵̘̾̽.̸̰̖̀ ̵̣̂̅I̴͇͒̈́ ̶̤̈́c̴̙̔̀ḫ̴́o̶͇͠s̸̫̐̈́ē̶̲̯ ̷͔̅w̵̺̃̉r̸̻͚̿o̶̤̦͆n̴͔̯̈́ǧ̴̟͚̈ .̷̞̥̆ ̵̟͚̃Y̸͙͓̌̂o̷̲̲̚ú̶̥̏ ̶͙̋͠n̷̰͒e̷̱͉̓̈́é̸̬͝d̵̻̉͝ ̴̭̳̿̕t̵̝̚o̷͈̔ ̸͕͈̎f̵̢͔̆ḭ̴̣̊̌g̶̘̟̓h̵͉̗͐t̷̜̬̑.̵̮̎ ̶̠̌̈́Ȳ̷̙͝ͅŏ̷̩͊u̶͈͎͑̆ ̸͍̦͛͂n̶̛̦ĕ̵ͅë̷̺̳́̔d̸̠́̆ ̸̭̅t̷̲͙͗ ő̵͓ ̴̦̂w̵̙̣͠ỉ̷͙̗͘n̷̙̓͗ͅ.̵͍̘̿ ̵͍́

Each syllable sends currents of static across her form (not a body, not anymore). It leaves the scent of metal on her tongue (that's not right, she knows it isn't, but does she even have a tongue? And what is taste in a world with no scent, with nothing but light and this metallic echo). All she knows is that this feeling is just adjacent to pain, uncomfortable enough to almost hurt. Like a half-cracked knuckle or a fallen-asleep limb. 

She doesn’t understand. 

‘Wrong? It chose what? What is — ’ And then she understands. 

The Honmoon. She’s in it. Without confirmation, she knows this to be true, the way she knows the feel of her guandao, the whiz of Zoey’s knives, the blinding light of Rumi’s hwando cutting down demons (why would she kill demons (she was one (she hid it for years ))). 

I̶̱̣̹̝̿ṱ̸̳̙͋͠ ̵̬͆̏H̶̘͇̹̻̓̀͌u̵͙͕͐r̴̥̦̳͌̂ẗ̸̡̪͚̩͠s̶͔̆̽ ̷̥̑i̶̳̝̯̼͑ṫ̴̖͇͎͊ ̷̢̥̫̞͌̃͝h̷͖͋̽͝͝ǘ̸̲̟͂r̵̝̼͑͑̄͜t̵̡̺͕͕̓̀̚͠s̷̨͈̠͑̈́ ̴̪̉̅ţ̴̹̀́̈́͝r̵̦̞̫͆̀͘ȳ̷̱͌̒̍ ̷̛̱̞̳̗̽̎͒ā̵̢̔͝g̶̡̳̱͒̀̄a̸̺͍̭͊̓̄i̴̪̩̔̈́̾̀n̴͈͖̤̓̽ ̶̭̫̮͌͠ẙ̷̟̬̟̇̈ơ̶̡̡͉̓̿̾u̴͍͛̅͌ ̶͔̮͛̑̚n̵͇͕̤̱̓͛͝e̸̢̺̥͒̓͛̕e̶̫͋̂́d̵̨͚́͌͝ ̶̼̬̦̈̎̈́̂t̴̨̙͔̆̌̊̋ȏ̵̧̤̀̉ ̷̯͙̮̰͊̏̃̚t̴̛̮r̸͈̟̱̱̍̍́͛ẙ̵̭͇͙̓̂̕ ̸͈̒͜a̸̯̋́̆̒g̷̬̳̞͍͌a̵̬̓̿̊̈́ḭ̶͚͒̎͊̚ṅ̷̻̦̲̤̄͛̀ ̷͕̓ẏ̴̜͉̙͗̆ơ̸̢̺̦͒̕͜u̷̬͇̦͗̐͝ ̵͓͉͆̃̈́n̷͉͒̂e̵̟̬̍͜è̶̦͉̠̐̋d̸̡̧̨͖͑̄̎ ̴̞̫͐͊͝t̶͖̋̕ŏ̵̧̈ ̷̳̲̂͒̒w̷̝̦͉̠̋̓̋͂i̸̘̒͋͝n̶͎̹̮̊̃.̴̬̖̼̉ͅ ̸̢̥̦͐

W̸͓̤̜͈͊̇i̸̤̤̲̟̐̍n̵͓̻̣̥̒̋̚ ̵̗̬̣̯́ţ̶͕̣̅́o̷̹̘͊g̷̻̦̊͝e̴͍͎͑̏͘t̷͙͒h̴͉̞͓̐ě̴̤̿͗͝r̶͙͍̦̊ ̴̡̛͖͆̊y̷̧͉̒o̵̙͇͂̀u̴̮̣͚̇̂ ̸͇͓̉́̉̂ň̷̪̳̀e̴̯̤̜̊͛̿e̶̗̰͈͗d̶̛͉͉͎̣̍͝ ̸̠̠͠t̷̺͖̅ͅo̸̢͒̀̈́ ̴̯̳̗̾̍̓͠w̸̹͆i̴̧͓̝̳͘ṋ̴̘̯͊͜ ̴̨̛͕͛̑t̴̹͚̀ǒ̶̡͔̩́͜ģ̶͚̘̀ȇ̴̱̬̆̓́t̵̢͉͓͈̉ẖ̴̓͑͠ë̵̻̩́̉̏ř̴̛̝͙̰̭͗͠.̸͓̅͒ ̵̙̬̐̉̕ẃ̶̦͝ͅr̸͖͙̝̎o̴̬͓͒n̴̡̲͇̬͌͐̈́͌g̴̡̹͚̻͊͐̔ ̵̟̲́̐w̵̫̣̞̯̔͂̆́r̴̥̹͌o̵̢̽̆n̵͉̙̹̝̐̒͋g̸̨͙͔̳̀ ̴̩̕͝w̷̞̕r̸͍̜͒o̵̖̾̾̐̕n̸͓̱̗̾͜g̸̎͌̃͜͝ͅ ̷̤͐̍̽̕Ị̶̜̣̥̃̐ ̶̯̒͊̈́̚ẅ̴̞́̑̄̏å̸̞̮̫̜̓͂s̴̱͍̏̎ ̷̨͚̀͊̀w̶̗̠͝r̶̢̮̈́́ȏ̷̞͘n̵̞̦̤͌g̶̞̳͓͕͊̈́̒́ ̶͎̆͊͑I̵̧͎̟̾ ̶̲͗͑͒p̴̣̲͝i̶͉͗̓̈͠c̵̦̖̮̆̌k̶̨̟̒e̵̳̭̗͋̈d̷͎͍͖̑ ̴͖̠̱͒̽ŵ̷̹̤̊͗r̶̺͚̝̄̂̐ò̵̗̺̎n̷͚͈̫̾̄ģ̷̧̺̗̿̿̅͆.̵͇̑̋͑̆ ̵̨̛̝̘̝͆̃̄

Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘ .̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠ t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓

Mira can only get bits and pieces. The Honmoon is hurting. She needs to win. It was..wrong? ‘Wrong about what?‘

The light around her and Zoey starts to burn even brighter. Somewhere deep within herself, she can feel her atoms rearranging, can feel the fabric of the universe rewriting itself within each of her nailbeds. 

It hurts. 

F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ .̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅ n̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝

‘Fight her?’ Mira’s eyes are burning. She knows she needs to stop Gwi-Ma. Knows she failed before. But she won’t again. Still, the voice keeps going. Mira can feel the particles of what used to be her teeth cracking apart and coming back together. 

She is coming apart at the seams and being sewn back together in the same instant, planes of time and reality coming into conflict. 

‘Who?’ 

F̶̜̳͎̀̋͘͝i̷̧̢̳̓g̷̠̤̈́ḣ̷͉̖t̵͍̦̥̗̎́ ̶̯̹̭͛̀̽h̸͉̗͊é̷̬̍̈̚r̸͔̋.̵̨̧͉̳̈́̀ ̸̡͖̖̠͒͑̆͑Ŝ̵̝̯͑͜á̸̠͎͝v̸͓͍̱̔͒̕ẹ̷̜͑ ̴͚̯̹̰͐̋h̸̞̗̍͆͘͠è̶̮̣͛̓̚r̸̤̀ .̵̠̑̋́̆ ̸̝̈́͜Í̷̬̜͊͊͝ ̶̞͎̾́̿͗w̴̖̫̘̔̊͘a̸̛̬̮̗̽ş̴̨͇̫́ ̶̧̫̦̋̾̎ẅ̷͇̭́̈́͜r̷̢͂o̷̩̯̊̓n̷͔͖͌̾͛̚g̷̭̲̻̈́̊͝ͅ.̷̖̃̈̒ ̸̛̳̲̼̚İ̴̩̜t̸̖͛͠ ̶̹̼̘͚̾h̵̟̝͝ú̴̡̙͂͝ř̷̯̫͓͇t̷̙̹͔̿̈́͘s̷̡̀̑͝.̴̻̲̅̊̅

 ̶̢͍͚͙͕̩͇̼̠̾̂̽͛͜ͅF̶̛̙̗͙͓̥̈͘͜i̴̧̛̠̙͈̲̹̼͉̮̠͛̏̀̃͛͐̅̓̍̄͗͒̓͌̓͝ģ̵̮͍̹͉̳̼͙̳͇̯̌̚͜h̷͇̦͈̣̞̫͎̗͆̉͊̈́́̊̋̊̕͝t̸̼̘͉͔̰̃̈́͋͆͠͝͠ͅ ̴̨͙̮̗̥͂̀h̷̡̛̥̗̲̭͖̰̙̻̮͙̩̞̮̱͍̟͒̈̏̈́̄̄͋̽̃́͋̅̆͠e̵̛̛̥̝͖͕̪͓̥͓͛̉̒̈́͑̂̈́̽͆̐̈̑͆̕͠ͅr̵̛͚̱̹̞̟̋̑͆̽̒͐̐̃̒̈́͒͑̆̕ .̸̨̙͓͚̥̣̙̬̻̫̍͋͂͒̏̈́̑͗̏͌͜ ̶̪͉̂̈̂͑̄̀̑̓̽̒̀̀͝͠T̶̢̨͙͓̫̖̙̣̰̙͕͖̤̪̮̣̉͛̆͒͋͝ͅơ̸͍͓̳͛̅͆̎͐̋̌͛͌́̒̀̈͝g̶͈͎̙̝̭͕̮͉̳͕̺̏̓̄̔͜ͅͅḝ̵̦̹͖͖̩͖͈̫̞̑̅̋̿̊̆̈́̈͘͜͠t̴̡̫͚͍̟̀̎̉̈́́̃̀̑̇̿̃̆͑͋͝h̶̤̟̓̊͛̈̍̌̾͂̈͌̔͆͊̈́͝e̸̢̼̯̰̺͚͙͔͍̦̅̈́̆̿̿̎̀͛̋́͆͘ȓ̴̛̗͈̯̯̻̙̻̦̞͋̀̉̿́͌͆̈͑͂̊͂̏͝ ̶̢̡̛̻͈̘̱̟̙͔̻̯̭̏̓͛͊͗͘ḯ̵̡͚̝͖̋̊̅̃̓́̿̓̈́̍͊t̸̺̱̦̝͖̣̥̦̠̩̝̱̆̒̆̐͗́́̆͆̓̅͋̚̚͝ ̶̺̗̫̻͒̄͘n̶̡̬͕̞̪̬͋̍͌̀̌̃͗́̿̏̐̏͛͐̿̌͘ę̴̺̩̼̰̮̪̞̙̦͕͖̹̞̜̗͊ͅe̷̟͐̽̾̓̅͛̓̃͊́̈́́̆̕͘͝͝d̵̡̛̼͉̣̥̙͇̱̲̫̰̍͊̂̎ͅͅs̴̙͎̮̝̯͙̖̜͍͙̐̑̐̓͠ ̶̟̻̫̩̾̇̊̒̈̾̅̒̏̾͛̄̊̔̏̆̒ͅt̵̛͍̒͆̐̅̅̿̍̊̃͆̆͌̑̕̚͠ȍ̸̡̡̧̙͍̼̰̙̮̗̼̦̲͖͙̆͌̃̒̾̀̑͒͝ ̷̨̞̜͉̹͓̒̈́̈́́̎̍͑̂̋̿͗̄͘͝͝͝b̴̨̺̙͈̬̻̫͔̲͍̲͇̳͓̫̾̏̽̐̄̄͒̄̽͒̈̕͘͠ę̴̖̺̜̻͍̮̲̣͍̩̭͉̣̉͜ͅ ̶̢̠̼̦̖̹̠̫͚͎̇̀͑̽̓̈́͂͆̉͘̕͠t̵̨̪̠͍͓̓̈́ͅơ̵̝̫͖̽͗͗̊͊̉̽̀͂͗͂͘͝͝g̶̈́͑̔̊̈́̊̅̽̾̍͛̾̅̄͜͝͝͝ȩ̸̗͕̹̠̳̩͈̞̹̫̭̞͗̅̀̉͊̀̈́̽̏̈́t̵͓̲̉̆̈́́͛͋ḩ̵̡̢̳͙̼̐̌̂̂̈́́̑̚e̶̛̮̩̣͗͑̕r̷̢̪̥̹̦̭̲̺̈́͌͌̌̈̿͘͠ͅ.̶̨̢̛̮̪̙͈̗̭̬̭͈̤̊̉̌̉́͐̎̀̂̚̕͝͠ ̴̛͔̹͙̦̝͚̞̭̖̽̑̀̿̽̏͂̏̄͌̇̋͋Ę̸̺̳̩̲̈̊̏̌̏͑̒̑͊̋͗̌͘n̷̢̛̼̙͉̆́̃̋̀̇͛̊̃̋͋̂ͅd̶̫͋̔̎̽̄̄̀͑̑̓̀̕͘ ̸̮̻͉̟͎̖̱̣̃̆̆͜ͅt̶̺͇̣͈͖̬̣͉̜̃̈̾̌h̵͖͊̒̄͊̑̓̃͑͆̍̐͛͌̚ḙ̶̫̪͙͉͍̤̂̆̊̒̈́͊́͝͝͠͝ͅ ̸̢̡̢̫̼͇͖̻̘̬͉̻͈̊d̴͖̗̄̽͛̔̍́͛͐͘͠ȩ̸̲͓̲̋̂̀́̐͛m̷̧̧̲̟͓̹̠̟͇͇̙̖̩͋͌͋́̉̆͒̊͒̽̋̅̀̀̚õ̴̡͕͐̅͑͗̒̏͆̃͜͝͝n̴̡̡͓̙̖͔͙̝̮̰͒͊̾̈̍̊̅͛̊͐̐̏͝s̴̡̧̠̬̭̭̺̬͔͖̻̦̐̎̊̌͋̍͗̈́̄̕͠ Ŝ̵̝̯͑͜á̸̠͎͝v̸͓͍̱̔͒̕ẹ̷̜͑ ̴͚̯̹̰͐̋h̸̞̗̍͆͘͠è̶̮̣͛̓̚r̸̤̀.̴̧̨͍͕̟̦̣͇̪̯̬̦͍͉̝̣̮̿́̓ ̵̛̛̛͓̭̘̯̜̱͉͙̂̽̌̅͐͂͆̊̓̑̚̚Y̵̨̘̍̌̿̃͑̆̇̿͝ǫ̷̡͈̹̭͈̈́͛̆͐͒͊̂̊̾͜͠͝u̸̧̢͊̃̈́́͊͘͜͜ ̶̡̹̯̤̻̫̯̦́̈́̃̑͆̓́͌̑̔́͌̈́̃͘̕͘m̸̢̢̙̤̩͉̰͉̯̳͉̤̝̪̏͐͋u̴̧̱͍̮͚̙̞̼̗̤̘͇̹͕̗̘͕̕͝s̶͚͈͚̣͖̘͕̯̦̗̝͔̭͇̲̳̲̉͌͌̿̊̍̍̓̐̽̃͝t̷̢͉͉͇̪͍̮̳̙̥͕̮̠̞͙̼̞̏͆̎̌͒̒̐̇̑́͝ ̵̨̘͍̤̟͌̐͑̄w̸̢̲̖̝͖̜͊͊i̴͎̗̰̍̕͜͝n̶̛̮̣͈̯͍̯̗͉͎̝͖͉̭͊̋͒̑̔͐͋̎́̀̇̈́͋̈́̄̕.̸̛̺̩̣̖̘̠͓̯̲̘͎͙̆̇͂̉͗͜͝ ̶̡̡̨̧̘̳̜̖͇̪̤͓͔̮̏̈́̇̆̓̐̌͊̎̀̈̔͆̆̃

She knows that! Knows that she needs to win, needs to save Zoey, but who is her? Who does she need to fight? Who? She’ll do it. For as long as Mira’s been alive, she’s never shied away from a fight. From the feel of bones cracking beneath her fist and her rage coursing through her muscles. 

She can do it this time. This time she won’t be weak.

As she looks out, Zoey’s bodysoulessence shaking and rearranging, Mira makes a promise. The words are still echoing around the infinite void as everything burns and twists and spins.

F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ.̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝

She will fix this. She would save her. 

She swears. 

F̷̨̪̖̜͎͕̖͗̏͐͛̈́̐͗̕͜į̸̡̡̡̱̖̲̲̠̖͊̈́̂̀͆̽͜͠g̸̛̫̼̰̮͙̦̹̝̫̞͗̉͋̔͋̀̽͌͊͝h̸̡̬̩͈́́͐̊́͠͝t̵͚͇̹̃̂̾̈́͊̚ ̷̲͐͂̈̋̈͗ḧ̷̢̘́͑̈e̷̙̯̼̲͔̍̿̐͝͝r̴̡̠͚̹̩̺̙̰̀̔̎̂́.̶̡͈͉̜̬͎̠͕̟͔͎̙̬̘̗͉͑̓̾̀̈́͜ ̸̧̫͍̰̇S̷̛̰̰̭̤̗̰̭̉͋͆͒̀͌̌͆͊͆́͂̎̒̕͝ţ̶͉̼̰̞͇͙͍̤͈̖̋̎́͐̑̓̿́͜ơ̷̰̙̘̺̫̝̌̌̿̀̾̾͗̇̌̚͘̕͠p̷̡̧̣͚̜͔̖̭̘̯̻̞͓̻̹͑̏̋̄̉̃̾̃̀̚͝ͅ ̵̛̟̫͖͈̖̦̣͚̣̿́̆̃̋̃̈̔̈̂̕̚̕͠͝G̶̹̠̥̟̺̹͑́͝w̷̡̡̠̤̼͔̩̮͔̥̤̩̣̍̈́̓͋̓̈̅̔̅̀͊̕͘͝i̶̧̧͇̳̲̤̪̼̹̦͈̊̓̋̐-̸̮̍́̌M̸̗̱̤͉̲̋̔ä̸̧̢̛͕̼̺͉̜͈͖͖̮̰̜̫́̓̒́̽͘ͅ.̷̡̡̨̦̦̯̘̟̞̝͙̽͐̌̓̈́̈́́́͜͝ ̸̧̧̧̡̥̳̭͚̠̝̲͍̞̜͎͂̂̋̌͒̎̓̑̏̍̉͊̒S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.̵̢͇̈̑̔̀͑̐̓͝ ̶̢͍͚͙͕̩͇̼̠̾̂̽͛͜ͅF̶̛̙̗͙͓̥̈͘͜i̴̧̛̠̙͈̲̹̼͉̮̠͛̏̀̃͛͐̅̓̍̄͗͒̓͌̓͝ģ̵̮͍̹͉̳̼͙̳͇̯̌̚͜h̷͇̦͈̣̞̫͎̗͆̉͊̈́́̊̋̊̕͝t̸̼̘͉͔̰̃̈́͋͆͠͝͠ͅ ̴̨͙̮̗̥͂̀h̷̡̛̥̗̲̭͖̰̙̻̮͙̩̞̮̱͍̟͒̈̏̈́̄̄͋̽̃́͋̅̆͠e̵̛̛̥̝͖͕̪͓̥͓͛̉̒̈́͑̂̈́̽͆̐̈̑͆̕͠ͅr̵̛͚̱̹̞̟̋̑͆̽̒͐̐̃̒̈́͒͑̆̕.̸̨̙͓͚̥̣̙̬̻̫̍͋͂͒̏̈́̑͗̏͌͜ ̶̪͉̂̈̂͑̄̀̑̓̽̒̀̀͝͠T̶̢̨͙͓̫̖̙̣̰̙͕͖̤̪̮̣̉͛̆͒͋͝ͅơ̸͍͓̳͛̅͆̎͐̋̌͛͌́̒̀̈͝g̶͈͎̙̝̭͕̮͉̳͕̺̏̓̄̔͜ͅͅḝ̵̦̹͖͖̩͖͈̫̞̑̅̋̿̊̆̈́̈͘͜͠t̴̡̫͚͍̟̀̎̉̈́́̃̀̑̇̿̃̆͑͋͝h̶̤̟̓̊͛̈̍̌̾͂̈͌̔͆͊̈́͝e̸̢̼̯̰̺͚͙͔͍̦̅̈́̆̿̿̎̀͛̋́͆͘ȓ̴̛̗͈̯̯̻̙̻̦̞͋̀̉̿́͌͆̈͑͂̊͂̏͝ ̶̢̡̛̻͈̘̱̟̙͔̻̯̭̏̓͛͊͗͘ḯ̵̡͚̝͖̋̊̅̃̓́̿̓̈́̍͊t̸̺̱̦̝͖̣̥̦̠̩̝̱̆̒̆̐͗́́̆͆̓̅͋̚̚͝ ̶̺̗̫̻͒̄͘n̶̡̬͕̞̪̬͋̍͌̀̌̃͗́̿̏̐̏͛͐̿̌͘ę̴̺̩̼̰̮̪̞̙̦͕͖̹̞̜̗͊ͅe̷̟͐̽̾̓̅͛̓̃͊́̈́́̆̕͘͝͝d̵̡̛̼͉̣̥̙͇̱̲̫̰̍͊̂̎ͅͅs̴̙͎̮̝̯͙̖̜͍͙̐̑̐̓͠ ̶̟̻̫̩̾̇̊̒̈̾̅̒̏̾͛̄̊̔̏̆̒ͅt̵̛͍̒͆̐̅̅̿̍̊̃͆̆͌̑̕̚͠ȍ̸̡̡̧̙͍̼̰̙̮̗̼̦̲͖͙̆͌̃̒̾̀̑͒͝ ̷̨̞̜͉̹͓̒̈́̈́́̎̍͑̂̋̿͗̄͘͝͝͝b̴̨̺̙͈̬̻̫͔̲͍̲͇̳͓̫̾̏̽̐̄̄͒̄̽͒̈̕͘͠ę̴̖̺̜̻͍̮̲̣͍̩̭͉̣̉͜ͅ 

̶̢̠̼̦̖̹̠̫͚͎̇̀͑̽̓̈́͂͆̉͘̕͠t̵̨̪̠͍͓̓̈́ͅơ̵̝̫͖̽͗͗̊͊̉̽̀͂͗͂͘͝͝g̶̈́͑̔̊̈́̊̅̽̾̍͛̾̅̄͜͝͝͝ȩ̸̗͕̹̠̳̩͈̞̹̫̭̞͗̅̀̉͊̀̈́̽̏̈́t̵͓̲̉̆̈́́͛͋ḩ̵̡̢̳͙̼̐̌̂̂̈́́̑̚e̶̛̮̩̣͗͑̕r̷̢̪̥̹̦̭̲̺̈́͌͌̌̈̿͘͠ͅ.̶̨̢̛̮̪̙͈̗̭̬̭͈̤̊̉̌̉́͐̎̀̂̚̕͝͠ ̴̛͔̹͙̦̝͚̞̭̖̽̑̀̿̽̏͂̏̄͌̇̋͋Ę̸̺̳̩̲̈̊̏̌̏͑̒̑͊̋͗̌͘n̷̢̛̼̙͉̆́̃̋̀̇͛̊̃̋͋̂ͅd̶̫͋̔̎̽̄̄̀͑̑̓̀̕͘ ̸̮̻͉̟͎̖̱̣̃̆̆͜ͅt̶̺͇̣͈͖̬̣͉̜̃̈̾̌h̵͖͊̒̄͊̑̓̃͑͆̍̐͛͌̚ḙ̶̫̪͙͉͍̤̂̆̊̒̈́͊́͝͝͠͝ͅ ̸̢̡̢̫̼͇͖̻̘̬͉̻͈̊d̴͖̗̄̽͛̔̍́͛͐͘͠ȩ̸̲͓̲̋̂̀́̐͛m̷̧̧̲̟͓̹̠̟͇͇̙̖̩͋͌͋́̉̆͒̊͒̽̋̅̀̀̚õ̴̡͕͐̅͑͗̒̏͆̃͜͝͝n̴̡̡͓̙̖͔͙̝̮̰͒͊̾̈̍̊̅͛̊͐̐̏͝s̴̡̧̠̬̭̭̺̬͔͖̻̦̐̎̊̌͋̍͗̈́̄̕͠.̴̧̨͍͕̟̦̣͇̪̯̬̦͍͉̝̣̮̿́̓ ̵̛̛̛͓̭̘̯̜̱͉͙̂̽̌̅͐͂͆̊̓̑̚̚Y̵̨̘̍̌̿̃͑̆̇̿͝ǫ̷̡͈̹̭͈̈́͛̆͐͒͊̂̊̾͜͠͝u̸̧̢͊̃̈́́͊͘͜͜ ̶̡̹̯̤̻̫̯̦́̈́̃̑͆̓́͌̑̔́͌̈́̃͘̕͘m̸̢̢̙̤̩͉̰͉̯̳͉̤̝̪̏͐͋u̴̧̱͍̮͚̙̞̼̗̤̘͇̹͕̗̘͕̕͝s̶͚͈͚̣͖̘͕̯̦̗̝͔̭͇̲̳̲̉͌͌̿̊̍̍̓̐̽̃͝t̷̢͉͉͇̪͍̮̳̙̥͕̮̠̞͙̼̞̏͆̎̌͒̒̐̇̑́͝ ̵̨̘͍̤̟͌̐͑̄w̸̢̲̖̝͖̜͊͊i̴͎̗̰̍̕͜͝n̶̛̮̣͈̯͍̯̗͉͎̝͖͉̭͊̋͒̑̔͐͋̎́̀̇̈́͋̈́̄̕.̸̛̺̩̣̖̘̠͓̯̲̘͎͙̆̇͂̉͗͜͝ ̶̡̡̨̧̘̳̜̖͇̪̤͓͔̮̏̈́̇̆̓̐̌͊̎̀̈̔͆̆̃Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿    ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝ 

Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿    ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝ 

̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̖̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜

̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜Ȉ̴̡̱̯͎͚̟̯̭̹̰̦̺̣͎̌̒͂̊̐̿̚͜t̷̨̧̢̧̘̙̯̳͍̳̲͉̪̯̳̋̅̍ ̴̖̺̝̏̇ẖ̵̡̛̤̮̼͈̟̯̮̘̳̰̓̌͂̒͋̍̓̂̌̄͑̽ù̶̠̠̘̭̻̌̐̈́̚r̸͙̕ṭ̴̱̪̞̙͓̠̣̠̍s̴̨͔͙̺̩̫̩̭̗̥͍̗̗̫̃͛͋̃͌͆́̑͒͘͝.̴̝͎̣̪͚̝̳̻͇͔͎̀͜ ̴̤͈͚̖͍̠͊̅̾̉͝ͅİ̸̛̼̈́̆̑̾̀̋̄͆̕ť̶̛̛͔͕̠̙͎̐͂͋̅͛̃̈͑̕͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̬̹̇͋̎͊ȟ̸̡̨͈͉̥̝̣͚͙̬̯͆̈̇̃͘̕ͅü̸̧͍̯̲͕̏̈́͂̈r̵͚͙͗͌͒͆̄̈́̾̉͠t̷̢̺͖̠̻̬̬̹͐̆́̈̆̓͘͜͝ṡ̵̡̝͍̞̝̚.̸̤̙̲͌͐̋̓͗̿̋͊̋͐̀̾̋̕ ̷̩̺̺̜̞̭̪̆̏̿̔̋̽̏̀͠T̶̖̰͉̲͓͖̞̥͈̞͔̫͍̣͗̃ŗ̴̡͎͎̭͙̻͚͕̈́͂̾́̌̿̕ŷ̷͎̤̮͈̺͔̹͎̊̽͒̀͗͆̽̒ͅ ̸̩̘͔̟̩̯̝͆͋̈́̚͝a̸̡̖͔͓̤̱̝̼̣̻̳͌̿͗͑̄̑̇̈͌͑̇͘g̶̡̤̬̝͕͎̞̹͈͙̈́ǎ̷͚̖̠̻̣̱̹̺̭͓̹̹̣͈͊͗̈́͌i̵͙̣͔͍͋̀̓́̂̓̄͛̐͑̕n̸̡̫̰̩̼̫̳̲͖̥̹̗̻͆͌̾̅̊͘.̷̢̛̼͎̰̤̪͉ ̵̛̯̠͎̦͍͈͚̙̈͜͝Ỳ̸̡̧̦̗̳͈ơ̸͉̭̰͕͕̞̠̤͕̩͍͌͆̈̑̆̿̽̿̅͘̚̕͝ͅụ̸͎̲͍͎͕͔̻̥͚̪̾̿̈́͛̅̀͆͊̈́̋̔̈́̇ ̶̨̭̗̙͇̲̲̒͗̊n̵̛̲̘̩̼̰͚̯͓̮̫͒̂̈́̓͛̋͌̔̆̚͝e̴̡̧̢̛̹͕̥̻̰̥̗͍̱̣̪̓͑͑̀̾͑̇̀̀͠͠é̵̢̨̡̺̗͇͕̜͚̫̙̭̗̕͜d̶̛̻͍̝̩̥̯͈̰̮͖̲͖͓͔̫̂͋̎̍̀̈́͆̽̓̎́̀̎̚ ̵̢̨̡̼̖̺̮͓̥̦̲̯̹͓̒̆̀̎̂͊̅̀̀͊̿̕͝͠t̷̨̢̥̻̻̰̗̓̈͒̋̓̅͋̉̕ō̴͉̹̹͕̰͚̰͇̪̋͒͌͋̊ͅ ̵̞̬̄̒̆̐̀̂̃̎̚w̸̛̠̥͖̤̘̤̲͕͒̔̎̏̈́͐̄̊̓͠͠͠͝i̵̬̟̭̼̞͇̦̠̾ͅn̷̡̪͔͙̗͈̥̰͌́̉̏͝.̸̢̧̘̻̫͖̺̠̄̓͗̂̐͛͌͊̈́͘͘͝͝͝͝ ̵̛̱͚̭̯̣̖̰̈̄́͝T̶̩̹̱͚͓̩̗̅͗̔̾̌̆̋̄͑̎͘͜ò̶̧̧̞̤̱̙̰̺̥̱̙ͅģ̷̡͎̆̂̍̇e̶̡̙̥̖̳͆͑͂̏̓͛̉͗͘ͅẗ̷̨͙̣̞́̿̽͋̄̌͗̋͘ḧ̸̨̧̞͓̣̘͇̫̦̪͈̦͔́̇͌͐̇̍̾̍̃͒͗̚̚e̷̡̻̙̪̺͒r̵̛̠̱̘̙̳͉̼͉͓̈́̈́̆͆̀́͊̽̇͛̍̏͠.̶̜͎̦̲̪̲̲͇͙̅͑̂̑̋̃̈́͘͝ͅ ̴̖̥̣͎̹͈͙̩͚͖́̓̂̓W̵͕͓̭̱̅́͗͐̽̕͝į̵̧̢̟̖̦͈̥͖̲̟̯̳̣̽ͅn̸̛̛̳̭̟̖͇̟̤̉̏͜ͅ ̴̛͉̠̟̪̹̻͔̮͖̟̱͕̍̓͌͐̋́̓̋̇̏̈̌ͅt̸̨̛͉̜̗̖́̋͌̃̒̊̚͝ͅơ̷͎͇͖͕͚̫̰̜͉̹͖̒̈́̑͋́̽̑̓̑͆̓͜͝g̶̨̧̛̱͉̻͉͓̱̗̮̙̰̏͆̐́̍̊̊͘̕ḛ̷̡͈͍̦̟̟͚̘̘͈͉͐̆̈́͂̈̂͗̎̆̌̿ͅţ̸͓̟̩̲̝̯̱̂̀̽̎̓̃͂̄̔̇ḩ̴̛̲̝͉̯̗͎̮͈̱͒̄͆͋̍̊̏̀̂̚͠e̶͓͙͇̠͇̣̗̬̬͕̥̼̙̝̬̾ṛ̵̨̡̪̗̦̰͉̯͍̒̈́̀́̏̕.̷̡̡̧͖̮̰͓̳͇̭̣̺̽͜ ̴̠͙͛̽̋̀͒̂͆́̐̉͘ ̴̹́Ì̶̢̡̠͍̾́͐̂͒̇̽̏͗̃̿̚͝ ̴̡̠́̀̄̉w̷̡̧̙̲̺̺̝͌̊̓͛̈̈̾̂͑̚a̵̛̻͌͆́s̸̡̨̭̭̯͉̽̓̈́̒̃̿    ̷̨̖̠̮̭̗̣̠̝̼͉͖̍̔͐̃̚͜w̸͕̭̣͎̞̄ŗ̷͉̳̫̲̙̬͔̠̬̞̦̮̬̳̐ó̷͚̻͎̦̤̩̦̼̲̊̆ņ̴̯̘̲̝̩̺́͌̍͘ģ̷̰͔̙͚̗̖̾͒͌͆̏̿̽̑͝ ̸̢̢̢͇̮̰̗͙͔̈́̈́̒͝ͅẅ̶̦̮̥̟̤̲͕̟͍̀̐̀͝r̶̞̺̗͍̬̳̙̩̪̫̜͉͚̄͜o̸͇̰̜͚͓͍̖̺̠͙̿̂̈͝n̴̨̧̨̳̗̺̞̙̩̣̘̗̟̲̐g̶͎̽͊̀̓̓́͛͝͝ 

̴͖̟̲̱̖̜̯̖͚̟̖̟̎̒͆́̀͋͋̐̾͌̔̆̚͜͠w̵͓̤͓͉͚̱̗̣̩͓̟̞͉̰̯̍̈́̔̓̀̿͐̀̕͝ř̸̨̢̹̼̠̪̦͖͎̥̤͒̽̽̀͐͋̑ͅo̸̡̨̞̺̝̪̟͓̦̲̺̺̓̏̈́̐͒̂̐̊̾̇͘͘͜ǹ̷̨͕̼̯͍̲̄̍͌̈́́͌̐͒͘͘g̶̨̩͖̩͉͚̣̬͚͐͊̿͛͒̐͐́͊͜ ̸̗͙̺̰͕̟̣̤̤̈́̍͠w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̶̧̤͕͍̝̼̘̫̫̔̓̅̾͘̚͝ͅ ̸̡̰̪̠̭̤̙͉͖̪͚͎̞͒͐̈́́̈́̌̆͐͌͜͜S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ǎ̴̱͗̀̉̐̎̊̍̓́͛̂́g̸̛̛͍̥̻̹̘̜̞̥̳͒̀̔̃̅̊̐̿̑͝͝ä̴̧̧̱̱̖̣̖̬͚̯̓͗̓̾̆̚͜͜ỉ̸̛͍͉̙̭͓̠̻̼͍͂̊ͅn̴̡̢͔̥̰̼̜̟̳͍͇̜̲̑̉̍͒͒s̴͔̞̘̳͔̥̬̹͍̑̀̈̎̏̊͒͊t̵͎̳͔͕̉ ̷̪̖̗̾̿̅͂̾̋̒̕ͅ

S̷̤͙̘̪̗̭̩̩̤̣̋̈́̉̐̄̎̀͊̈́̓͂͋̀͘͘͠͝t̸̢̟̜̦̜̫̖̥͓͇̖̒͒͛̃̿̕̕͝ͅò̵̪̎̔͒̈́̈͒̕͝͠ṗ̸̮͇͕̯̘̩́͗͝͝ ̴̱̰̪̮̱̓̔̀̄́h̸̨̫̙̮͚̰̘̺͈̖̞̱̠̙̗̺̎̓̑̈́̊̅̉̉̕i̷̟̬̞̰̠̪̙̖̦̭͑̏̎̿̈́͆́̄͗̌̇̓͒ͅͅm̴̗̬̭͂̒͒̍̍͆̈́̓̒͐͐̿͘͘̕͜͝.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̌̎.

w̴̹͔͓̘̱̟͓̫͖̩͆͑̓́̀͗̊͜͝͝r̸͎̿̑͌̾̽̈́̚͠͠o̵̱͚̭͉̜̤͎̒͌̄̎̈́̌̈́̂̕̕ň̴͔͎̝̤͍̞̘͐͊̓̿̋̽̔̎͛̐́͂́͜͠ġ̸̲̤̰̜̻͍͚̬̻̰͔̈́̄̔͗̓͋͆̇̾̍̍͛͜͝ ̶̧̢̞͓̟̫̻̣̞̳̮̙̭̱͉͒͆̑́͆͌͘ẃ̵̛̱̙̫̺͎̀̑̎̐̀͝r̵̨̺̰̎̂͌̿͊̑̕͝͝ŏ̷̢̧̩͎͓̚n̴̮̬̙͙͔͖̠͓͕͎̭͖͙̄ͅg̴͈̃̍͗͑̾͐̿̾̈̏́̔͠.̴̦̬̩̘̩͈̺͆̋̑̽̕͘ F̸̙̗͇̻̻̂̈́̇̌i̶͖͎͔̤̺̞͓̗̘͍̿̒͌̋̈̔͂͌͝g̶̨̢͎̞̥̥̮̞̀̒͊͒͂͐̄ͅh̷̢̲͕͉̯̼͊̐t̶̤̦̹̯̝̺͊́̚ ̴͈̞̤̫͈̖̌̎ḧ̵̡̥̣͈͚͎͚̳́̉̽ͅē̶͈͋r̷͓͇̱̾̐͒͑̈́̒̎͝͝͝.

When Zoey opens her eyes, the immediate next thing she does is open her mouth. 

Vomit comes spewing out. White bile and whatever was left of her pre-show ramyeon. Her hands press against her face frantically, clawing and grasping at soft, warm skin. Her eyes are wide, unblinking. Pupils dilated.  

Vaguely, she hears the sound of wretching to her right. 

‘Good ,’ a miserable voice hisses in her ear, ‘ at least Mira’s here too.’ 

Zoey’s throat burns as acid continues to travel out of her body, her abs spasming from the force of her heaves.

 ‘What was that? — what-what the actualfucking — godGod..was that God? — fuck-wh — ’

“Zoey,” a raspy voice pulls her from her spiral, “are-are you okay?” 

Mira sounds as miserable as Zoey feels, and she can’t help the surge of bitterness that courses through her at the sound of the dancer’s voice. 

‘She left you, abandoned you, you died, you were gone, you definitely—that had to have been death? Right? Some kind of afterlife?’ Zoey's mind was fraying at the edges. Somehow, they were back. But… back where? 

She ignores the pink-headed girl ( for what is probably the first time in her life) and instead looks around. Immediately, she knows where they are. A chill crashes through her, shaking her bones and leaving her with her hand pressed to her lips. 

They’re back under the stage. 

Back where Rumi had left them. 

(Or had they left Rumi?) 

(Or had they never had her at all?) 

They’re back. They’re alive. They’re together (almost). 

They get to try again. 

Zoey feels a swell of hope begin to build in her chest. 

They can do this. They can stop Gwi-Ma. They can save the Honmoon. They can win. They can fight him. They just need to find Rumi and they can—

“Zoey!” The sound of her name snaps her into focus. For the first time since waking up, she fully registers the girl who had woken up alongside her. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, time stands still. Tears are flowing like a river down Mira’s face, silent and awestruck. The tall girl is staring at her like a lost woman might stare at an oasis in the desert, desperately, frantically. 

She doesn’t know who reaches out first. All she knows is that, in seconds, they’re caught in each other’s arms. Shaking. ‘I’m sorries’ and ‘I forgive yous’ bleed together in the fervent chant they’ve begun. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except each other, stopping Gwi-Ma, and saving the world. 

(And finding Rumi)

The two girls slowly pull apart, hands still clasped and shaking from the feeling of being brought back to life, and brought back in time.  

They both speak at the same time. 

“We need to beat Gwi-Ma!” 

“We need to get Rumi!”

They freeze. Mira's brows come together, immediately at a loss. 

Zoey, always the quickest with words, is the first to respond. 

“Didn’t you hear the Honmoon? We need to do this together!” Her voice echoes around the stone basement in disbelief. 

“No, didn’t you hear the Honmoon? What we” Mira pulls up their conjoined hands, attempting to emphasize her point, “need is to fight Gwi-Ma! People are going to die, Zoey, they probably already have! And besides, Rumi left!” 

“We forced her too, and so did you!” 

Mira winces at the dark haired girl’s words “We don’t know where she is!” 

“So we’ll track her down! Besides she—”

“Zoey, we don’t have time to do both and—”

“—could be in trouble, the Honmoon said we would—” 

"—save everyone we don't even know where we are, please—"

"—have to work together to win so we—"

“—I can’t do it, I can’t fight her, please don’t make me — ”

“ —need to save her!”

They both froze. Zoey inhales, her eyes crease in anger and disbelief. Mira can sense the change in the air, can sense that she’s made some mistake. 

“...fight her?” Zoey rips her hands away and gets to her feet “Why would we ever fight Rumi?” 

And now it’s Mira’s turn to gaze in disbelief. 

She can feel her eyebrows furrow as she follows her up. ‘Why would we…’ 

“Zoey,” she starts hesitantly, “what… what did you hear the Honmoon say?” 

“It,” the young girl’s eyes flash in confusion as tears, and a hint of something else creeps just at the edge of her vision, “it said that… that it was 'wrong,' and that we would need to ‘save her.’ That we would need to ‘fight Gwi-Ma,’ 'together' and 'win.' I didn’t really get the…the other parts.” Her voice trails off at the end, betraying the lie woven into her last few words. 

Zoey, always hopeful, always the optimist, always the  terrible liar. 

“It said,” Mira gulps back a fresh wave of bile, “that it had chosen wrong, and that we needed to fight together, that we needed to ‘fight her.’” 

“It can’t mean her, Mira!” 

“Zoey! She’s a demon , you saw it with your own eyes!” 

“But she’s Rumi!” Mira had never heard their lyricist ever sound so miserable. Her voice cracked on their leader’s name,

But it's not that simple, and Mira won't be the bad-guy when she's just trying to protect everyone. “I know! Don’t you think I get that! I know it's Rumi!” Mira looks away. She knows herself. Knows how deep her love for the purple-haired singer has clawed itself into her. When the universe remade her, it left this yearning, undeniable, love inside of her. It had left Rumi behind in her DNA, in each eyelash and scar. 

She could never fight her. 

“That’s why we need to try and end Gwi-Ma ourselves,” she grits out, trying to get Zoey to understand. 

Because she knows what the Honmoon, what fate, wants from them. And she refuses to give it to them. 

Rumi might be a demon, might be a liar. The Honmoon might have chosen wrong. 

But Mira doesn’t care. 

She just needs for Rumi to stay away. So she doesn’t have to do what destiny, what duty demands. 

As she stares into Zoey’s teary eyes she can tell that the girl is close to giving in. She can see it in the way her shoulders curl forward, the way her gaze drops. 

Always the peacemaker, the discussion was over before it had even begun. 

“Okay,” the younger girl whispers, “we’ll try it your way. But after, after Gwi-Ma is gone, we’re finding her.”

Mira lets out one long, hissing exhale, gratitude nearly taking her back to her knees. 

“Yeah,” she swears, and prays that the cosmos won’t make a liar of her, “after, we’ll find her. I promise.”  

“First, though” she continues as her resolve hardens, her body beginning to itch for a fight, for something to hit, “we put out that flaming pile of demon garbage.” 

“Let’s get to the stadium,” Zoey answers back, just as ready to save the world. And, as if the world itself is responding to her request, a bright white light flashes, and the two huntresses are gone.

Mira blinks, fighting a wave of vertigo for the second time that day ( days? (how do you count time spent outside of time)).

“Jesus—what, what was that” and it’s like deja-vu as she takes in her surroundings. This warp isn’t quite as bad as the one that brought her back from the brink of oblivion. But it still isn’t great.

“We’re here,” Zoey whispers, fear and awe weighing the two words down. 

All around them, thousands of people are marching mindlessly forward. From their vantage point, the highest point in the stands, they find themselves just outside of the Saja Boys' view but with a good look of everything happening below. 

They watch as Gwi-ma swells and grows with every body falling like stringless-marionettes into his gaping maw. The Saja Boys are halfway through a song that tingles at Mira’s memory. 

They were singing it when—

(‘we all hate you, and you know it.’

(flames)

‘Unworthy,’ 

(heat)

‘Unlovable’ 

(waves of bodies all around)

‘Untrustworthy’) 

—she shakes herself quickly from the memory, and from the voice that she can hear attempting to pull her down into the stadium. 

From the looks of her haunted expression, Zoey remembers too. 

Mira has no idea how they got there, but she knows they need to act quickly. 

With every passing second, she sees how Gwi-Ma gets stronger, how each soul is both a life lost and an addition to his demon army. 

She just… has absolutely no idea what to do. 

God, she was never the planner. This wasn’t supposed to be her job!

(Rumi would know what to do, she always knew knows knew knows what to do / until you have to kill her / kill her to save Zoey / to save yourself / you heard the Honmoon / it choose wrong / chose you wrong / chose her wrong / she’s a demon / she’s a liar / you swore to kill all demons / she never loved you / Celine taught you all / they’re not people, not human / she’s Rumi and you love her you could never / if it came down to it, the world or her, which would you pick / what would you do / time is ticking / Mira  needs to pick needs to pick / Rumi or the world / Zoey or Rumi / the three of you or everyone else )

Because there is a third option. 

She knows there is. 

The world may be ending, but the three of them knew how to kill demons. They could survive. 

Just them. On the run. Together.

The three of them or everyone else. 

She was sick just considering it. What kind of selfish monster would pick the loves of their life over every other human being, every man, woman, and child. 

‘You’ an acrid hiss whispers in her own voice, ‘you would. And it scares you.’ 

Mira swallows, focusing back on the demon popstars and literal embodiment of evil in front of her. 

Yeah. It does. 

Which is why this needs to work. She and Zoey need to be enough. They need to win this. Together. 

Their eyes lock with one another. Within a few minutes, they’ve come up with the bare bones fossil of a plan. Start with the Saja Boys, try to win the crowd back, try to build back enough of the Honmoon to push Gwi-ma back down, and then deal with the stragglers. 

Just the…just the two of them. 

So what if all of their songs were three part harmonies? 

It doesn’t need to be perfect. Doesn’t even need to be pretty. 

It just needs to work. 

With one last breath, the two peer over the ledge, and jump. At the motion, the Saja Boys glance up, wicked smiles curling their way across each of the faces Mira once thought were so beautiful. 

It was all fake. Demons could do that. Pretend to be something they weren’t. 

(Pretend to be gorgeous) 

(Pretend to love you back) 

Gwi-ma’s laughter rings across the stadium at the sight of them. His flames flare, and it almost seems as if the pile of hellfire has eyes that turn to follow their falling figures, dropping into the fray like meteors. 

Like shooting stars begging to be wished on. 

Mira feels the heat pulse around her, almost suffocating in its intensity. She’s ready. 

She is. 

And. 

Midair. 

Time. 

Stops. 

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

The second time Zoey opens her eyes is less jarring than the first, but still unpleasant. 

She still has no idea what happened, still feels like particles and molecules have been put back in the wrong place, still has this unpleasant wrongness clinging to every inch of her. 

But at least she isn’t throwing up. 

To her right, she hears the telltale gulp before—

“Hlueghhhh.”

  Mira, unfortunately, is still adjusting.  

Still, the tall woman manages to get herself together quickly, pulling herself up with the grace of an international dance icon. 

Her left hand wipes the leftover bits of vomit from the corner of her mouth. Also gracefully.  

“I don’t understand,” Zoey starts, “we hadn’t—at least I don’t think we did—I mean we were…” 

“We didn’t die that time” Mira shakes her head, “I don’t get it. We didn’t even get the chance to fight him!” 

“...Maybe we have to be…quicker? This time?” Zoey adds, disbelief coating her tone but then again, she’s never been one to shy away from an unlikely suggestion. 

Mira shakes her head, confusion and a touch of anger finding its home in her expression. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Mira is almost in a daze, “why would it reset us? Why when we didn’t even get to try?” 

Zoey simply shakes her head. She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know anything about this whole timetravel, bringing people back from the dead, killing the king of demons without the one person who normally makes crazy things like this make sense business. 

She couldn’t even fix a sore throat. 

But what Zoey has in spades, in bucketsful—is hope. 

The raw, unwavering audacity of it. 

So the Honmoon isn’t going to make this easy? 

Fine. 

Because at the end of the day, the end of the world is the only thing standing between her and her family. 

Mira, herself, and Rumi. 

Her soulmates. 

And so screw her if she believes in things like that, in destiny and hearts tied together, and love lasting beyond even the grasp of death itself. 

Crazier things have happened today. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Zoey hardly recognizes her own voice as it escapes from her throat, flat and unyielding, “it doesn’t change what we have to do. We need to go back, try again.” 

Mira looks lost. And it’s so rare, for her groupmates to reach for her for what to do. But in that moment, all Zoey has is resolve, knives made of starlight, and a dream.

With a deep breath and a wish, the two huntresses hold on to one another and get ready to try again. 

‘Take us to the Stadium,’ Zoey wishes with eyes twisted shut, and she prays that she’s right. That this is how this new teleportation thing works. 

In an instant, she opens them again to fire and the first wave of people just cresting the first entrance to the arena. 

They've arrived quicker this time. 

The singing hasn’t even started, but they most likely only have minutes to try and get a better plan together. 

Zoey begins to think aloud. “What if we try to stop people from even getting into the stadium? Stop the fuel and you stop the fire, right?” She’s hopeful, maybe this will work. It has to work. 

Mira shakes away any lingering doubts. It’s worth a shot, at least, and it’s not like they have any better plans.

They draft out another quick strategy, building on pieces of their last one but focusing on getting civilians out of the Saja Boys’ musical grasp. 

Just in case, Zoey reaches up to catch the corner of Mira’s jaw before she can turn away. 

Ever so softly, she plants just the brush of a kiss across her groupmate’s ( and how she wishes she could call her something else, something that meant something, something tender and love filled) perfectly sculpted cheekbone. 

“For luck,” she giggles before turning away, ready to try and save the world. Her lips tingle as she approaches a mass of zombielike fans. 

When she glances back, quickly, not like desperately or anything. Just to check, Mira has just the hints of a flush lighting up the cream-colored planes of her face. 

And the fight is on. 

It’s longer this time, Mira thinks to herself. It’s going better. They’re saving people, fighting back against Gwi-ma and his influence. 

At some point, the Saja Boys split between pulling in souls with their voices to just outright attacking the two huntresses. Mira doesn't care. 

In fact, she likes this better. Quickly, she ducks under a swinging claw, only to come up with the blade of her guandao, nicking Abby’s forearm and sending him flipping away from her with a growl. 

She doesn’t remember how long they’ve been fighting. But it feels like they’re winning. 

Every few minutes she checks for Zoey, checks to make sure she’s okay, that she’s still holding her own. 

(A ghost of lips, petal soft, brushing against her cheek) 

In the midst of a backbend-turned-backflip-kick, Mira feels her face light up. 

‘Later,’ she promises herself, ‘ think about it later Mira. Come on, lock in.’ 

They can do this, just the two of them. 

Them verses Gwi-ma. Them verses the Saja Boys. 

That’s it. 

They don’t need to fight anyone else.

(Especially her, never her)

In a split second, she’s managed to gain the upper hand. Without flinching, her blade cuts through Abby’s neck, his beautiful HIDEOUS head, toppling from his shoulders. 

“Woohoo!” She hears a call from across the stadium, Zoey in all her charm having woken another group of fans all the while dodging every swipe from Baby Saja.

“Nice hit Mira, take ‘em OUT!” She yells in satisfaction, overjoyed at the feel of their plan coming together. 

Gwi-ma is growing still, souls are getting pulled into his grasp, but he is far smaller than the last time Mira and Zoey were unfortunate enough to look into his flames. 

They just need to keep—

“NO!” Zoey screams, taking in the annoying familiar stone and bluish-green haze of the basement. 

“No, no no nononono,” Zoey feels her hands reach up into her hair, nails tugging and pulling at the carefully reset spacebuns. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Zoey—” Mira starts but is immediately cut off. 

“We need to go back, we were so close that time!” Zoey doesn’t hesitate. They just need to be quicker. They can do it. She knows they can do it. 

“TAKE US TO THE STADIUM!” Her voice booms across the space, rage ricocheting off of every syllable. 

The two disappear in a flash of blinding blue and white. 

They reappear on top of the stadium, the marching procession a few meters behind where they were when the two demon slayers had last appeared. 

“This time,” Zoey reaches for her, once again pressing a kiss to the side of her face. This time, it lands just on the side of her mouth.

“We’ll get it this time,” Zoey’s eyes water as she turns away. 

Mira doesn’t look around this time. 

“SEND US BACK!” She can’t be here again, they were so close that time. She could feel it. Zoey had taken out Mystery and Romance within minutes of appearing, catching them both by surprise. 

“Maybe we should—” Mira’s hesitation is drowned out by the rapper’s guttural screaming, spit flying from the black haired girl’s mouth like a rabid dog. 

Zoey doesn’t want to hear it, she can’t. 

“Take us back, now!” And time and space split themselves apart to meet her demands. 

Over and over, they end up back in the basement. 

“Back, back, we need to GO BACK” Zoey can hardly see. Everything is white and black and red. 

This time, one of the demons manages to catch her through the middle. 

She bleeds and bleeds. 

And bleeds. 

Mira is somewhere, she thinks. 

She doesn’t know. She can’t see. Everything hurts. 

Mira had kissed her this time, gently, atop her forehead. 

“For luck,” she whispered. 

Eventually, they reset. 

Sometimes they manage to kill every Saja Boy, manage to come face to demonic smirk with Gwi-ma, before there’s heat and burning and fire and pain and they’re right back down in that goddamn basement. 

Zoey doesn’t understand.

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Mira opens her eyes crying. 

‘Why won’t you let us win,’ she’s crying and still, she is squaring her shoulders to go back. 

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

“Why,” Zoey’s knees buckle. She barely manages to hold herself up on unblemished palms, each cut and scrape disappearing with each return. 

“Why won’t you let us get back to her ,” She watches as the stone beneath her nose darkens, tears dripping from her nose and into the cement below. 

Her voice is hardly more than a whisper this time. 

“Take us back.”

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠Ą̶̢̛̜̳̩̱̖̞̭͕̘̺̼̝̠̝̋̃̐̏̾̃͌͂̃̅͘g̴̛̛̛͚̀̈́́͆̈́̄̋̚͘ȧ̸̢̛̛̗̗̞̫͚̭͎̪̑̌͗́̆̊̎͑̂̏̍͒̇̉̎̾̿̕͘̚į̴̧̻͉̬̹̘̳͓̯͉̫̥̲̻̞̠̰̂̐̊͒́͒̇͜͜͠͝ņ̵̣̯̳̗͔̰̠̳̪͎̖̤̙̲̻̀̅̆́̌̆̊͛́͒̃͛͂́̏̂̚͜͝͝͠

When Mira wakes this time, the smell of burning flesh and misery still clinging to the inside of her nose, she immediately sits down. She leans forward, resting her forehead on the rigid bumps of her knees. They should be hurting by now, but nothing hurts. She's not even sweaty. They've worked and worked and fought and run and bled and every time she goes right back to normal. 

“I can’t” There’s something broken in her voice this time, “Zoey, I-I can’t do it.” 

“Please, can we please just sit this time, can you just hold me, just for a little bit” She’s begging. She’s begging. Please. Please don’t make her. She doesn’t want to go back. She wants to stay here. She needs to stay here. 

(She needs Rumi, needs her calm and her too-wide smile, and her perfect nails and perfect hair and her lavender scent to wrap itself around her) 

(But Rumi’s a demon) 

(Was she?) 

(Was that real?) 

She can’t even remember what she was mad about. 

They don’t sleep. 

They can’t. 

The sun doesn’t even set. It never does. 

Two twin arms wrap themselves around, holding her shaking form tight. Two self-contained earthquakes rock against one another. Zoey tucked carefully beneath her chin. 

Misery splits their fault lines apart. 

They lay entwined with one another. 

There’s no yelling. 

No demand to return. 

Instead, Mira buries her nose into the crown of Zoey’s head. 

Zoey runs her fingers along the curtain of pink hair scattered across her love’s shoulders. 

Something is missing. 

A body. 

A girl should fit between the two, perfectly, like a puzzle missing the centerpiece. 

She’s not there. 

(She’s never there) 

Their longing bounces between the two, amplifying every second they exist without her. 

“What do you think happens if we just…stay here,” Mira whispers, mouth inches from the lips that had so tenderly brushed against every exposed part of her face. Time, after time, after time. 

But never where she wished. 

“I don’t know, Mira.”

Zoey’s tired. 

She closes her eyes and begs.

She knows no one is listening. 

This time, when Mira opens her eyes, it’s a surprise. 

She resets just feet away from where she had just been laying. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

Why? 

Why did they reset? 

They hadn’t done anything. 

Mira sits back down, landing heavily on the concrete below. None of this is making any sense at all. It doesn’t matter if they go. It doesn’t matter if they stay. How many Saja Boys they kill, how many civilians they manage to save—

It. 

Doesn’t. 

End. 

She doesn’t get it. 

It has to be something. If she could just figure it out then maybe she could fix this. Fix everything. Could make them whole again. It's right there, right at the tip of her— 

“Time.” 

Mira’s eyes freeze open, listening as Zoey stretches out on the ground next to her, the younger girl popping each vertebrae in her back before going boneless across the floor. 

“It’s time-based. I counted, the last…couple of times. We always reset at exactly the same minute from when we reappear down here.”

“That—that’s great!” For the first time in…Mira doesn’t even know how long, she feels like they’re getting somewhere. It’s not much but at least it’s something. 

“No, it’s not great.” 

It’s the most hopeless she’s ever heard the maknae. Her tone, icy and biting, leaves Mira frostbitten. She opens her mouth, then lets her jaw click gently in place. Instead, she waits. Zoey will fill the silence, she knows it. She’s counting on it. 

“It’ll never be enough. The two of us? We’ll never even come close to getting Gwi-ma quick enough. Mira,” Zoey turns her wide, shining eyes towards her, “we need her.” 

If Mira thought she was cold before, the chill that those words cast over her body turns her positively glacial. 

‘No, please.’

(A long purple braid spins around her dancing figure) 

               'Fight                     her'                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                                                                                       'Stop her'

( fangs, black claws, a glowing slit eye) 

                                                                                                                                                           'Wrong           wrong    wrong' 

                                                       'Fight                     her'

(Sparkling teeth stretch into a smile so blindingly bright it used to leave spots in her vision if she stared too long. She always ended up staring too long.) 

                                                                                      'Wrong             I picked      wrong'

( shoulders hunched, spine curved inward like a dying tree) 

                                                    (Abby's head, falling from his shoulders, beautiful, poisonous fake a lie all a lie lie lie lie) 

                                            'Wrong'                                                                                                         

                                                                                                                                                       'You must                         win' 

(‘Mira! Loo-hk, I cauht a snowfla-ge on ma tongue’ laughing, always laughing, beautiful, snowflakes caught in each lash, their first Christmas together) 

( The Honmoon shaking at the sound of her voice) 

Wrong                       wrong                                                                                                                                                  

(Laying out under the stars, three bodies curled into one another, dragonflies whistling across the air. She was teaching them the constellations, naming each individual planet and cluster in sight. The starlight reflected in the warm pools of her eyes. Twinkling. Always the smartest, always perfect, gorgeous —) 

   Wrong                                             

                         wrong   

('You know,' Rumi began hesitantly, and Mira turned to look at the purple haired girl laying across from her, the three of them crashing after a long cardio session with Celine, 'I'm really thankful for you both.'

'I think,' and Mira tried to ignore the way the older girl's voice caught in her throat as she turned that blindingly white smile toward them both, 'no-I know you both are the first friends I've ever made.' 

Mira felt her heart break. Instead of saying something stupid, like 'me too,' or 'I love you,' she just rolled her eyes. 

'And the best,' she finished with a satisfied smile. 

'Mira closed her eyes, anything to ignore the flutter of affection beating its wings behind her sternum and Zoey's squeal of joy, 'Yeah, whatever nerd') 

‘I can’t’ 

‘Please don’t.’

“We need to find Rumi.”

Chapter Text

Rumi’s eyes are opened and she is alone.

She wakes without waking. 

She walks without moving her own two feet. 

Time after time, again and again, she goes through these moments like a puppet on strings, pulled by hands towards a table she has set, into a bed of her own unmaking.  

She thinks: ‘this is hell.’ 

She knows: ‘I deserve it.’ 

Mira closes her eyes and demands with every fiber of her being: 

' Take us to Rumi.'

When nothing happens, she tries out loud. 

"Oh mystical teleporting force in the sky, transport us... to Rumi!" 

Still, nothing. 

Zoey tries instead, her nose scrunching in concentration. 

Mira scoffs and rolls her eyes when the younger girl cracks open an eye to find themselves in exactly the same spot. 

“What, did you think I was suddenly the issue with our super mystical teleportation powers crapping out on us?” 

They try to say it in sync, in case that somehow changes it. 

(They even try to sing it once.

“A little pitchy,” Zoey mumbles. 

“What was that,” Mira glares.

Zoey’s eyes flash innocently up and away, examining something particularly interesting on the ceiling, “nothing!” )

Still, they’re left in same green-yellow lighting on the same concrete floors they’ve grown far too familiar with by this point. 

“I mean...” Zoey starts after a few seconds of awkward silence, “we could try and see if she’s still here?”

Mira lets out a frustrated groan. “Might as well,” she sighs with just a hint of anxiety leaking in at the thought of actually finding her. 

The Honmoon’s words still haunt her, but the idea of resetting in this room again looms like an ever present threat. They cannot live a life inside these walls.

(And Mira cannot live outside of them if she does what fate is demanding of her)

The two of them take off into the depths of the arena’s labyrinth of rooms and hallways. They go door by door, calling her name at every new turn. The space is fairly empty, filled with only a skeleton crew of staff and stadium cleaners, all of whom send heated glares their way as they pass, whispering to one another behind lifted hands. 

The interactions throw them slightly off guard, until they remember that not everyone else has been reliving the same evening over and over and over again. The last thing for all of them was their award performance which, judging by how Rumi had looked running down the stairs, had not gone very… well. 

Every sideways glance has them curling into themselves, quickening their pace as they go from corner to corner, until they’ve checked off every place they can think of. 

“So this was a bust,” Mira takes the time to state the obvious. And if her tone is just slightly sharper than necessary, sue her. This seemingly universal disdain is so not the vibe she’s used to dealing with. Not even the Met Gala organizers were this upset with her after her whole sleeping bag stunt.  

“Well it was worth checking,” Zoey responds with just as tight a tone, wincing as a cameraman mumbles under his breath as he passes them by. She just captures the tail-end of it—

“—ucking bitch.”

‘Ouch,' she wonders, catching Mira’s eye. She knows they’re both thinking the same thing. 

'What did they do on that stage,’

  “I mean, where else could she even be right now?” Mira’s arms cross as she asks, ignoring the elephant in the room in favor of tapping her foot anxiously.  

Zoey takes a second, “Maybe she went home? Back to her room?” 

It’s not a bad idea. Still, their penthouse is clear across town and the only way they're getting there in time is with their newfound Honmoon-powered teleportation.

“You want to give it a try?” Mira asks drily, “since, you know, I could have been doing it wrong last time.” 

“Ha ha,” Zoey rolls her eyes, “I’ll do it.” 

She closes her eyes, visualizes the place she wants to be, and feels the universe twitch in anticipation. 

“Take us home,” she wishes, and when she opens them, her gaze meets a welcome sight. 

(At least they know it works by location now. So, they just need to already know where they want to go. Not as great as just, 'Bam-Rumi!' but still easier than the train.) 

“Oh man,” the two girls lock eyes. “Couch. ” They yearn for the cushions.

But they don’t have time for couch. Not today. 

Instead they turn away and begin their search. 

“Rumi!” they yell, looking for any sign of their purple-haired girl. Her room… the bathroom…their rooms…eleven rows up the wall of the back left corner of their walk-in closet. 

(It was the spot she liked to hide in whenever she needed space, and the spot they both pretended not to know about when she did)

Still, there is no sign of her anywhere in the penthouse. And as the night goes on and magenta fires burn across the city skyline outside of their windows, a new fear starts to permeate the air. 

Both girls had been so worried about finding Rumi, they had never stopped to wonder about whether Rumi wanted to be found. 

Zoey turns to Mira, anxiety pooling  in her dark wide eyes. As she opens her mouth to speak, she feels an all too familiar tug in the pit of her stomach and then suddenly —

Rumi’s eyes are opened and she is alone. 

Here is a secret: the Honmoon is an amalgamation of wills. Of dreams and wishes and hearts coming together. The Honmoon is love made manifest and the Honmoon loves in return. 

It loves its hunters. Chooses them by the shape of their souls. It ties them together in every conceivable way, splits itself into a thread that twists their atoms together. For their suffering, for their work and the lifetime they spend defending the world—the Honmoon grants them each two souls to share eternity with. It frees them from loneliness and gives them two others to carry what it knows is a heavy burden. 

Here is another secret: the Honmoon has loved this little violet-colored girl since her mother’s last dying wish was made on the final threads of her own fading life force, since she willed a heartbeat into a baby that came out quiet and still. 

(An even exchange, a hunter for a hunter, mother for a daughter, a life for a life)

But the Honmoon also loves another girl, a stoic duty-bound daughter who shoulders the weight of being the last of her lovers alive. It had picked her too, had gently threaded her destiny into the hearts of two others. It was meant to be a gift, a promise for love to always be met with love in return. 

It never meant for it to become a curse. For the loss of two of its children to turn into a lifetime of suffering for the other. 

The Honmoon loves its serious little Celine, the last of her era and the last of her Sunlight Sisters.

(There is no one else alive who remembers this, but Celine had been the one to name them. 

“Because you both light up my life,” she had whispered to them in the very training grounds she trained her own hunters in, staring up at a cloudless sky, sweat tracing the curves of a much younger face “like the sun. My sunlight. And, you know, Sisters for the alliteration or whatever.” 

In her heart she knows the truth: Sisters, because 1980s Korea was a very different time and a very different place, and Sisters was the closest Celine would allow herself to dream.) 

Its serious little Celine, who is the only one left and missing two-thirds of her soul. 

The Honmoon loves Rumi, this starving child who would gnaw off her own wrist just to slip from her shackles to reach our for even a scrap of affection. 

The Honmoon loves Celine. 

But the Honmoon loves Rumi. 

And Rumi loves Celine.

And in her own way, Celine has tried to love Rumi.

The Honmoon hurts. It hurts. It does not know why Celine cannot look at this girl with stardust in her veins and tears in her eyes and see anything but the last precious remnants of the woman she loved. 

Or maybe, the problem is that that is all she sees. 

Celine tries to love Rumi and finds that she has only ever loved the wisps of another woman haunting the corners of a little girl’s smile. But when Rumi comes to her, as the Honmoon burns and storm clouds brew, the girl is not smiling. 

Celine’s love had never looked like this, crumbling and clawed, snarling and shaking, twisted like the lightning struck remnants of a gnarled and dying tree. 

In lighting like this, Celine finds that Rumi looks far more like her father.  

This time, Zoey and Mira don’t waste a second. The two girls burst into action, out across every corner of the building, checking every room again in case the last time they had only just barely missed her. 

“Rumi!” they yell, ignoring the searing looks and snide remarks, “Rumi where are you!” 

They’re out of breath by the time they’ve checked the entire space, nerves rattling as they think about anywhere she could be.  

Mira’s eyes light up with manic energy before she clenches them shut. The world flashes white and then suddenly they’re atop a high rise in the heart of Seoul. 

As soon as she takes in their surroundings, Zoey understands. If there’s one thing Rumi loves when she’s stressed, it's running around rooftops like some parkour maniac.

“Split up?” Zoey asks. 

Mira nods, “we’ll find her Zo.” 

And then they’re off, screaming her name into the night air as the world falls apart around them. 

This is what Rumi knows to be true: Zoey and Mira don’t want her. 

Zoey and Mira don’t want her, and she does not want herself, and so she goes to the only other person who might. 

Jinu has disappeared in a puff of smoke (liarbetrayerruinedyourlife) and she is alone and Zoey and Mira don’t want her and she has never wanted herself. 

So she closes her eyes, pictures where she wants to go, and wishes to be with her mother. 

When she opens them, it is Celine who stands before her, and Rumi knows that there is a way. She knows that Celine might be willing to do this for her, might be willing to send her to the only one who could look at the monstrous mess of what she is and see something worthwhile. 

Rumi knows this wish intimately, had whispered it every year lighting incense at her mother’s grave, imagining birthday candles in their place and a brightly wrapped box instead of cold, unyielding stone. In the windchimes she imagined the twinkle of a mother’s laugh and a voice as smooth as honey singing to her. 

(Once, on her seventh birthday, Rumi kneeled upon her mother’s grave and placed her babysoft palms deep into the soil and grass between them and imagined clawing and scraping and digging her way down, imagined how the dirt might feel underneath her nails and wished for the cut of tiny stones against her tiny fingertips. 

She imagined squirming her way down past the worms and the centipedes and the maggots all safely tucked away with their worm and centipede and maggot babies. She imagined tearing them apart with her bare hands into bits and pieces and bloody chunks, staining her hands with the gore of them. And how cruel was that, she would bitterly think, for the universe to have left her so alone that she was jealous of even the worms.

And she would dig and find her mother’s bones and she would wrap them around her in a sick facsimile of a warm embrace and dream that they were flesh instead, cradling her and singing and telling her she was grateful she was alive another year. And they would stay together and she would never be alone again.

The first thing Rumi learned to beg for was love. The second was an open grave. The last is this: for someone to lay her in it. 

Nothing has changed.)

Every aching child wishes for their mother when they need comfort. When they experience their first heartbreak, their first real sting of rejection. When they need someone to love them and tell them everything will be alright. 

And Rumi has only ever been a child at heart. 

But that is never what Celine has truly seen in her. Maybe in another world, Celine would look at this shaking, sobbing animal on its knees before her and see a daughter in its place. Would see the little girl whose hair she had braided love into, strand after strand, the way she knew she would’ve wanted. 

But in this one, Celine only sees a dog, feral and sick and begging to be put out of its misery. A dog she had raised, but an animal nonetheless. 

In this one, she sees only the unfortunate end of a story she had unwittingly written. 

Rumi’s eyes are opened and she is alone. 

Zoey and Mira open their eyes and they are back in the basement. 

Zoey screams. 

It is a raw and guttural thing. 

Mira joins her. 

Then they keep searching. 

As Celine grasps the hilt of the hwando, palm burning at the feel of its energy fighting to reject her hold, her wrist shakes with the strain of holding the weapon to the softest part of the girl’s torso, to the point where stomach turns to chest and bones curve gently inward. 

It shakes with something else too, and Celine brushes the pad of a finger quickly to her own cheek. It comes away glistening with the remnants of tears that have started to stream quietly down her face, but she steels herself anyways. Celine has spent a lifetime hiding away her faults and fears and this feeling that creeps into her now is no different. 

It tastes almost like grief, and she aches knowing that she is burying that last thing that her love has left her. 

Celine will miss her, she thinks. 

But she has said goodbye to her before.

She is practiced in the art of it.  

Rumi bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and the Honmoon cries for the youngest child it has ever lost. It feels its threads come undone with every ounce of lifeforce spilling from the hole at the center of her ribs and it tries tries tries to pull her back together. 

Rumi’s eyes are opened and she is alone. 

Rumi does not expect it to burn like this, for every nerve to explode in a volcanic eruption of wrong wrong wrong. Her weapon was not made to cut into anything human, it goes against the Honmoon’s nature—to cut into flesh that does not turn to ash on contact. 

But the fact that it sinks in at all is proof of the sickening truth of her. 

And when she had grabbed Rumi’s blade, Celine’s hands were shaking. Celine’s hands were shaking and so Rumi’s death is not quick. It is not painless. The blade does not go in smoothly and it does not leave without several sharp tugs. 

(It never is. It never does)

It hurts. 

It hurts.

Celine holds her while she goes, rests her head into the crook of her neck and whispers softly into the shell of her ear, slowly undoing a braid she has worn since the first time Celine tried to love her the way a mother might. More than anything, it is this gentle undoing that feels the most like dying. 

“I tried,” Celine's voice sings with regret, “please believe that I tried.” 

It’s the whispering that Rumi hates the most. 

"What more could I have done for her?"  she asks.

'Loved me,' Rumi wants to scream, but blood is spilling from her lips like spilled milk, and there's no use crying over all the things that Rumi never got to say. 

“I tried to love her,” and Rumi hates, because she knows that Celine isn’t speaking to her, “I thought I could do it for you.” 

“It was just too hard,” Celine’s body shakes beneath her, and Rumi knows that the older woman’s tears are not for her either. She whispers the name of a woman Rumi has only ever wanted to meet and never will. Over and over and over, she calls out to her. Rumi feels her face slip as tears and blood wet the sharp plane of the collarbone her cheek is forced to rest against.

“I hate you for doing this to me,” Celine won't stop and Rumi hates these whispers like she's only ever hated herself before. Hates that even these last words aren’t for her. Hates that she does not have the strength to push away or tell her to stop stop stop please stop Mom please make her stop please Mom why, why can she only ever hold me when she thinks of you, why can’t I reach you, even in death. 

“How could you have asked this of me?” Celine begs of a woman that cannot hear her, and Rumi is tasked with the final burden of suffering under the weight of this question for the rest of eternity. 

Rumi hates these whispered words and she thinks, in just this moment, that she hates Celine too. 

‘How could you have asked this of me?’

Rumi hates this question and she hates the worms and the maggots and birthday candles that she never got to light and mostly, mostly she hates her mother. 

‘Mother,’ she is so cold, in these arms holding only the memory of someone else, and in her final moments she is still alone. ‘Mother, how could you have asked this of me?’ 

It always hurts.

Every time. 

Nothing changes.  

Her eyes are opened and she is alone. 

Zoey and Mira check the studio, the train station, every rooftop and back alley. They check every hideaway and spot that could possibly be holding her, and with every reset, the embers of their hope begin to fade, cooling and dying in a pathetic puff of smoke. 

There is only one place they haven’t looked. 

“You don’t think…” Zoey starts with a hesitant edge to her voice. 

“I mean, there’s no way,” Mira laughs, a stuttering awkward thing crawling somewhere out of the back of her throat. “She would never go to Celine like that. Come on, Ms. ‘faults and fears must never be seen?’ Rumi would rather die than tell Celine she couldn’t handle a leaky pipe, much less all of this… She just, she hates it there Zoey. No way.” 

“Yeah,” Zoey swallows so thickly she wonders if someone has replaced her spit with sawdust. “No way.”

The air is thick around them. Something toxic fills the space, something that sounds off sirens and warning bells and blares ‘danger danger danger’ across every nerve ending. 

She wouldn’t. 

Except… 

“I mean—”

“—we could always just—” 

“Sorry you—” 

“—no you go—” 

“no it’s fine if you want—” 

They both stop. 

They don't even need to say speak, but Zoey offers a hand and one word anyways.

“Together?” 

Mira nods.

And then, in a flash of white lightning, they’re gone. 

By this point, Rumi knows exactly how long it takes to succumb to the wound in her chest. How long it takes for blood loss to become shock to become the cold embrace of nothing to become the start of her eternal punishment.  

She begins her countdown, Celine’s whispers still burning in her ear. 

There is only one part she waits for. One bright moment in this never-ending hell. 

For just one second, Rumi gets to watch as a lifetime passes before her eyes. 

Through most of it, she is alone. Through most of it, is starved and sick with want, with the desire to be loved wholly and unapologetically.

In between those memories, though, there are flashes that shine like gold across the inside of her eyelids. 

(Celine buying a box of Hello Kitty band aids to cover the scrapes and cuts she would get during training, the feel of her pressing them ever-so-gently into all her aches and pains, giggling even as the older woman rolled her eyes and chided her about the ‘impracticality’ of the design. 

Trips to the beach, building castles in the sand, and Celine and her chasing after a seagull together, their crab crackers held aloft like contraband in its laughing beak. 

Standing at the gate of their country estate to wait for two girls, her future groupmates, to arrive, and loving them before she even knew their names. 

Practicing choreography until her bones ached but laughing the entire time, because Zoey had fallen for the fifth time trying to do a spin move that Mira had just put into their routine, and Mira was chasing her around the studio threatening to ‘cut her toes off if she kept refusing to use them correctly.’ 

Sitting between Celine's knees before Huntrix's first concert, as the woman shared her advice for dealing with the crowd between twisting her locks into perfect plaits. 

Zoey holding her jaw with all the gentleness of a writer, of a woman who slept with a pencil in one hand and a notebook in the other, to rub gloss onto her lips in the car before a fan meet and greet, because hers had ‘rubbed off already, silly,' and the taste of cherry staying on her tongue the entire night. 

Movie nights hiding behind a pillow, her two girls poking and giggling at her even as she grasped for a hand to hold, because even though they fought demons and did all their own stunts, horror was so not her genre.

Mira handing her a bright yellow jacket she brought back for her from Paris Fashion Week, because she saw it, and thought of her, and thought she would look good in it and even when she wasn’t around, Mira was thinking of her and how she would look in beautiful things. 

Trips to hotpot and the first time they tried their official branded ramyeon and singing for tens of thousands of adoring fans and a little girl coming up to her and saying she was her hero and she wanted to be just like her and she loved her loved her loved her and Mira and Zoey holding her after their first Idol Award win and their second and third and Mira and Zoey curled in close during sleepovers and late nights and piggy back rides after twisted ankles and Mira and Zoey holding out icepacks to stop the swelling from a particularly brutal kick to the face and Zoey and Mira and Mira and Zoey, always them, always smiling and laughing and smiling and —

Faintly, in the distance, she thinks she hears someone scream her name. 

It’s barely more than a buzz, carried on the edges of the wind. 

‘Huh,’ her countdown ends, resets, restarts ‘that’s new.’

When Rumi’s eyes are opened, she does not see her mother. 

There are no arms calling her home, no cake or candle waiting. 

Her eyes are opened and she is alone. Again.  

For the first time since their first reset, Zoey throws up. 

Mira heaves and shakes and spits up bile. She is speaking but there are no real words coming out of her mouth, just choking sobs and hacking coughs. 

Zoey is crying and crying and shaking and her body is wracked with convulsions and she has never thrown up so hard in her entire life. 

Someone is screaming. 

Mira’s throat burns. 

Zoey cannot make sense of what she has just seen. 

“What-what the fuck—what the fuck what the actualfuckohGod—what did she do—whatdidshe—”

Neither one knows who is speaking or who is screaming.

Here is one last secret: it is a miracle that Rumi is the one who dies. 

Because the magic of the Honmoon is not infinite. The Honmoon is an amalgamation of wills. Of dreams and wishes and hearts coming together. It works in patterns, in gives and takes. 

As Rumi comes apart in the courtyard, bleeding and hurting and so so alone, as fate is denied and the universe shakes itself to pieces and evil personified crawls out of the ground, she does not fulfil her destiny, but she still manages to die a hero. 

Because Rumi has only ever known how to give, and the Honmoon cannot deny the yearning of a dying girl's heart. 

As her life flashes before her eyes, and Rumi sees gold and laughter and strands of pink and black hair spinning in her memories, she begs one more time. 

(She always was a loyal dog)

She turns away from the memory of her loves holding weapons to her chest and turns into the ones that transform her final moments into something just a little less lonely and she begs. 

‘Please,’ and blood is staining her front, is pouring out of her mouth, mixing with her tears, and pooling beneath her knees. Rivers of it seep down into the dirt and stone below her, down to the worms and centipedes and maggots below, and—she's still so jealous, still desperate with the need to follow her blood down into the soil, Rumi wants and wants and wants. But Rumi has only ever known how to give and she cannot even take and hold her death for herself, and so she takes the coins that would have ferried her into a waiting embrace and places them gently into two cups that are not her own. 

‘Please keep them safe,’ she begs and pleads and asks a universe that has never granted her a single wish for the lives of two girls. She calls on a cosmic favor with nothing to give but herself. 

And the Honmoon loves Rumi, and it loves Zoey and Mira too, and so it lets her go, and it hurts, and it is sorry, and it wishes it had picked a different girl. Because as much as the Honmoon loves its Celine, Celine is wrong and Celine is a murderer and the Honmoon has ruined her with the promise of eternal love unfulfilled and the weight of a burden that was never meant to be carried alone. 

And for a span of time roughly comparable to as long as a silk thread is wide or a grain of sand is tall, Rumi is dead and Zoey and Mira are steps away from joining her. 

But the Honmoon had accepted a little girl’s bargain, and the Honmoon is made of dreams and wishes and trades and will. And so, for an instant, the Honmoon is made of the love Rumi carried within her for Zoey and Mira. 

The magic of the Honmoon may not be infinite, but as it grasps the last strands of this gift given freely by Rumi, it is the closest it has ever come to that place where zero has been divided by zero. The laws of physics, the very premises of reality, come apart as the Honmoon uses a dead girl’s wish to save two girls about to die themselves. 

The three of them are connected in every way imaginable, and they are so young, and it is not their fault that it chose wrong. So it sends them back and tries to tell them what to do, but it is inconsolable in its grief. It has accepted the bargain of a dying girl, traded secondhand from the bargain of a long dead woman. 

The Honmoon wraps one end of the thread of Rumi’s wish around Zoey and Mira, but it needs a failsafe to ensure none of this ends in vain. And it is sorry for what it does, but it knows Rumi. Has known her since her first breath and now knows her to her last, and it knows that she will make the same wish every time. That, should all else hold constant, she will beg and plead for their safety and give her very essence to make her dream a reality. So it takes the other end and transforms its precious, beautiful, wretched girl into a flesh and bone marionette, just until her strings can be cut loose and the three of them can find their way back to the path they were fated to walk together—into Gwi-Ma's gaping maw and out the other side with all three of them in tact.  

It knows that Zoey and Mira will find her, no matter how many tries it takes or how many times they need to restart. They will not give up until she is back in their arms. 

The Honmoon turns its precious girl into a perpetual motion machine, and every time she brings them back. 

No matter how many times she suffers at the hands of the one who was supposed to love her best, she turns her thoughts to them in her final moments and wishes them more time.  

When Rumi’s eyes are opened, she is alone. 

Nothing has changed.

But, in the back of her mind, she imagines a breeze that seemed to whisper her name.  

Chapter Text

Mira is still holding Zoey’s hand when their eyes open to the familiar landscape of Celine’s sprawling country home. Surrounding the property, towering red pine and gingko trees stretch ominously into the slowly darkening sky. The Honmoon writhes around them and purple threads vibrate in a painful melody as they disintegrate with every passing second. 

“Ugh” the pink-haired girl yells, an anxious energy bubbling underneath her skin at the sight of acres and acres of trees and dirt paths, “this place is freaking huge.” At this hour, though, the girls know that Celine should be out by the shrine. Every sunset, like clockwork, they know the dutiful woman goes out to the ancient hackberry tree in the center of her estate to meditate and pray.

(And exactly ten minutes after she would head in for the night, Rumi does the same. 

For the two years Mira and Zoey spent training in their home, neither girl ever sees them there together at night. 

In the daylight, the two might practice forms there side by side, might change the incense or offering left on the grave just a few meters away in a solemn party of two. At least once a week, the four of them sweep the stone and prune the trees and secure the ribbons flapping from each branch. 

“Training,” Rumi and Celine call it, carefully washing stones and pulling weeds with the same disciplined focus. 

“Free labor,” Mira always mumbles back to Zoey, the two girls snickering to themselves in agreement.

But at night, the two women only ever go alone, two moons orbiting the remains of a long-dead planet. )

It’s a decent walk from where they are, and the both of them know that they’re running short on time for this iteration. At this point, the two of them are more focused on finding out if Rumi is even here, much less dealing with the headache of Celine's impending lecture or the still-lingering sting of Rumi's deception. Zoey kicks a pebble into the tall grass surrounding them and the two begin to work their way forward, pace quick but feet subtly dragging at the prospect of having to explain themselves to their mentor. 

“God,” Mira starts as they grow nearer and nearer to their destination. “What do you think she’ll say? I can't even begin to imagine the ‘I’m not mad, I’m just very disappointed, and also yeah I’m a little mad, I know I trained you better than this,’ speech we’re about to get.” 

Zoey laughs and pitches her voice up. “Girls,” she mimics, “‘I’m not exactly sure what wasn’t clear but I am definitely seeing a lot of faults and a lot of fears,’ and oh man, I can’t even imagine the fight she and Rumi could be having right now.” 

Mira winces in sympathy, keeping her eyes up as the massive tree marking their impending doom comes into view, “yeah, if Rumi is here they’re definitely going at it. Plus, I think I have some choice words for her for helping Rumi hide her patterns from us all these years. I mean, there’s no way she didn’t know, right?” Zoey makes a noise that sounds like agreement, and God, that is just such a separate problem they’ll have to deal with. Eventually. 

“Oh!” Zoey begins to bounce in excitement, rounding the last bend in their journey, “I think I see them! There, under the—” 

It’s the darkness of the color that strikes her first, the way it contrasts so sharply against the tumbling riot of purple hair it continues to soak, strand by dripping strand. 

Mira’s breath catches at the mess that has been made of the girl in front of them. Their girl. Their love.   

When Rumi left the stadium she was wearing white. Mira knows this. The figure of the patterned girl running from them has imprinted itself firmly into the back of her eyelids. Mira knows that Rumi was wearing white, she was wearing white so why? Why is there so much red. All across her back and down her sides. It spills out around her kneeling body. The floor is dark with so much blood the dirt below her has been dyed black. And what is Celine doing ? Why is she just sitting there? Rumi needs to go to a hospital and Mira has never seen so much blood in her entire life. She can only see the hunched back of her kneeling figure but Rumi is soaked in it, is so drenched it almost looks like paint, like someone has dipped half of her body in a vat of crimson, and Celine is just cradling her like something already gone and she can’t be gone she needs to put pressure on the wound, and Mira hadn’t wanted to find her and then they wouldn’t stop resetting and so Zoey made her do it and she fought and she didn't want to find her and she had never wanted to find her like this and how long has she been here bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, and dying and dying and why isn’t anyone trying to—

Vaguely, she registers Zoey has started to scream, that she’s started to scream and she’s running towards the two of them and Mira can’t even move because there’s no way there’s that much blood inside of one person, it’s not possible, it can’t be. 

“Rumi!” Zoey’s voice splits the air around them and pounds forward like a stampede over bending blades of grass. Mira watches as Celine flinches at the sound of it. Eyes wide and crazed and white with guilt.  

Zoey screams and runs and Mira, who has never hesitated once in her life, who has always rushed forward toward danger with her chin tucked low and shoulders squared, who has never pulled a punch or held her tongue ( who so very quickly pointed her blade at the same girl she’s watching bleed and bleed and —)    

Mira, who has always acted first and spoken second and never ever regretted it, can’t move. 

Zoey runs ahead and Mira stays behind. 

‘Move,’ Mira begs her body to twitch or react but every muscle fiber is locked in place. ‘Move, you stupid freaking leg, move —’ 

Her knee twitches, her toes curl and press into loose dirt, and then she trips and falls onto a sickeningly familiar cold cement floor. 

Rumi’s eyes are opened and she is alone. 

Zoey is the first to recover, throat burning from the force of bile expelling from her body. A flood of something metallic coats her tongue and all she can think is how similar it must taste to thick, liquid copper, the kind that might bubble out of a cut tongue or a punctured lung or an open mouth. Zoey spits and hacks and purges from her mouth the taste of blood that doesn’t belong to her.   

“We need to go back right now,” she grabs Mira’s shoulders and shakes her already trembling figure. “Mira, we need to go get her. Rumi is the one that we need to save!”

But Mira can’t think straight. Can’t think at all. Of anything except that—

‘I was wrong,’ Mira fought so hard to do anything but find Rumi, she fought and argued and couldn’t even fathom a version of their story where Rumi wasn’t the villain. The same Rumi who carried spiders to the first floor of their penthouse in gently cupped hands whenever Zoey screamed at the sight of them, because ‘it wasn’t right to kill things just because they were scared,’ and who visibly ached when she saw deer splayed out on the side of the highway, and who picked up litter no matter what she was doing, just to leave spaces a little cleaner than she found them.

‘I was wrong, oh God, how could I have been so wrong?’ She thinks back to the first time Zoey had said they should get her and wants to be sick again. She is crying and faintly she can hear Zoey begging her to move but how can she when all she can see is Rumi, body blood-soaked and broken, limp and lifeless and red. And ‘ how many times,’ she aches at the thought, ‘ how much faster could they have found her? How many times could they have gone to her instead? How many times was my fear her undoing?’ 

Mira could have stayed on that floor for the rest of her life and then some, but it is Zoey who lifts her from her shame and her guilt, onto her feet with steady hands pressed into the wetness of her salt-stained cheeks. It is Zoey who snaps her back into this reality. 

“Mira, I get it. I promise I do, but right now,” and Zoey is fighting through her own tears as she speaks, and Mira tries her hardest to pull herself together, “right now we need to save her.” 

She’s right. Mira can only nod. Right now, it’s the best she can do.  

This time, when they arrive, they don't walk. There is no idle conversation, no anxious trips down memory lane. 

This time, Mira and Zoey run. Their feet beat impatiently along the dirt pathway and over stacked stone walls. They cut through fields of flowers and speed through seas of high reed grass. They move with a desperate quickness, like they are bats fleeing out of hell instead of Orpheus running towards it. 

Two figures kneel at the base of the hackberry tree by the time they arrive. 

Rumi feels the familiar burn of her hwando’s starlight blade piercing just below her sternum. She feels the blood weep out of her, tastes it crawling up her throat from where she is certain Celine has pierced her lung. She grits her teeth against the tug, tug, tug of it leaving her body with a sickening squelch. 

Rumi prepares for the moment when Celine will pull her in to make her apologies, but instead, suddenly, there are hands dragging her backwards and a body tearing the older woman away from her. 

Something has changed, and she doesn't know what to do. Still, the force of being grabbed so quickly shoots waves of fiery pain throughout her body. Beyond the ringing in her ears, she thinks she hears an apology as her back is laid gently in the soil. And at the loss of support, Rumi’s head rolls limply to the right. 

At this new angle, she can just make out the cut of her mother’s grave, only meters away from her sprawled form. She groans and trembles at the sight of it. Unthinkingly, slowly, she reaches her hand out to the unfeeling stone. Her shoulder strains with the force of her anguished reach. Her fingers extend as far as they can physically flex. Tears of frustration pool at the corner of her eyes, mixing seamlessly into tears of pain. 

(She will never reach her.

Never.) 

Faintly, Rumi feels the pressure of a body straddling her own, thighs bracketing hips as frantic hands tug and rip at the hole in her blood-stained top. Her attention drifts away from her mother below her to the body above her. 

As cool air hits her now slightly more exposed skin, the memory of being undressed before a crowd of thousands hits her like a train and she beats feebly at this unknown figure attempting to lay her bare. 

“N-no,” she hacks and spits out a warm mouthful of blood, “d-do-n’ t-touch me.” The words are slurred and pink spit froths at the corner of her mouth as they wheeze their way out of her. Moving hurts but she has already been stripped of so much today and she cannot bear this too. Rumi knows someone must be speaking to her, but the world is under water and there is a ringing in her ears and a pain that makes processing every other sensation and thought a secondary task. 

The tears in her eyes blur the details of the figure above her but she can just barely make out a mop of pitch black hair and a sharply cut jacket, a jacket that is frantically being tugged off of a narrow torso. It slides away into a heap on the ground, and then two familiar hands are pinning her still flailing arms to the dirt below them. 

In doing so, however, Rumi’s assailant is forced to lean down, leaving their faces only inches apart. And from this distance, the face above hers is unmistakable. Rumi looks up and time stops as she gazes into the warm pools of Zoey’s dark, panicked eyes. 

It’s her. 

Rumi blinks, and then she opens her eyes again. 

She wants to cry (She already is).

Zoey’s here. She came back. 

Just the sight of the lyricist clears the ringing in her ears and brings the world back into focus. In the distance, she can hear two voices screaming and the unmistakable sound of hands meeting flesh. Although she can't make out the words, she knows this means that Mira is here too. 

Both of them, both of them came. 

Rumi feels a heavy pressure sink into her chest, the feeling of cloth attempting to replace skin and plug up this weeping hole in her. Zoey is above her, trying to stop the bleeding with her black performance jacket. She is fighting to keep her alive. 

(And what a new experience this is, Rumi thinks, someone fighting for her to stay) 

Rumi finds a strength in her she didn't know still existed and holds onto it with gritted teeth and hooked claws. The Honmoon flares around them and slowly works to stitch her back together. 

‘Fight,’ Rumi chants. ‘If they will fight for me, then I will fight to be with them.’ 

Behind her, she can hear Mira and Celine’s voices and bodies battling one another in a violent clash. She groans in stubborn resolution and rages in defiance as death tries to rip her away. 

It takes longer than Mira would like to get Celine on her back. But the woman is old and Mira is young and Mira is angry. With rage like this, Mira thinks, she could swallow Gwi-Ma whole and spit the ashes of him out of her mouth. 

Celine fights back, with words and kicks and bucking hips, but Mira fights harder and eventually, she has her pinned. Has her teacher's shirt balled into one fist, the other poised to strike. 

Even on her back, Celine pleads with her to understand, to get that she did only what was asked of her, what had to be done. 

Celine tries to make her understand what has driven her to take Mira’s love away. 

“You don’t know what she took from me!” Celine yells, and all Mira can see is the blood staining her teacher's hands, drenching her shirt, coating her thighs. From her top mounted position, the syrup of it sticks itself to her own legs as well. And it hurts, because flickering in her vision is an overlay of the woman who had gifted her a family. Who had looked at her, thin and starving and longing to be loved, and said: let me give you a home, let me give you a purpose and a place to belong. Celine had taken her hand, outstretched and begging for someone to accept the broken angry bits of her and had praised her for their cutting edges. Celine had seen a teenaged girl with nothing to call her own and given her everything. 

But Celine is covered in the blood of her love, and so Mira feels nothing when she buries her fist into the arch of her nose and comes away with crimson coating her own split knuckles. She doesn’t need her blade. She doesn’t need anything but the weight of her own two fists as they beat and beat and thinks: ‘no, you don’t know what you have taken from me.’ 

And the student has become the master, like mother like daughter, like apples falling and refusing to roll far from their own roots. Mira does what needs to be done, and then she leaves Celine’s body under the branches and ribbons of the hackberry tree. Then, she goes to be with her dying girl.  

Mira runs to them, crashes to her knees and scrapes them against the dry dirt ground. The sight that greets her robs her of the leftover remnants of her hate. There is no room for anything left in her heart but a whimpering, wailing grief as she takes in the mess that has become of her violet-haired girl . 

Zoey is perched atop Rumi’s twitching body, crying as she frantically presses her jacket, turning from black to something darker with the liquid weight of blood, into the slit in her chest. Her tears drip down her face and fall soundlessly into the bunched up cloth and her knuckles whiten with the force of her desperate grip. 

Mira inches forward until her knees are just barely behind the top of Rumi’s skull and her own head hovers above amber eyes, peering down at her with blurry vision. She looks up and catches Zoey’s gaze, the look on the younger girl’s face just as lost and panicked as her own. Neither one of them knows what to do with so deep a wound. A piercing gash like this would have killed any other person, and it is both a miracle and a curse that Rumi is still conscious. Just barely, Mira can see sparking flashes of thin blue and white light jumping from the source of the lead singer’s bleeding. It’s as if the Honmoon is trying to pour itself into the injury like some kind of panacea. 

And maybe it can work , Mira thinks and feels hope spring up desperately inside of her, like a flower blooming too early but cracking through a layer of frost anyways. The Honmoon had brought them back, so surely it can fix Rumi too. Surely it won't take her, just when they've reached her. They may not've come exactly on time, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t saved her. 

They just need to give her time. Rumi is tough. She has always healed the quickest, always been able to bear the worst injuries with grace and a smile. She can make it through this, all they need to do is give her some time. 

“She’ll—she’ll be okay,” she shakily tries to assure Zoey, “It’ll be okay. We just—just need to give her some time. And if not, we've already been in this loop for a while, so the Honmoon will reset us soon and we can try again.” Mira nods her head as she speaks and tries to convince herself as readily as she is trying to convince the dark-haired girl in front of her. 

“Yeah,” Zoey continues to press into Rumi’s shallowly rising chest, shaking at the pressure she is placing below her. From the corner of her eye, she watches as another section of the Honmoon disappears from view, as violet unseen flames light up their surroundings. In the distance, she can almost hear the sound of bodies falling into a pit of flames, the pounding bass of a siren song she knows they were meant to stop. She imagines the screams and the missing persons and is horrified to find that she doesn’t care. 

“Yeah, we just need to wait.”

Zoey would let all of Seoul turn to ash if only it meant that Rumi could live.

So together, the three of them wait. 

The Honmoon continues to burn. 

Rumi continues to bleed. 

And Zoey and Mira continue to wait, and all the while tears fall like rain onto the girl below them. 

The longer she lays there, the less everything starts to hurt. As the pain fades away, Rumi finds that something almost peaceful is left in its wake. ‘Don’t cry for me,’ Rumi wants to say, ‘I hate it when you cry.’ She tries to speak but all that rushes out is a mouthful of syrup-sweet blood. It bubbles from her lips and spills down her chin, slowly, unwillingly. 

Words fail her, and so instead Rumi reaches out with a trembling hand and wipes away the river coursing down Mira’s face. When she no longer has the strength to hold up her arm, it falls away, leaving a palm-sized stain of scarlet across soft warm skin and the edge of her mouth.  

Rumi winces at the sight of it, of red smearing red. She’s ruined Mira’s lipstick. 

“S-” she tries but she can't get the apology out. Instead she chokes and hacks out another mud-thick rush of blood. Even in these final moments, she can't help but make a mess. 

“It’s okay,” Mira chokes with a cracking, thin lipped smile. Without the words leaving Rumi’s lips, the dancer knows what she wants to say. “You-you’ll just have to fix it for me later, okay? W-We’ll have a spa day after all of this, and, and Zoey’ll do your makeup and you’ll do mine and I’ll do Zoey’s and then we can take it all off and try again. I won’t even get mad when you mess up my eyeliner, okay? You just have to hold on for us, just a little bit longer, and then we can all go home.” 

“Rumi, baby, please,” Zoey begs her. She holds her hand, all the while keeping pressure on her wound with the other, and begs and pleads, “please hold on for us. Please.”  

And what a gift, Rumi smiles with bloody teeth and teary eyes, to be loved so much they would beg her not to go.

Rumi has always been the begging kind, never the begged for. 

She finds, as if a pleasant surprise, that she does not want to die anymore. She doesn't want to reset in that room where Jinu had left her and have her body puppeteered back to this downtrodden earth, forced onto her knees again and again, bent as if in prayer to a creator that will only ever forsake her. She wants to stay here, wrapped in the embrace of the only two people who have ever been burdened with the whole of her and asked her to stay anyways. 

Piece by brittle piece, Rumi had shaped herself into a dutiful child. But in this gentle embrace she feels herself unraveling from the shape of it, coming undone by a tenderness she craves like something hungry for more. For a lifetime of more and more and more. Something starved and beaten and lonely claws at the confines of her ribcage, trapped and screaming for more more more. 

‘More, more, more. Give me more of this, a lifetime of more.’ 

An endless stream of silent tears crawl towards the unfeeling earth below her. She grips the hands holding her own like the dying woman she is and thinks: I want to know love like this forever. I don’t want to go. I want to stay. Please let me stay. I’m sorry, I have always and forever only been sorry for being born what I was, but why do I have to die for the sin of my existence? Why couldn’t I have known this easy belonging, this fullness of the heart? Why is suffering what I will always know best? 

She cries and smiles with bloody teeth and her heart beats in a steady chant of: more, more, more, and please, please, please.  

(Here is a fact: Rumi doesn’t want to die. 

Here is another: She is going to anyways.) 

It is the longest they have ever gone without resetting, and both girls refuse to give voice to the reason why. They think back to the moment when they disappeared last, and every time before. Neither can say what they know to be true, because if—if what they are thinking is true then—

then it wasn’t just time that was restarting them, it wasn’t just some fixed start and end. No, if it’s—

It can't be because—

—then every time they awoke in that basement together, Rumi was—

Rumi had—

It cannot be true. The Honmoon, this force that keeps evil at bay, it would never have done something so awfully cruel. 

It cannot be true but with every minute that passes beyond the moment they should have reset, it solidifies into the only real possibility. 

Zoey and Mira have waited and waited, and Rumi and the Honmoon have both only gotten worse. The threads surrounding them have only grown sparser, and Rumi’s hands have only grown colder. 

Holding them feels like holding ice, but neither girl is willing to let go. 

Neither huntress can say it, but both of them know. They keep making shameful eye contact with the other, flinching away from the shared knowledge haunting the other’s gaze. 

Zoey’s hands are shaking, both the one on Rumi’s chest and the one in her cold, limp grasp. She swallows at the spit that has gone dry in her mouth. Her jaw works from side to side, teeth clenching and unclenching from behind sealed lips. 

“Mira,” she manages to whisper, voice cracking between the syllables of the stubborn girl’s name. Zoey knows the dancer like she knows the feel of a pen in her hand or how many four-letter words can fit in one composition notebook. Intimately. Perfectly. In a way that’s been born of time and practice and paying close attention. 

Zoey knows the inner workings of Mira’s mind and she knows that her bull-headed, fiercely protective, guilt-ridden girl will never speak the horrible truth they both know needs to be said. She knows that Mira would let herself starve to death over this purple-haired corpse before ever suggesting what Zoey knows they both know. 

Zoey knows this, and so she takes the burden and swallows it whole. It hurts the whole way down. Slowly, inch by inch, she lifts herself off of the girl below her, un-straddling her hips with legs that burn and tingle at the change of position. Still, she keeps her hand pressed forcefully on the black fabric that has long grown warm and wet with use. She inches herself towards Mira’s hunched form, the tall girl curled inwards over a paling body, as if she might be able to hide them both from the awful truth haunting them. 

Zoey bends down to place her mouth by the side of Mira’s skull. “Sweetheart, we—we need to let her go.” 

As Zoey whispers these words, she lifts her hand away from what’s left of her jacket and reaches towards Mira instead. But the the dancer flinches violently, without any trace of her characteristic grace, and scrambles to reapply pressure, sinking her hand into the soaked-through material.

“No!” She screams, refusing to look Zoey in the eye as she shakes. “ We just need more time!” 

“ We’re out of time, Mira! She’s out of time. Don’t you see?” Zoey knows she needs to fight to be heard, “we can’t save her like this.”

“But it’s my fault!” Mira wails in open confession, shame spilling from her tongue like poison, “ I pointed my blade at her first, and I convinced you not to look for her, and I assumed she was the ‘wrong’ the Honmoon warned us about, the ‘she’ we would need to fight, and I was the one who couldn’t move fast enough in the basement and I should have run faster to her. I—” 

Her voice cracks and falls like a tree struck by lightning in the woods. That is to say, like something that only makes a sound because Zoey is there to hear it.  

“—I can’t leave her again, I can’t! I can’t keep abandoning her when she needs me the most.” 

Zoey reaches out and forces Mira to meet her eyes. She needs her to look at her while she says this, “I won’t let Rumi die for our mistakes, and I won’t let you kill yourself for them either. We only ever did our best. We only ever tried to keep her safe, even if that meant from us.” 

(The scattered remains of the Honmoon pulse sorrowfully around them, and it is sorry for what its grief has led to.

It is sorry for choosing wrong, for not having a voice that humans were meant to comprehend.

It, alone, should bear the fault.)

Mira is shaking but she still refuses to lift her hands. 

“Do you trust me?” Zoey already knows, but she needs to ask her anyway. 

Mira answers back immediately, painfully. As if she can already tell where this question ends. 

“Of course .” 

“And do you love us?” Zoey has always known how to make her words count. 

Mira sobs as she answers, “You know I do.” 

“Then you need to let her go.” 

Mira’s shoulders bend with the weight of her guilt. Her head hangs low, as her mind and her heart battle for dominance. She knows, she knows. 

It still hurts. 

When her hands lift away, they are stained, dripping in red. Mira looks at the blood creeping in between the creases of her palms, and finds she can't look away. She watches, in miserable trepidation, as Zoey entwines their sticky fingers—both just as painted in crimson. Together, they lift away the makeshift dressing, and gaze upon a hole that never would have closed. 

Together, they lean down to let Rumi know that the fight is over. 

"Rumi," they whisper in a terrible harmony, "it's time for you to let go." 

"We're so sorry," they kiss the crown of her head, the edge of her hairline, the fluttering of her eyelashes.

They try to make her death kind. It is an impossible task. 

They have lost. It may not be the war, but a battle lost hurts just the same. 

Rumi’s countdown has long since passed, and she has stayed longer in this repetition than any other. She knows it is the pressure on her chest, combined with the blessing and curse of her demon anatomy, and the presence of her two girls giving her the strength to fight just a little longer that is keeping her here these extra seconds, these extra minutes. 

Rumi wants to live in these fleeting moments. 

(And that gnawing animal growls more, more, more and please, please, please and she is almost sick with this newfound gluttony for love).  

She doesn't want to go back into the dark. She doesn't want to go but—

But the pressure is lifted from her chest and there is whispering in her ears— 

And no, no, no. She can't contain this ocean of grief spilling out of her. No, not you. Please, I cannot live with your whispers replacing hers. 

With Zoey’s jacket missing, and the steady pressure of her hands lifted, Rumi finds herself embarrassed at this cold exposure. Zoey had torn her top to get a better look at the wound before she covered her, and now she’s removed that protective layer. She is embarrassed at this bareness and this blood coming out of her, with the mess of it. It is intolerable, and she is not surprised that they have grown tired of her careless mess. She is not surprised but it still hurts. 

I can't bear your voices asking me to go too. 

‘Please,’ Rumi begs and begs and begs . ‘Please keep asking me to stay.’ 

(Rumi had trained herself in the art of bearing suffering: it is what she has always done best. But as the fervent pace of her blood begins to pick up and rush out of her, like a dam robbed of a log in the dead of night, Rumi finds that she can't bear any more of this —  

this wretched enduring.)

Rumi doesn't want to go, but Mira and Zoey are asking her to, and she should have known that it would only ever last for so long.  

And this time it hurts, it hurts to make this wish. It hurts and she wanted to stay but they told her to go and she doesn't want to make it but she does anyways. Rumi is nothing if not a loyal dog and she will always think of them as she goes, and she will always give them this, like a tree with no apples or branches or leaves left to harvest, she will always still offer them whatever is left. 

Zoey and Mira are crying and the Honmoon is trembling in its dying grief, is disappearing from view by the second. Rumi continues to pool out beneath them, bathing their knees in her warm, sticky embrace. They can see that she is fighting to stay and it is killing them to be what sends her away. But at the very least, at the very least they want to do it gently. 

They whisper sweet nothings into her ear and brush her hair back away from her face. Zoey shifts her body so that her beautiful girl’s head can rest on the swell of her thighs, so her violet hair is lifted from the dirt. She reaches out to pull one of her limp, blood-caked hands to her lips. Mira wraps herself around her limp body like a burial cloak, one hand tracing the edges of her uncovered wound and the other holding her other hand like an apology. They are a portrait in grief. A study in shades of red, in arriving too late and being forced to say goodbye too early.  

"It’s okay," they whisper, "you can let go,"  they sob, "Rumi, you need to let go," they plead. 

We love you but you can't stay here anymore, we love you and so we need to let you go.

Rumi wants to stay, but they want her to go, and Rumi has only ever known how to do what was asked of her. She almost wishes instead that she had been made easier to love, but it is just a passing fancy. Even this desire is not her truest. So she gives and gives and gives again. 

‘Please,’ 

Rumi takes her coins and holds them out, bargains once again with the only thing she has left, and ignores the feel of strings binding themselves to the protrusions of her wrists, the crown of her skull, the backs of her knees. 

(Rumi has always been a loyal dog, coming back to the hand that beats it) 

Rumi will always love them more than she has ever loved herself. 

‘Please keep them safe.’ 

Mira and Zoey open their eyes in a familiar concrete basement. Zoey’s jacket is draped back across her shoulders, pristine. 

Their hands are clean. 

(It doesn’t feel like it)  

Rumi’s eyes are opened. 

And she is alone. 

She wakes without waking. 

She walks without moving her own two feet. 

Time after time, again and again, she goes through these moments like a puppet on strings, pulled towards a table she has set, into a bed of her own unmaking, and away from a grave that she will never be allowed to lie in.   

There is something dead behind the confines of her ribs, she thinks: it has starved to death. The bars of its cage were not meal enough and Rumi had nothing else to offer. It had died screaming the same two words: more and please and more and please. 

It had shrieked itself to death.  

In a puff of red magic, she is taken home. A waiting figure appears before her. Rumi's left leg is always moved first, wooden and stilted. She is taken to her knees quickly and words trail out of a mouth forced to move and a tongue forced to lift and teeth forced to do anything but bite. 

“I thought I could fix it all, fix me. But I ran out of time.” 

Rumi knows the script by heart, beat for beat, word for word. 

“Do what you should have done,” her hands are lifted and her sword is heavy as she is offered to a version of this woman that will never say no to the promise of her destruction, “a long time ago.” 

The words tumble out of her like stones, rigid and indifferent. 

“Before I destroy what I swore to protect.” 

Celine hesitates for a moment, perhaps considering whether she will call herself a murderer or a hero for the choice she is about to make. But Rumi’s next words always push her from her frozen stupor—

“Please,” begging and begging and always begging, “do it!” 

Rumi knows she will take the proffered hilt as surely as she knows the exact spot this broken woman will run her through with it. With her head bowed low, Rumi can't see the moment when Celine begins to reach forward, so she traces the motion through the outline of her looming shadow instead. There is a nudge against her fingers as the weight begins to shift before two voices shatter the sacrificial silence that has settled across the sanctuary. 

“Celine!” a duet of twin howls ring out with panting breaths, sounding to all the world as if they had run from the edges of the earth to get there, “get away from her!”  

And it seems that, with an audience, Celine is suddenly much less brave. Suddenly can't stomach the thought of there being a witness to her execution of this pitiful thing she has raised, her euthanization of this rabid dog begging to be put down. Without a fight, without a scene, with all the ease of a woman who has at least always had the decency to practice that which she preaches, Celine hides what she knows her hunters will see as a fault and presses into Rumi’s hwando with a steady hand before—

(Rumi braces herself for pain and the awful sound of her flesh parting around pure cosmic energy and three sharp tugs) 

—pushing the weapon down into the ground with metallic rumble, hardly louder than the sound of a dropped penny, or a pair of cuffs slipping off of too-thin wrists to tumble uselessly onto the ground. 

“I can’t!” Suddenly, Celine is kneeling with her now. Is gripping her shoulders and lifting her to her feet with hands pressed tightly into the meat of her upper arms. 

‘I can’t?’ Rumi’s thoughts echo. She doesn't understand what is happening, what has caused this break in the script, this change in scene blocking, (this feel of fate righting itself). She doesn't recognize this woman in front of her, who looks at her with something like regret and something like fear and something like care. This stranger in front of her looks at her like she is afraid of what Rumi has asked, and Rumi doesn't understand, feels her mind begin to unravel like a loose spool of thread. 

As everything Rumi has come to know falls apart, four arms wrap themselves around her shoulders and pull her back like a child from a burning stovetop. They pat and flit around her entire body as if checking for burns, frantically, uncontrollably, asking with every movement: are you hurt, are you hurt?

And Rumi doesn't understand what is happening at all. 

There is no burning push into the softest part of her, no pool of blood pouring down her stomach, no taste of copper coating her tongue, no careless tug rearranging her insides. 

There is nothing but the tender care of two women who want to know that she’s still breathing. Zoey and Mira are holding her (like they refused to when she asked in the green-yellow glow of an empty arena basement (like they did when she was dying in their arms, only for them to whisper ‘let go, let go’ anyways) and they are both shaking and crying and Rumi doesn't understand. Because they are the ones who sent her away, who told her to go when she pleaded to stay. 

(Twice )

Rumi begged to stay and they told her to go, and every time she prayed for their safety, wished them their salvation anyways, and suddenly she finds that she can't stomach their mournful petting, their palms full of apologies. She is unaccustomed to it. She would rather take their violence, she finds she can no longer stomach their love. 

(There is something dead behind the confines of her ribs, she knows: it has starved to death.)

Rumi lifts her arm (and what a joy she had never thought to consider, the simple pleasure of moving her own limbs) and shoves. She twists herself out of arms that have wanted nothing more than to hold her again because she can no longer handle the promise of love unfulfilled. It is the only kind that has ever been offered to her and she would rather have nothing at all than this cruel game of bait-and-switch. She pulls herself back into the night and cold again and steps away from all three women. All three are burning and Rumi has never been one to touch a stovetop twice. 

Zoey lets out a sound like something wounded and Rumi thinks: good. Be a hurting thing with me. 

Mira can't meet her eyes and Rumi thinks: good. Be a shameful thing with me. 

“Girls!” Celine yells, and Rumi feels herself panic at the movement of this woman who raised her up and put her down. She stumbles back, keeping all three at a careful distance, hands raised to keep them away away away and guarding her chest like at any moment, someone might strike.

Celine continues to speak, eyes wide and smiling like a woman who can't admit that her gamble has failed, that the other players are refusing to fold even after she has pushed her chips all-in. “Don’t be fooled,” she approaches them slowly, as if any sharp movements might scare them even further away, “this is all a trick. This is Gwi-Ma’s doing. He’s trying to tear you all apart. Don’t let yourselves be led astray, those marks on Rumi aren’t real, she isn’t what you fear she is, I promise. She isn’t a demon. ” 

Celine is looking at her like she is begging for her to agree and Rumi thinks: good. Be a begging thing with me. 

Even when the game is over, Celine still scrambles to try and change the score. The two of them have already lost and she refuses to admit it and Rumi can’t even find it in herself to be hurt at this new deception, because all she can hear are whispers and whispers and she can practically feel them ghosting across the shell of her ear. Just like she can feel the way her flesh split itself apart to make room for the imposition of her blade. Just like how she can feel the way Mira and Zoey lifted the jacket they had placed onto the gaping mess of her so that she would die a little quicker. 

“This is what I am,” Rumi refuses to lie anymore. She has died for the sin of her birth more times than she was able to count. She has done her penance, paid the price of her father’s evil and her mother’s shame and her own mistakes. Celine’s face crumples and she looks at anything but the truth of the girl that could have been her daughter. But Rumi has been ignored for long enough and she can't stomach it for even one more second.  

“Look at me!” Rumi screams, and her voice sends a shockwave of violent despair rippling across the Honmoon. 

(‘I tried,’ Celine's voice sings with regret, ‘please believe that I tried.’)

“Why won’t you look at me!” How many times was she forced to become a lock-box for all of the things Celine never got to say? 

(‘What more could I have done for her?’)

“Why couldn’t you have loved me?” Rumi screams, and there is no more blood spilling from her lips, only the foaming spit of a violent dog snapping and gnashing its unmuzzled jaw.  

(‘I tried to love her,’ and Rumi hates, because she knows that Celine isn’t speaking to her, ‘I thought I could do it for you.’)

“I do!” The voice of this Celine in front of her mixes with the echoes of countless more. They are all crying, offset, inconsolable. 

Liar. 

(‘It was just too hard,’) 

Too hard to love but soft enough to split apart. 

(And Rumi knows that the older woman’s tears are not for her.) 

They never were. They never are. 

“All of me!” Rumi cannot control herself, she can't see or think or feel beyond the rage that has been planted in her by a violent plow that had pierced her just as easily as it had turned her over, like stripped soil. Nothing can grow in her anymore.  

The Honmoon ripples and Celine watches as the barrier between good and evil is torn even further apart. What can Rumi not understand about the danger all around them? She raised her to be more sensible than this. She does not understand this selfish beast tensed and curled to strike in front of her. 

Celine was raised at the same altar of this sacrifice, and she has only ever had one lesson to impart to these girls that have not seen the depths of despair the way that she has. These love-struck fools that have never known just how depraved the world can be. They have never watched their love be swindled by the charm and beauty of a beast, have never seen her swell with the weight of something she had never wanted but had still opened her heart for, wide enough to give it a name and love it anyways. They have never watched the bloody mess that is childbirth and cut the cord and waited for wailing but been met with silence instead. They do not know what it is like to watch as a woman who was promised to her for eternity makes a different bargain for a different life. 

And it is a feeling unlike any other: to lose a soul that was also yours and lose a love because something else was loved more. And Celine had borne it, because her love had handed her a lilac headed baby (a living obligation) and made her promise to care for her with her dying breath. 

And Celine had borne it but Kim had not, and she always was the softer of the two, the one less made for hurting. And Celine had borne it, but Kim had wrapped a rope around her neck and left herself to find in the branches of their hackberry tree and suddenly Celine was alone with nothing but her grief and a wolf swaddled in sheep's clothing to keep her company.  

Zoey and Mira and Rumi love each other, and she loves them too. In her own way. In the way she was taught. And she loves them but they are ignorant in the art of saying goodbye. They have never had to bury each other and then fight the urge to follow. 

Judge her for it, call her a monster, make her an object of disdain, let her absorb the malice of the world — Celine does not care. She does not care and she is careless with the words that rush out of her now, when the game is over and a girl that could have been her daughter is hurting in front of her, begging her to change her script, to say anything but —

“This is why we have to hide it! Our faults and fears must never be seen. It’s the only way to protect the Honmoon!” 

And all Rumi can hear is every time she told her to ‘ cover up, hide, you can’t tell them, they must never know, they’ll never love you until you’ve fixed yourself.’

You will be a hated thing until you die or until they kill you for it. 

Or until you kill yourself. 

Rumi hears these words and they are just as awful, just as burdensome now as they have been her entire life. And all Rumi can think of are questions that will never have answers and a woman she will never meet and a grave she will never be allowed to lay in. 

“How could you have asked this of me?” Rumi’s voice bends and breaks as she spits a question that she knows lies at the deepest corners of Celine’s consciousness. She hopes it weighs on her mentor as heavily as it will forever weigh on her. By the shattered look that etches itself across her aged face, they do. 

She looks away from the first person she had ever asked to love her, towards the two who never would. The four of them all shameful, hurting, begging things together. 

The two of them look at her like she is something precious but something ruinous at the same time, like they can't recognize this snarling beast in front of them, like they can't help but love her anyways. 

Rumi finds her hurtsadnesspain anger waning at the sight of them, and she remembers how deeply she has loved them, how deeply she still does, but, oh, how deeply they have hurt her. A sharp pain bursts inside of her chest and she flinches so violently the force of it takes her to her knees. Faintly, she hears them yell her name, but her attention is no longer on the two. 

‘Cut, she cut me, it hurts, she got me again,’ Rumi can't breathe as she runs her palms across her chest, but her hands come away clean and there is no hole for her to slip her fingers into. There is no blood but it hurts and what else can it be if not a mortal wound causing this kind of anguish. Her pulse beats firmly underneath her skin, like it's trying to escape the thin walls of her veins.

Zoey and Mira tumble down in front of her, hands outstretched to help but forced to curl aimlessly in the air instead. Neither of them know what to do with this version of their love that cannot stomach their touch.

At the sight of them, so sad and so lost, Rumi feels another jolt of something awful course through her like the jagged edges of a broken piece of glass. 

'Oh,’ Rumi blinks and calms with understanding: it is just her heart, breaking. 

She needs to go. She can't be here any longer. Rumi needs to leave and she knows that there is a world waiting on her to go and save it but right now all she can think is that she needs to save herself. Is it selfish, just this once, to want to choose herself? To want to leave Mira and Zoey to experience the same hurt she has carried with her for her entire life? 

(‘Yes,’ a quiet yet firm voice answers without hesitation. It sounds too much like herself for comfort, but younger, higher pitched. As if she were listening to a recording of her first radio interview. ‘You don’t want to hurt them, you never could. You love them.’ 

‘I don’t care!’ An older, wilder Rumi roars back. “They left me!” she bellows, but there is something desperate and pleading in her voice 'they hate me! They’ll do it again.' She is practiced in the art of lying to herself. This is hardly the hardest one she has ever had to make herself stomach.)

“If this is the Honmoon I swore to protect,” Rumi prepares to do what a lifetime in this treacherous skin has taught her, run and hide and never look back. Like she did at the live performance, and in the bathhouse, and under the stadium bathed in green-grey lights. “Then—” 

“Wait!” Zoey cuts her off before she can finish her parting words, and there is a new energy to the black-haired girl in front of her. A resoluteness that stops her in her tracks. 

“Don’t go! Don’t run from us right now. I know that look, Rumi, and I know you want to be anywhere but here right now but we keep running away from each other and frankly, I’m sick of it! I’m sick of the miscommunication and only having half the story and never knowing what’s real. So I’m asking, no—” 

Zoey takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the words that follow “I’m done begging. I’m telling you to wait. Because we love you so much, Rumi. So much that it physically hurts to see you like this and for us to have no way to fix it. We’re sorry for not listening before, we will be sorry for pushing you away for the rest of our lives, but we’re here now and we won’t ever leave you again so don’t you dare run away from us before we even have the chance to talk. We can do anything, remember? So long as we’re together.” The lyricist has her hand outstretched, an offering waiting to be accepted. 

Maybe it’s the youthful optimism that Zoey exudes with every breath, or the sincerity with which she speaks that gives Rumi pause. Maybe it’s the way that, even if Zoey is done begging, Mira has her eyes shut like she’s praying for any being that will listen to make Rumi stay, her shaking hand a mirror of Zoey’s own, a desperate hope hidden behind eyes too afraid to open. 

(Maybe its the fact that Rumi has always been a loyal dog, and she has never been able to deny the two of them anything she could possibly give. 

Her shade, her leaves, her branches, her life.) 

Rumi listens as two-thirds of her soul tell her she is wanted, and a heart full of longing will only ever have one response, and so yes—Rumi needs to run, she can't stand the sight of these trees or Celine or the grave that has rejected her any longer—so she brings her hands up to meet them and her soul clicks back together with the gesture. 

She looks at the gaunt, shaken, form of Celine just feet behind, and Rumi takes a vindictive sort of joy from the fact that this time —this time, it is Rumi who leaves her. Who leaves her to haunt this house alone. 

Rumi runs, and she takes Zoey and Mira with her, and the three hunters disappear in a cloud of red smoke. 

(In the distance, a demon king roars as he prepares to consume an entire world in his fiery jaw, a magical barrier tears itself apart in agony and grief, and the fate of the world hangs in the balance)

What is said between the three is said in private. 

(There is yelling and screaming. There is crying and explanations offered with no expectation for forgiveness but every hope for it regardless. 

“You left me! You told me to go!” Rumi’s marks flare and her eyes glow a miserable amber, “why should I listen to anything you have to say to me.”) 

Each of them has suffered. Each of them is suffering still. 

(“You could have trusted us. You lied for years, Rumi. How were we supposed to react?” Even though the words are sharp, Mira finds she cannot yell at her love. She no longer has it in her to be angry, but she still needs to get it off of her chest.  She doesn't even need an answer. She just needs to say her piece before she allows herself to beg for forgiveness.) 

No one knows what their love is made of until it is tested. 

(Zoey looks smaller than she ever has before. She can still feel the blood between her fingers, under her nails. “We should have come for you sooner. We didn’t — we didn’t know but we should have come anyway.” 

She wishes she had fought harder during that first reset. But she can't change her past, she can only shape her future. 

“You stopped asking me to stay,” Rumi’s arms have curled in on herself, and Zoey longs to reach out and hold her but she isn't yet sure if her touch would be welcome. “You told me to let go.” 

Zoey isn't sure, but she will only know if she tries, so she wraps her love in her arms anyways. 

“Only so you could come back to us, only so we could come back to you.”) 

Zoey, Mira, and Rumi find, however, that their love is made of something inevitable. 

(“Every time,” Rumi finds herself curled between the two people she has only ever wanted to be held by. They don't know exactly when they moved to the ground, only that they all moved together. “Every time I went—” 

She feels their grips tighten around her, as if she might disappear even now. 

“I thought of you both every time. You were the life that flashed before my eyes.”

Their bodies are so tangled, it is impossible to know where one of them begins and the other ends. They share the same breath, the same atoms, the same soul. There was never meant to be a separation. 

“We wanted you with us so badly, every second, every reset,” Mira kisses these words into a pattern-marked collarbone, “we would have let the whole city burn for just a moment with you here with us.”

The warm, naked, desire that rumbles across Rumi’s skin at the words brings something back to life behind the bars of her ribs. ‘A lifetime of this,’ she knows, ‘a lifetime and more of only this.’) 

If they could have stayed like that forever, it would have been enough. Archeologists would dig up a millennia of dirt and uncover their bones still entwined. But duty has bound them together as well, and each of them knows that there are lives at risk with every additional moment they spend in their own little paradise. 

(“We still need to defeat Gwi-Ma,” Rumi speaks of a burden all three have been circling around. She knows they would never ask this of her after all that they’ve endured together. She knows, and it is a newfound kind of certainty, that they would abandon their promise to the world if she asked. 

And oh, what a lovely knowing it is, to be the thing that will always be chosen. To never have to beg again. 

But Rumi loves them too much to ever give them that ultimatum, and she may be a demon in blood, but she is a hunter at heart and a hero by choice. Just as she will always wish them back to life, she will always be willing to give her own for the safety of another.)

It is something the three will have to work on together, Rumi’s willingness for self-sacrifice. Along with Mira’s guilt and Zoey’s doubt and the hurting that lives inside all three of them. Their story is far from complete, and their healing has barely begun, but finally, finally, they are together. And together, they sing a new song. A song of truth and hope, but mostly, of love. 

(The Honmoon is no longer hurting as it is remade: good, it thinks. Let it be purged in the fire of its mistakes, so that it might come back a better thing.)

Rumi is no longer jealous and no longer alone. She no longer begs for an empty grave. Now, when she is tired or aching or starting to feel like an unloved thing, she just lays herself in bed beside the two women who will always love her best and thinks: more, more, a lifetime of more.

Chapter Text

Mira wakes to streaks of sunlight slipping through the windows of her bedroom with a sharp gasp. For a second, she panics, breath caught in her throat, balled up in a fistful of terror and something two-steps removed from mania: 

‘Rumi, Zoey, where are they, where did they go, what—’ 

Then, her mind and body still as she takes in the warmth of a leg between her own and the pins and needles dancing almost painfully across her left arm from the weight of the body on top of hers. She sighs deeply in relief and curls in tighter onto her left side, reaching out across Rumi’s still form to card her fingers through Zoey’s hair, the lyricist splayed out on the other side of their violet-haired love, Rumi laying silently on her back between them. 

‘Here. They’re both here. I didn’t lose them. They’re safe.’ Her thoughts rush over her like a balm, comforting in their simplicity. In the back of her mind, visions of blood, pooling and soaking into grass and dirt, of Zoey screaming in frustration and Rumi choking out mouthfuls of sticky crimson send a rush of copper flooding from behind the back of her tongue. 

(Their tears. 

Fire, burning and consuming everything. 

Everywhere. 

The feel of concrete under her knees. Visions of the Honmoon burning and Celine’s face spitting apart beneath her fists and running and running and Zoey crying and kneeling above their dying girl and Rumi’s blood coating her hands and the ground and her cheek and smearing her lipstick and—)

Angry tears threaten to leak out of Mira’s eyes as her body curls even more protectively around her two girls, her soulmates, the loves of her life. She’s so mad. At Celine. At herself. At the entire freaking world. 

And she has nowhere to put it, to put all this violent rage thrumming beneath her skin, coiling beneath the surface like a panther ready to strike. Her breath stutters out of her, the dam she so normally relies on to keep her feelings in check threatening to burst. 

‘Safe,’ her mantra repeats as she chokes down all the things she doesn’t want to feel. ‘We did it. Gwi-Ma’s gone. The loop’s over. Rumi’s safe. Zoey’s safe. You’re all together. Safe.’ 

So lost in the desire to get her feelings and thoughts under control, Mira almost misses it. But as she blinks away tears threatening to spill way too early in the morning, she sees it. 

Rumi’s eyes are open. Just barely. There’s a half-liddedness about the other girl’s expression that’s so easy to almost mistake for sleep. But Mira knows better, and she feels her stomach twist as a new worry creeps into her foggy consciousness. 

“Rumi,” she whispers, the gravel of sleep turning her words into a rumble, “babe, how long have you been awake?” 

Memories of returning from Namsan Tower the night before come to her in a rush as she tries to remember what had led them all to her room. 

(The three of them stumbled through their penthouse door gracelessly, stutteringly. Mira’s long arms wrapped tightly around the other two hunters with a protective, almost fearful grip. As if either one would disappear if she didn’t physically have her hands on some part of them. She walked in the middle, holding up their exhausted figures while simultaneously being kept steady by the two trembling women beside her. 

There was no time for food. The only thing on Mira’s mind was bed. 

Sleeping, holding her two girls close and never letting go. 

Mira remembered them collapsing into her bathroom, minds scattered and no one willing to be the first to step out and let the other go first. The three of them leaned side by side atop the white tiled floor. Their shoulders touched, jackets long since abandoned at some unknown point in the night. Skin pressed against skin, sweaty and grime-coated. 

"Rumi,” Zoey started hesitantly, eyes refusing to make contact with either one of them, “do you… want us to step out? So you can take a shower first? Or…” She trailed off, an alternative just barely hanging in the air between them, one neither her nor Mira were brave enough to voice to their normally so closed-off, self-sufficient, skin-shy leader.  

Mira panicked at the suggestion, at the idea of Rumi closing the door and disappearing from sight, but she knew they couldn’t force it. Couldn’t force her to accept more from them than she was comfortable with. So instead, the tall girl held her tongue and looked away, knees coming up to press against her chest, body already prepping for rejection. 

“Could—“ Rumi’s voice was hoarse, hesitant, as if she couldn’t bring herself to let loose whatever words were trapped desperately behind her gritted teeth. Instead, she let her hands drift out to grasp at their wrists, clenching in a near bruising grip around Mira and Zoey. 

Mira felt her breath catch in surprise, as if any sharp movement or even the slightest exhale might send the half-demon running. She glanced over disheveled purple hair and shared a grateful look with Zoey’s own wide-eyes.  

“Y-yeah,” Zoey continued, voice thick with relief. “Yeah, we can stay sweetheart. We’re right here, we’re not going anywhere, alright?” 

‘Thank god,’ Mira’s heart thumped violently in her chest. ‘Thank god, thank god. She’s right here. She wants us to stay.’ 

Rumi wanted them to take care of her, and it’s all Zoey and Mira had ever wanted from her. 

The only thing their giving girl had ever denied them. 

There was nothing sensual about their shared shower, and it’s far from what Mira had imagined of the first time they might have a moment like this. But as Zoey scraped her gentle fingers beneath strands of her hair, oil and grime draining away beneath lavender-eucalyptus suds, and as Mira wiped down the dry sweat coating Rumi’s skin, passing over the unpierced plane of her chest with hands shaking with something like reverence, with the the kind of gratitude she imagined might make someone believe in heaven, Mira had never known intimacy as deeply as in this quiet moment. The steam filling the room swirled around them carefully, lovingly, ghosting across their bare figures with a bashful touch. 

Fingers trembling, Zoey and Mira both unwove Rumi’s tight braid, washing her purple tresses. They brushed it down, towling it dry before putting it back up into a looser braid. Sweet smells filled the room as they worked in silence. They wanted to touch every part of her, every bit of skin and nail and opalescent pattern. They needed to know that she was there, whole and alive and warm in their hands. 

And surprisingly, Rumi had let them.

There were few words exchanged between the three, all of them still reeling from being sent back in time and almost losing one another over, and over again. 

(Of watching her bleed and die and bleed and die and bleed and—)

Once they were clean and dry, dressed in pairs of Mira's loose, soft pajamas and as free from the scent of ash and blood as they could be, all three women mindlessly carried themselves to Mira’s room and into her massive bed. There was no discussion, no hesitation. 

None of them wanted to be alone that night. Or ever again. 

Beneath the warmth of her silken-sheets and heavy comforter, Mira and Zoey wrapped themselves around Rumi in a cocoon of tangled limbs and safety, locking her in place between them greedily, desperately. Like dragons hoarding treasure, stretched across something precious. Beloved. 

Their girl. Their love. Theirs, theirs, all theirs. 

Eventually, Mira slipped into the welcome embrace of nothingness, thoughts and body going finally, blissfully, still.) 

Mira remembers falling asleep, but there’s something telling about the dark, almost bruise-like patches painted beneath Rumi’s eyes that cause a worried buzz to spark in her chest. 

The other girl hardly flinches at her question, but her eyes open up just a bit more, gaze twitching to meet Mira’s creased eyebrows and worried stare. She smiles, just barely. The ghost of something tired and achingly sad crossing her face. 

Mira’s hand reaches out to brush loose violet strands back behind her ear, the pads of her fingers coming down to rest against the pulse point of her patterned neck thoughtlessly, without meaning to or even knowingly. Her thumb stretches out to caress the smooth expanse of the other girl’s jaw. Automatically reaching for proof. For a steady beat to ground her like an anchor at sea. 

Rumi’s eyes crease joyfully at the mindless affection, but she continues to ignore the question in favor of taking in every centimeter of Mira’s soft expression, fiery hair alight in the golden glow of sunlight filtering onto the bed. 

Mira tries again, sighing lightly at the dark brown eyes peering into her own affectionately. “Pretty girl, what’s going on in that head of yours?” 

A dusting of light pink covers Rumi’s cheeks at the her words, patterns flashing softly in a way that Mira catalogs for later. 

At the sound of her voice, however, Zoey stirs with a tired groan, before something like lightning hits her and leaves her hands twitching and grasping for the two of them in the same panic that had struck Mira upon waking. 

Mira doesn’t leave her scared for long.

“Morning Zo, we’re all good, just trying to figure out when Rumi got up,” Mira speaks lowly, calmly. She can tell that the lyricist is fighting to ground herself in the moment and figure out what’s going on. So her tone pitches purposefully, clueing the sharp-minded writer into the fact that there’s something wrong. They make quick eye-contact and Zoey’s dilated pupils begin to return to their normal size. In an instant, Mira’s message has been sent and received.

She watches as Zoey scoots in closer to Rumi, nuzzling her nose into the side of her collarbone, forehead resting next to the dancer's fingers still on the pulse-point of patterned skin. Zoey pulls her hips up and wraps her thigh around the other girl’s waist, foot stretching out to trace feather-light against Mira’s long calf, the touch steadying the both of them, pulling them away from crimson memories creeping just on the outskirts of their shared imagination. 

“Hi cutie,” Zoey smiles into Rumi’s neck, breath tickling and leaving goosebumps on her lightly flushed shoulders. Barely exposed by the older girl’s loose fitting sleepwear. The rapper pulls her hand up to tap gently beneath a loose strand of purple at Rumi’s temple.  “What’cha thinking about? Did you sleep alright?” 

Rumi swallows, body still tense beneath the weight of the both of them wrapped around her. Mira can see the hesitation, the longing to share but no knowledge of how to do so stuffing the words down the normally reserved woman’s throat. It’s new to her, Mira knows, letting herself be cared for like this. 

Rumi has always known how to grin and bear…everything. Mira remembers the first time she had ever been scared by this tendency in her, the first time her amazement and admiration for it had turned to pinpricks of dread and nausea and fear. 

(It was in the middle of their first world-tour, between night one and night two of their stop in Tokyo. Before their first concert, the three of them had been caught fighting off a horde of demons minutes before having to go out on stage. Mira had left the fight tired. Bruised. They all had. 

And the fight had made them late. And being late had upset their still-newly established fanbase. Mira and Zoey had stepped onto the stage on shaky feet. And Mira had, uncharacteristically, unfortunately, embarrassingly, tripped during one of their dance breaks. She had stumbled forward, fighting to turn the inelegant flail into something creative, but her body ached and she couldn’t keep herself fully upright and she so braced herself for the pain of hitting the unforgiving stage below her . 

Instead, right before she could fully go down, Rumi had caught her by the waist and spun her around. She turned the moment into a sensual dip, a languid spin. The leader’s smile never left her face and her voice rang out across the stadium unwaveringly as she belted out her next verse, neon lights spinning around her like she was made of a different kind of magic than just the Honmoon. Mira knew she had never looked like that. 

‘Perfect,’ Mira remembered thinking to herself, face flushing as Rumi’s strong hands held her steady at the waist and set her back on her feet without breaking a sweat. 

It wasn’t terrible, a fairly smooth save, but still, the fans had noticed. 

They left grumbling about unprofessional idols. Showing up late, not knowing their steps, looking ragged on stage. 

And because the fans had noticed, the Honmoon that night wasn’t perfect. So they had gone out again, into the dark after the show to patch up more tears in the Honmoon and to cut down more demons attempting to take advantage of their poor performance. Every swing of her woldo burned at her shoulders, left her arms weak and leaden. 

By the time they made it back to their hotel room, the sun was peaking out into the distance and Mira could barely make it into her and Zoey’s shared bedroom, Rumi opting for a single right next to theirs. They were so tired. So goddamn exhausted. The two of them passed out as soon as they hit their mattress…sleeping straight through a pre-show set walkthrough with their agency to go over last night's performance and a late private lunch with their host stadium’s CEO. 

Mira woke up first. 

“Zoey!” She scrambled out of their sheets and shook the drooling younger girl. “Wake up! It’s late. We overslept. Fuck, fuck! Why didn’t anyone wake us up! We have to get Rumi, she’s going to freak out.” 

The two of them threw on the closest clothes they could grab, a horrible mismatch that they'd have to change in their dressing room later. They ran next door to Rumi’s room and knocked violently on the door before scanning through with their extra key card. But when they entered, the room was…empty. Sheets untouched from the previous day’s cleaning. Clothing from the night before  folded neatly on the pristine sheets. A roll of thick compression wrap sat unwrapped on the desktop and a half-empty bottle of painkillers glared angrily at the two of them from the left of it, right next to an empty water bottle. 

Mira froze, Zoey speechless right next to her. They shared a glance, gulping in concern as they took their phones out. Mira called Rumi and Zoey called Bobby. 

Only one of them picked up. 

“Girls!” Bobby’s cheery voiced chirped from Zoey’s speaker. “How are you both feeling? Rumi called me earlier to let us know she’d be handling the pre-show stuff herself today, that you were feeling a little under-the-weather after last night. I was under strict orders not to bother you with anything until you called. I’m so glad you’re awake! Do you think you’ll be alright to perform tonight? Do you need anything? Anything at all?”

“Y-yeah… feeling better already Bobby,” Zoey’s shaky voice tried to assure the energetic manager. “We’ll be good to perform, of course! But.. is Rumi… is she with you right now?”  

“Oh thank God!” He gave a little cheer, “Last show in Tokyo! A car will take you to the stadium so you can start getting ready as soon as possible. I’ll have tea, medicine, warming pads, masseuses, and soup set up to meet you. You two will crush it! Best show of the tour tonight, I know it! And Rumi’s not with me, she’s still with the Tokyo Dome CEO. It was tough but I think she managed to smooth over the fact that you both… uh… don’t worry about it! She should be getting out soon though, she’ll meet you in your dressing room once you get here and I’ll come by to check on all three of you!” 

“Thanks Bobby,” Mira sighed drily. “See you there.”

The two hung up and got ready to head to the venue. 

As they walked out of their transport SUV, into the stadium, and towards their dressing room, four figures stepped out of the closest stairway outside their nearby destination.

It was Rumi! And… a tall, imposing middle aged man walking too close to their touch-averse leader to be comfortable. His eyes were sharp, cut like a hawk’s and wandering as he spoke with an arrogant smirk. Two young male assistants trailed behind, dark jackets buttoned over expensive black ties, earpieces shiny behind dark shades. 

Mira couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but Rumi’s face was smiling. An empty kind of smile. Her PR face. Her eyes were flint, matte, going through the motions of their conversation with an overly bright laugh at whatever joke the man next to her had just spit out. The four caught sight of them while they walked, and something real crept into the other girl’s soft-brown gaze. The tension in her shoulders lessened, just by a hair. Subconsciously, she stepped an inch farther away from the middle-aged executive. 

“Rumi!” Zoey yelled, jogging over to meet them in the middle of the hall. Mira trailed after, eyes taking in every inch of the other girl, mind flashing back to a bright orange bottle and a half-used roll of medical tape. “We—” she paused briefly, uncertainty creeping in as she tried to figure out what to say next. The salt-and-pepper haired man facing them looked at the younger girl with thinly veiled judgement. 

Immediately, the two other singers remembered the casual outfits they had pulled on to scramble out of their room and the fact that they hadn’t put on any makeup since it would just be replaced by their pre-show staff. 

Rumi looked perfect, her face clear underneath layers of foundation, outfit the pre-planned one set out by their stylist, hair in its characteristic tight braid. 

“Kitasura-san,” Mira cut in with an apologetic bow, Zoey quickly following her lead, “we wanted to apologize for our absence to your invite to lunch. We were feeling a little ill last night and Rumi was gracious enough to cover for us today so that we could be at our best for tonight’s show. We hope that our absence wasn’t too greatly felt but please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make up for your hospitality this week.” She lifted her head, eyeing him with an uncommonly apologetic look. Fake to anyone who knew her but real enough to pass for this asshole. 

“It’s quite alright,” his voice was professionally cold, “I completely understand. Afterall, my stadium makes very little tonight if you all are a no show. And your lovely leader more than made up for you both today.” As he spoke, his arm drifted, coming to rest on the small of Rumi’s back, the singer’s jaw tightening just barely at his touch, “She has quite a voice. And her dancing? Truly flawless.” His hand stayed there, rested on the skin left exposed by her cropped shirt, and all Mira and Zoey could do was stare. 

“A private performance by the lead of Korea’s most up-and-coming idol group was truly an unforgettable experience. I wish I could keep her here all to myself,” he finished with a smile that was just a touch too possessive to be considered polite. 

Mira and Zoey were shaking, teeth grit and hands balled as they took in Rumi’s empty laugh and thank-yous for the ‘compliments.’ They were silent as she sent him off, well-wishes and a polite goodbye as he kissed her hand softly before walking off with his assistants. As soon as he turned the corner, Mira’s eyes snapped to the purple-haired vocalist. 

“What the hell, Rumi!” She bit out, words harsher than she intended but her rage at being left in the room this morning blended unwillingly into the malice that slimy bastard had sparked in her, “Why didn’t you wake us up with you? And—” 

Zoey’s gentle hand on her shoulder cut the fiery red-head off mid-sentence, and she let herself take in the girl looking just past the two of them, her stare a thousand yards away and eyes glazed with exhaustion. 

“Are you okay?” The rapper asked cautiously, and the question seemed to snap Rumi back into focus. The girl’s empty expression fell away, replacing itself with a soft smile. More genuine, but still…off. Still frayed around the edges. 

“Of course Zo,” She placed her hand on the younger girl’s shoulder, as if she were trying to comfort her instead of the other way around, “I’m glad you’re both looking better. I was worried about you last night, figured you could use the extra rest. I’ll come over to go through the notes from the walk-through this morning before I head over to get changed for the show. Sound good?” 

To anyone who didn’t know her, the look would have been perfect. Her performance flawless. But to them? They saw it all. The way her eyes stayed closed, the way her hand trembled slightly with exhaustion. The way she was just barely favoring her left leg, weight distributed an ounce to the right. 

“What’d you hurt?” Mira asked gruffly, shoving down her frustration in favor of her concern. “And what was up with that ‘private performance’ shit. Did he make you…did he do anything weird…or something? While you—while you were alone with him?” 

“I’m—” Rumi tried to start, before Mira cut her off sharply. 

“I swear to God, if you say fine right now I think I’ll go find that guy, kick his ass, kick his assistants’ asses, and then put their heads up each other’s asses. I don’t give a shit about performing in any venue in Japan every again or even being allowed back into the country. I’m not even joking right now, I swear I’ll do it.” 

Rumi’s jaw twitched, eyes searching her face for any sign of a joke. She saw none. 

“...my left ankle,” she let out a long breath. “I—one of the demons we were fighting hit it. And nothing, nothing too weird happened. He’s just a big fan. He loved the Sunlight Sisters when he was a teen or something… said I looked like my mom. Wanted me to sing a little for him after we ate, a few of our bigger songs. And…a few of my mom’s. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. He left happy and said he’d love to have us back next tour!” 

She ended with another smile, this one tighter and larger, white teeth flashing, blindingly bright. As if she were trying to convince all three of them that everything was okay. 

Mira and Zoey were silent. Something sick settling into their stomachs, something toxic filling the air. Mira tasted copper, there was a ringing in her ears. She was going to kill him. She was going to tear him apart. She was going to rip his throat out and make him eat it. 

She had no words. 

She had no idea what to do. 

Zoey spoke instead, her voice small, uncertain. “Bruised or…” she nodded down at Rumi’s leg, focusing instead on the easier of the two parts of Rumi’s story. 

Rumi grimaced, mouth pulling into a wiry look of uncertainty.

“Not…not exactly,” she answered. In a way that most certainly meant worse. 

“Can we—could Mira and I see it? Just to check and see how it’s healing?” Mira saw Zoey’s hands twitch with the need to do something, anything. She felt it too. The need to cradle and care for and make better. 

Rumi looked like she wanted to fight, so Mira didn’t give her the chance. With a grunt, she stepped forward and lifted their self-sacrificing idiot into her long arms, walking down the hallway and carrying her into their dressing room despite her squawks of protest. Once inside the room, she laid her on the couch and kneeled down beside her. She ignored the flush lighting up beneath Rumi’s layers of foundation and instead focused on the sound of Zoey closing the door behind them before creeping over to join her on the ground. 

Mira spoke in a way that left no room for argument. “Rumi, I’m going to take off your boots and I’m going to check your ankle. If you don’t let us see it, I’m going to call Bobby and tell him we can’t perform tonight.” 

Rumi’s eyes lit up in indignation, teeth bared as if to bite, shoulders hunched around her ears protectively. “What the hell Mira? I’m fine! It’s already wrapped and if we don’t go on then what the heck was I doing singing for that asshole like some pretty little wind-up doll?” 

But Mira was unmoved. Next to her, Zoey reached out to Rumi’s injured leg and rested her hand on the zipper of her knee high boot. It was so hard, having to fight every time to take care of their girl. But if they didn’t, no one would. Rumi flinched at the gentle pressure, teeth still clenched and nostrils flared in  unspoken frustration. 

It took patience, but their love was patient. 

It took careful words and open palms, but it was always worth it. For her. 

“Rumi,” Zoey’s voice was so so lovely, so so sweet as she spoke. “Please let us take care of you. Just this once. Could you give that to us?”

Rumi’s shoulders stayed tensed, but she had never been able to deny the two of them anything. Not when they truly asked. Not when it was something small, something she knew she could give. 

“...just my left one,” She assented, and Mira stared as the singer took her bottom lip between her pretty white teeth, worrying her skin as the examination began. 

Mira watched as Zoey pulled off the older girl’s boot, before peeling off her sock to reveal a mess of tightly wound tan tape. With every inch that was unrolled, slivers of purple-black bruises were revealed like watercolor painted carelessly along the base of her calf and the start of her foot. It was painfully swollen, fiery red and warm to the touch. 

“How long has—when did you get hurt? Which fight was it?” Mira wanted to throw up, she wanted to be sick, because they had fought demons twice yesterday, and she and Zoey hadn’t noticed anything wrong either time. 

Rumi hesitated to answer, her shy gaze refusing to meet their watery eyes. 

“The one,” she swallowed almost guilty, “the one before the show.” 

Mira already knew what the answer would be, but it still hurt to hear. That she had danced on her leg like this, that she had caught her while she fell, that she had gone out again afterwards and spent the whole day on her feet and they had been none the wiser. 

“Damn it Rumi,” her voice cracked, throat dry and eyes burning. “Why do you always do this?” She sniffed, holding back an ambush of tears, “why do you always hide when you’re hurting?”

“I don’t want you both to worry,” the injured woman whispered, hands twisting in her lap like she had to physically keep herself from reaching out to them for comfort, “I never want you to worry about me.” 

Mira felt her heart creek, crack right down the middle, spider-web fissures coating the aching expanse of her soul. 

“All we do is worry, Rumi!” Zoey yelled, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. “It’s all we do. We just wish you could understand that the less you worry about yourself, the more we worry about you. We go to sleep at night worrying about you! We wake up worrying about you! We worry about you in between sipping our boba and practicing choreography and every freaking moment of every freaking day!” 

The dark haired girl’s voice wobbled. “We’re the worrying kind, you can’t stop us.” 

Mira watched Rumi steel herself, some invisible battle waging behind the furrow of her purple brows. Eventually she came to some conclusion, and Mira hated that she knew what it was. 

Rumi put that awful smile back on her face and propped her body up, as if to leave. To run. “Thanks Zoey, thanks Mira. But we should probably get ready, makeup and costume are waiting on us.”

Mira couldn’t stop the words that rushed out of her. “You can’t seriously think we’re letting you go out on this thing!” Her eyes flared open incredulously, pink eyebrows shooting nearly into her hairline. “Your leg is probably fractured! What the hell aren’t you understanding right now?” 

Immediately, Mira wished she could take the words back. 

“…Letting me?” Rumi’s tone was frigid, frostbitten around the edges. It turned the whole room cold.

Rumi had taken their prodding and their ultimatums with barely a fight, but Mira knew the singer’s buttons and which ones to never press, to never even touch. “You think you get to choose whether I go out and do my job? Whether something I’m feeling is too much for me? You think you can put me on what? A time out? And then what? We let the Honmoon get weaker so that there are more demons to fight tonight? We cancel the tour because I was too careless to dodge a low swing with a pipe and then we have to explain that to our fans who already think we’re flakes that we can’t perform because I’m the problem?”  

Rumi never yelled, but this high-pitched, angry rush of words was the closest she ever let herself get. 

Mira flinched, each word landing like blows, one after another. The kinds that left her aching and miserable and itching to pick a fight so she could feel anything else. Still, Rumi kept speaking. “No. You know what you can do for me right now? You can either rewrap my leg and get ready to go out or you can leave me alone so I can do it myself.” 

When Rumi felt cornered, she bit. She snapped at every hand in front of her, the kind that hit and the kind that helped. It didn’t matter which one. 

Zoey and Mira were quiet. The room was still. 

Until Mira reached for the medical wrap, hands clenching the fleshy fabric with emotions she couldn’t even name. 

Except one: rage. It was her most constant companion. But there was nowhere for her to put it where it wouldn’t just make things worse. 

There was no use piling pain on top of pain. 

Mira didn’t want Rumi to hurt anymore than she already was. 

When it was done, her injured girl hobbled out in silence. They didn’t see her again till they were backstage, getting ready to walk out for the show, the roar of the crowd shaking the stage beneath them, the lights coating everything in a bright blue glow. The color washed over her violet hair, painting her solemn figure in shades of sapphire and something sadder. She looked tragically beautiful, and Mira couldn’t look away. 

But as soon as they stepped onto the stage, every trace of discomfort bled off of the curve of her spine. It dripped off her broad shoulders with a wave and shrug. Mira watched from just two steps behind as Rumi yelled out with a grin to the crowd, hips swinging and feet stepping confidently onto the wood below them.  

Rumi didn’t miss a step the whole night. She was perfect. Like always. 

And Mira had never felt more afraid of the other girl, of what she was capable of doing to herself.) 

Those memories come to Mira in a rush, and she’s left torn. Because on the one hand, she wants to beg and hold onto her hurting girl until she tells them what’s wrong. But on the other…

Mira knows what happens when she tries to hold on too tight to people. 

And so she waits, and hopes. Hopes that this time, things will be different. That Rumi will see them, arms open and waiting, and trust that if she reaches out first, they’ll grab on to her and never let go. The night before had been encouraging, but it was hardly the mark of a new leaf being turned over. 

Mira sees her jaw twitching, another battle, years later, being waged in those same sad eyes. Exhaustion still clings to the half-demon, darkens the skin beneath her lashes like an ever-present shadow. 

Eventually, Mira can see when one side wins, and she steels herself for the ‘I’m fine,’ the ‘don’t worry about it,’ that she’s sure is about to come out of the vocalists mouth, poison gilded in honey and gold.

Nothing can prepare her for the words that come next. 

“Dying…it feels a lot like falling asleep, you know?” 

Rumi doesn’t know what she’s thinking as those words spill out of her mouth. Maybe the issue is that she isn’t thinking. She’s too tired for that. 

She’s been tired for so long. 

The night before, when Mira and Zoey had wrapped themselves around her like a promise and let the dark embrace of nothingness carry them to sleep, Rumi had stayed awake. 

The entire night, she laid between the two, silent and still, breaths coming in even four-count beats. 

She’d stayed like that for hours, every minute passing by like an eternity. 

(But compared to the lifetimes she had spent on her knees, bleeding out and fading away, the insides of her spilling into the dirt like a tipped over vase, eternity was nothing.) 

She’d watched the ceiling intently as clouds passed by outside the window, cutting through the moonlight and coating the room in an infinite combination of pale fractals. She counted every divot and blemish on the ceiling above her, looking for any imperfection in the paint to assess. She would turn her head right, and take in the sharp angles of Mira’s jaw, numbering her eyelashes and memorizing the dips and curves of her slightly parted lips. Then, she would tilt her head left and take in the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of Zoey’s nose, immortalizing their patterns, the shape of each light-brown star.  

She passed the time carving them into her memory with the kind of care a sculptor  might take with a piece of marble.

If there was nothing left of her but the memory of them, Rumi’s heart beat fondly in her chest, it would have been enough.

But each second Rumi felt Mira’s shifting hands or Zoey’s sprawled form sent sharp jolts of warmth and fear coursing through her in equal measure. 

Fear that they would let go. Fear that they would disappear. Fear that, if she closed her eyes, she’d wake up back in that dark arena, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to escape the cold embrace of the only mother she’d ever known outside of a tombstone or a birthday wish, and unable to escape the inevitably of being put down by the one who had once been her whole entire world, her whole entire heart. 

It was hardly the first sleepless night she’d ever had, and with Mira and Zoey’s warmth pressing in like two super-charged space-heaters against her skin, it was hardly the worst she’d ever had either. 

(In her heart, she knows: it was probably the best) 

Rumi wished for that night to last forever. But eventually, Mira had woken up, and Zoey was quick to follow, leaving her with nothing but the naked care and hope in their eyes, the desire for her to reach out permeating the quiet morning air. 

She doesn’t know why she says it, but it’s really the only thing that makes sense to her. The only words she can manage to string together. 

“Dying…it feels a lot like falling asleep, you know?” 

Because it does, it did.

Rumi remembers the feeling of drifting, of the way her eyes went heavy and her mind began to quiet, of her memories flooding her like a welcome dream. 

(She remembers gold and laughter. The smell of the sea and a cackling seagull, a bright yellow bomber and the taste of cherries on her lips.

Mira and Zoey and Zoey and Mira.

Always, always, always.)  

On both sides of her, Rumi hears twin inhales, two chests stuttering as their breath catches and ricochets around their ribs at her whispered confession. Mira’s grip tightens. Zoey’s thigh presses down into her hips with an aching, welcome pressure. The embrace feels…good. It feels…safe. 

It feels like being home. 

(The fear lingers, though. The fear of taking advantage of their kindness, or overstepping the bounds of their affection. The logical, practical part of her knows she could never. That Zoey and Mira love her the way she loves them, without exception, without limit. But the little animal inside her chest? The one that hoards kindness like gold and snaps at prodding fingers? That tiny beast is afraid. 

Because there’s always the possibility, the chance that this isn’t what she thinks. That it won’t last. That she’s already fallen asleep and this is the dream. Just a pause in her personal hell, an interlude to make her return to the cycle that much worse.) 

But no, that’s not true. Mira and Zoey found her. They brought her back. Gwi-Ma is gone (Jinu is gone). The people are safe. The Honmoon is restored. It’s a new day. 

It’s the first new day Rumi’s seen in…in she doesn’t even remember how long. 

Rumi’s known endless nights, but this gentle daybreak is unfamiliar. This easy warmth, bleeding into her from two beating hearts pressed along her skin, this fullness behind her sternum. 

Maybe it’s the golden light, or the warmth, or the exhaustion permeating even the marrow of her bones that causes her to open up. Maybe it’s how tired she is of hiding, always hiding. Of biting her tongue and sealing her lips. Of smiling anyways. Most likely, it’s a combination of it all. 

Whatever it is, it pushes those words out of her mouth like an overnight-guest that’s overstayed their second-hand invite. Awkwardly. Without anyone knowing what to do with them out in the open. 

And once they’re out, Rumi finds that she can’t stop herself. 

“I was scared the first time, but not fully? Not scared the way you should be to— I mean, I asked her to do it. I put myself there. I gave her my blade and told her to… begged her to—“ 

It feels like release, like too much too fast. Rumi chokes, and she’s too much of a coward to say the whole of it to them, too disgusted with herself and the fact that she had abandoned Mira and Zoey and run to the only solution she could think of in her panic. She was such a coward. Such an embarrassment. 

She had run to Celine, who could have been her mother in another life. Celine, who had only chosen to spare her once , and only when her hand was forced. Only when the two girls Rumi knows she had always secretly wished were her daughters instead were there to see her.  

Her hands slide up beneath the arms still wrapped tenderly around her body, and she presses into her own shoulders with sharp, claw-like nails that dig into the fabric of Mira’s old pajamas. The pain grounds her and she needs more. But she can’t. She’s wearing Mira’s shirt and she needs to be careful not to rip the cotton. 

“And when she did it, when she… you know. It hurt. It hurt so bad. But then it would stop hurting, eventually, and I’d just be cold. And everything would get kind of blurry? Like the moment before sleep hits, or…or right when you’re about to pass out—that feeling of everything going dim at the edges? That’s what it feels like to die. That’s what it felt like every time.” 

She’s rambling, she knows she is. “I don’t… I can’t just…if I close my eyes and I fall asleep, then what if—“ She freezes mid sentence, chest rising and falling quickly, too quickly. 

‘God,’ Rumi’s thoughts rattle bitterly around her skull as her eyes squint closed. ‘What are you even doing right now? Nobody wants to listen to you being stupid and depressing. You’re in bed with the two people you love the most in the world and you can’t even pretend to be happy? They were going through just as much as you were and here you go making it all about yourself. Pull yourself together you weak, whiny, poor excuse for a—‘ 

“Bonk.”

Rumi flinches, not so much in pain…more, surprise? She opens her eyes only to find dark, curled lashes an inch away from her own. There’s a steady pressure on her forehead, the feel of skin against skin as a nose tickles her own, the tip of it brushing back and forth in short sways. Zoey’s dark eyes stare into her own with an understanding shine, pinpricks of tears lining the corners of her lashes.  

“Wha—” 

She’s cut off unceremoniously again. Zoey’s breath puffs against her lips as the rapper lifts her head, only to let it tap down against her skull again in a thump. 

“Bonk.” 

Rumi feels an incredulous laugh start to bubble up, she can’t believe she just got—

“Bonk!” Zoey’s ballooned cheeks push out the sound a third time. “I couldn’t tell what you were thinking those last two times, but I knew that things were getting dark in there so I figured, better safe than sorry.” She taps her fingers against Rumi’s temple. “I don’t like when you say mean things about yourself, even when it’s not out loud.” 

Rumi feels her eyes water. It’s so like her, she thinks, to make her smile —a real smile— even at her worst. 

She feels two other hands pry her hands away from her shoulders, Mira’s she knows, weaving their fingers together in a tight grip. The contact on her forehead stays there, warm and grounding. Thumbs caress the backs of her hands in thoughtless swirls. 

It’s nice. The pressure. 

The tension starts to bleed out of her. 

It’s so nice. 

Zoey doesn’t know what she’s doing, not fully. All she knows is that one second Rumi’s patterns are flaring a sickly purple, arms tightening around her chest like a self-imposed straight jacket. Face twisting like something awful is pounding within her skull. 

One second Rumi is at the diving board’s edge of panic, and the next Zoey is trying to literally knock a flood of terrible thoughts out of the other girl’s ears like pool water. 

God, she hopes she isn’t making this worse. 

But then pretty brown eyes are open and gazing into her own and at least she’s on the right track? She thinks? 

At the feel of gentle laughter rumbling in the other singer’s chest, Zoey feels herself grin. 

Yeah, right track. 

At this rate, she might as well keep going. 

“I know you’re scared,” Zoey still hasn’t lifted her head from where it rests atop strands of loose purple. “I know, because I am too. We all are. But I promise, sweetheart, I promise. We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.” 

“But how can I know?” Rumi chokes out, a little more aware than before but still aching. Still scared and coiled like a frightened street cat. “How can I know you’re real? How do I know this isn’t just some trick?”

Zoey aches. “Feel this, feel this right here Ru,” She presses her palm to the side of her face, hand bleeding warmth and pulsing with the steady beat of her heart. “This is real. I promise. Trust us. Trust that we’d never leave you somewhere we couldn’t follow.” 

Mira joins her gentle encouragement. “Don’t worry tough guy, you couldn’t get rid of us even if you wanted to. You’re stuck with us. Forever babe. Can’t fight it.” 

Zoey nods, the skin on her forehead pulling against Rumi’s own. “Yup, no take-bakes. No refunds or returns. All purchases final.” 

Rumi giggles softly at their words. But the tension still won’t fall away fully, no matter how hard they try. Something haunted still lingers in her smile, in the corners of her eyes. 

“But what if...what if when I wake up I’m back there?” Her voice shakes. “ God. If I open my eyes and I’m back where I can’t even—where I don’t even get to…” 

Zoey knows what she’s afraid of and it hurts that she can’t imagine anything scarier. To go from having everything to being stuck somewhere with no end, with not even death to fall back on as a possible escape. 

She remembers every second of Rumi running to them, before their first loop. Even though it feels like so long ago, she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the sight of her heaving form, patterns alight and eye glowing, begging them for help. The fear in her eyes. The misery dripping off of her. The way she had tried, and failed, to give them a fractured semblance of an explanation. 

Zoey remembers them sending her away. 

And then, Zoey now knows, she had run to Celine and begged to die. 

Just like that, Rumi had lost their fans, lost every secret, lost them, and thought to herself: ‘Yeah, I’ve got nothing else to lose.’ 

Zoey and Mira had forced her to go, and then they had been forced to hold the consequences of that moment in blood-soaked hands. 

God, Zoey’s heart is racing, and all she can think is that she hopes Rumi can freaking feel the truth of their words. She hopes each syllable is sinking into her precious girl down to the bones. 

“We’re right here,” She chants. “We’re right here baby. We’re right here pretty girl. You’re here. You’re not going anywhere. We’ve got you.” 

You’ll never be alone again, she thinks. 

We’ll never not come for you first. 

When you open your eyes, we’ll be here. 

Always here, always waiting, always ready with good night and good morning and good-everything-in-between. 

Eventually, Zoey slips her head back down to rest atop the other girl’s broad shoulders.

(When they first met, Zoey had looked at this teenage girl with her straight spine, toned arms, cut jaw, and wide, eyeless smile, and thought that she must've been able to carry the entire world on her back. 

Zoey had looked at Rumi like the sun. Blinding. Burning. Bright. 

And then, she had watched her bend. 

With every day they spent training and laughing and learning about one another, Zoey had seen past the brightness, eyesight adjusting as she watched her posture slump under the weight of an invisible burden she longed to know the shape of. Longed to carry even an ounce of. Zoey had watched the cracks spider out across her plaster facade to reveal someone tired and hurting and hungry for love curled up beneath the surface. 

She waited for the day when her girl would break underneath it. She never did.)

But right now, as she feels her leader unwind in the cradle of her and Mira’s arms, she cherishes being there to watch that weight slip away. She whispers calming words into her ear and watches Mira inch down to do the same on the opposite side.

“Rest, babe,” Mira sighs, and Zoey smiles at the sight of her long fingers trailing down to massage whatever tension is left out of her shoulders. 

“Just close your eyes and we’ll be here,” Zoey follows.  

We’ll be waiting. It goes unsaid. 

The three of them press together, impossibly close. They fit together like a puzzle. The soft scent of lavender and eucalyptus swirls around the three of them. A reminder of everything they’ve been washed clean of. Until finally, finally—

Rumi falls asleep. 

Zoey thinks, at least. “Do you think she’s… y’know? Actually out this time?” She whispers across to Mira. 

They both wait a second, pausing. Listening to her inhales and her exhales. 

“Yeah,” Mira answers. “Yeah I think she’s out for real.” 

Zoey feels a whine build in her throat. “Mira,” her voice comes out tear-filled and choked, “Mira what're we gonna do?” 

Mira shakes her head, at a loss for words. “We’ll figure it out, Zo. But for now, I think we just need to rest. We need to let her rest, for once.” 

Zoey nods. Her grip tightens and she leans into Mira’s hand as it comes up to brush the stray hairs out of her face. “Yeah, rest.” 

They settle into the covers, still tangled in a ball of limbs. 

Zoey, characteristically, is the one to break the silence. 

“Mira?” She whispers. 

“...yeah?” 

“...I have to pee.”

Mira inhales, then lets out a heavy sigh. “...too bad.” 

‘Fair,’ Zoey admits to herself. 

Then, a few minutes later, it’s Mira that speaks. 

“I can’t feel my arm,” she lets out a pained murmur. “Zoey, it’s trapped.” 

Zoey snickers, the word karma floating into her head unwillingly. “Too bad.” 

But eventually, as the minutes creep by and the room begins to brighten with the rising sun, Zoey and Mira come up with a plan. They decide to rotate, shoving down their guilt to run as fast as possible to the bathroom, or to get water, or to adjust pins-and-needles limbs as gently as possible. 

They always come tumbling back, neither one willing to let the others out of their sight for long. 

(Zoey had never peed so quickly in her life.)

There are times when Rumi is shaken awake by a searing pain in her chest, by the feel of a phantom trail of blood drying against her skin. 

Her eyes flare open. Breath catching between her fourth and fifth rib and leaving her with a stich in her side. She scrambles blindly, body tense and ready to spring away. 

(Faintly, she has to remind herself that she can. That her body is hers to move.) 

But before she can get too far, the steady weight of arms and legs anchor her in place. 

She never wakes alone. 

Sometimes, it’s Zoey on her left, Mira on her right. Or Zoey sprawled across them both. Or Mira wrapped around her back like a koala, long limbs covering every inch of her. Or Mira grumbling about Zoey pulling all the blankets to her side, and Zoey sniping back that maybe Mira should go get more blankets. 

Sometimes it’s reversed, and she knows that they’re getting up and changing positions, but never straying far. 

Sometimes gentle kisses pepper her skin, the curve of her ears and the thin skin of her eyelids, and lull her back into the welcome embrace of sleep. 

‘We’ll be here,’ Zoey had promised her. 

‘You’re stuck with us,’ Rumi had felt Mira’s smirk against her skin. The way it had curled at the edges. 

She sleeps, and she wakes, and they are the first and last things she sees. 

They always will be. 

She's never slept better, and she never sleeps alone again.