Chapter Text
💜
"I'm done hiding, now I'm shining like I'm born to be—"
The note catches in Rumi’s throat. Not a crack. Not a missed pitch. A squeak.
She chokes on it—voice pinched, raw. She clamps a hand to her throat, blinking in disbelief.
What the hell?
She doesn’t miss notes. She doesn’t squeak. She doesn’t fail .
Mira’s voice cuts through the silence. “You okay?” A hand touches her shoulder.
Too much.
Rumi flinches and shrugs it off fast, blinking hard, pretending like it didn’t send a tremor through her.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “Let’s take it again. From the top.”
Bobby raises an eyebrow from behind the camera. Zoey hesitates, sharing a concerned glance with Mira. Rumi avoids everyone’s eyes.
The music starts again. She’s got it this time. Just breathe, engage your core, it’s a simple flip up to high A, she’s done it a thousand times.
"I'm done hiding, now I'm—"
Another squeak.
Rumi swallows panic. She can do this. She has to do this.
The Honmoon is nearly sealed. They saw gold. They’re so close. She’s the lead. The anchor. The one who should be strong enough to go that extra mile.
She can feel it already, her patterns buzzing faintly under her skin, curling at the edges like flame in wind. Reacting to her fear. To her failure.
She doesn’t mess up. Ever.
A phantom heat flashes across her shoulder. The memory slams in, uninvited.
“Again.”
Celine’s voice, flat. Cold.
“You dropped the note. Start over.”
Rumi’s throat is raw, the skin of her shoulder stinging from the strike. She nods anyway. She always nods.
Celine’s hand never lingers after the hit. Contact is only for correction.
“Rumi?” Bobby asks in concern, snapping her back to the present “do you need some water?”
She clears her throat then gives a lazy wave. “I just need five,” she says casually, already backing up. “I’m gonna take five”
Murmurs of confusion reach her ears but she doesn’t care. She needs to get a handle on herself. They can’t see this. Her patterns itch beneath her skin.
Zoey takes a half step forward but Rumi flashes them a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m good. Be right back”
She turns before anyone can ask anything else, and walks offstage like her chest isn’t splintering.
* * *
🔥
Something’s wrong.
Mira knows it the second Rumi flinched at her touch.
Of course she’s noticed over the years how Rumi isn’t really a touchy person. She hardly ever initiates contact, not unless she’s overly excited. But she doesn’t flinch from it. Not with her. Not with Zoey. And especially not on stage.
Mira watches the exit door swing shut and sets her jaw. Next to her, Zoey’s already moving like she’s going to follow, but Mira reaches out, catching her arm.
“Let her go”
Zoey stops “but—”
“She’s been under a lot of pressure” Mira says evenly “give her space”
She doesn’t say what she’s actually thinking: That Rumi’s hands were shaking. That her voice didn’t just crack—it froze. That she looked… afraid.
Mira crosses her arms, breathing slow. But her mind’s still tracing every detail, every action that was slightly off. clocking her body language as if it’s a part of her.
She sees her. She always sees her.
She’s seen Rumi bleed and grin through it. Take hits harder than most of them could walk away from. Watched her dance with a blade like it was part of her body. But this—whatever this is—this scared her.
And Mira doesn’t understand why.
She doesn’t like not knowing what’s happening. She doesn’t like that Rumi lies with her smile. That her voice sounds so easy, so rehearsed, when she says she’s fine.
Why won’t she let them in?
Mira would fight gods for her. And for Zoey. Bleed out in an alleyway and call it a good day if it meant her girls were safe. That’s just how it is. That’s just what you do when someone’s yours —
She cuts off that thought before it finishes. She doesn’t need to name it. Doesn't want to.
All she knows is that something—or someone—is causing Rumi to pull away.
And Mira doesn’t like it one bit.
* * *
🐢
Zoey’s moving before she realizes it. Half a step off her mark, like it’s instinct.
She wants to go after Rumi. Just wants to make sure she’s okay, to wrap an arm around her shoulder and whisper something that’ll make it better. Anything. A joke, a lyric, a dumb memory from training—whatever works.
But Mira’s hand catches her arm, low and firm.
“Give her space” she says
Zoey stops, blinking. Her chest still feels tight, like the note that cracked in Rumi’s throat is stuck in hers now. “But—”
“She’s been under pressure,” Mira adds, voice calm. Reasonable. “Give her space”
Zoey nods slowly, but her eyes stay on the exit, as if expecting Rumi to walk back through like nothing happened.
Because this… this isn’t like Rumi.
Mira and Zoey mess up all the time. In rehearsal, in training, even on hunts. Nobody’s perfect, but one of them is always there to pick them back up. But honestly… Rumi always hits her mark, nails her routine, and does it with enviable grace.
She doesn’t miss notes.
But this wasn’t just a flub. This was panic.
And Zoey hates panic. Hates not knowing what to do. She grew up in a house where shouting was the only form of communication, where vulnerability was something that happened behind locked doors or not at all. She told herself she’d be different. That she’d be a safe place for the people she loved.
But Rumi… she doesn’t let people in easily. She’s all calm smiles and controlled strength, like she’s holding the weight of something just out of view. And Zoey doesn’t want to pry—she respects that. But she also wants to scream sometimes because all she wants is for Rumi to lean on her , just once.
She’ll give Rumi space, if that’s what Mira thinks she needs. But god does she want to go to her.
Her fingers twitch at her side. And then Mira’s hand brushes hers, and Zoey slides her fingers between hers, seeking warmth.
“Okay, let’s not panic” Bobby says to the group “everything is fine, I can handle this” he sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself more than them. “We can afford to postpone a bit”
Red ripples through the Honmoon and Zoey tenses. Red in the Honmoon means demons.
But this… this is different. She blinks. The ripple glides one strand at a time. Not like a breach, not the way demon energy slams through with jagged fury and all consuming chaos. No, this is almost… gentle.
And it’s the wrong shade. It’s a washed out red, almost pink at the edges. Like a blush. Or a burn.
“Mira…” Zoey’s voice is barely a whisper “did you see that?”
Mira nods, glancing around as if someone else has noticed, though she knows only hunters can see the Honmoon.
“I’ve never seen it like that” Zoey says
“Me neither” Mira’s voice is low, calculating, watching the Honmoon like a live wire, daring the ripple to happen again.
It doesn’t
Zoey’s heart thuds. “We’re cancelling the show, aren’t we.”
Mira motions to Bobby “yeah. We should probably go find Rumi”
* * *
💜
Rumi didn’t intend to leave the building. She just needed five. But one second she was staring at the new patterns on her throat, and the next second she was running.
Running .
Out the back exit. Down the alleyway. Up a set of stairs. She doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.
Her chest tightens, her lungs claw for air, but it’s not enough. It’s like her skin is shrinking around her, like she’s being folded inward, like the walls of her own body are closing in.
She vaults a fence with practiced grace. Scales the wall of an old record shop. Takes the ledge in three bounding steps and launches herself onto the next rooftop.
The city blurs around her, braid snapping behind her like a tail she’s trying to outrun.
Faster. Faster.
Her boot catches the edge of a tile—barely a slip, just a half step too short—and she stumbles.
And suddenly it’s years ago . Another rooftop. Another fall.
“You lost your balance.”
Celine’s voice again, cool as the blade in her hand.
“Demons won’t give you second chances, Rumi.”
The rod glows white-hot as it strikes across her back. She doesn’t scream. She never screams.
Pain means improvement. Weakness must be purged. Mistakes are fuel.
She gasps, bumping her hip against a corner, but manages to regain her balance. The pain is nothing. She deserves it.
She doesn’t mess up. She can do better. She will do better.
She’s rarely heard Celine’s voice in her head the past few years. Not since she moved into the tower with Mira and Zoey. Not since the private training sessions with her stopped.
She’s been so focused on their music and on sealing the Honmoon and just being with her girls that she hasn’t had time to think about the past. But now it’s slipping through her mental cracks. And she can’t control it.
Her marks pulse beneath her clothes. Hot and humming and too close to the surface. But she ignores them. Pretends she can’t feel the way they claw up her spine, the way they ache behind her ribs.
She doesn’t stop running until she realizes there’s nowhere left to go. She’s on the roof. Their roof. The tallest point of the highrise, a breath above the world.
She sways, chest heaving, throat raw.
She yanks at her jacket, tearing it off like it’s burning her. The chill of the air on her damp skin helps only a little.
She closes her eyes.
And sings. Low at first, almost a whisper.
“We are hunters, voices stronger…”
Her voice cracks on the next line. Emotion bleeding in. She hates that.
Too raw. Too soft. Too much.
Celine would say she’s weakening. That her voice is no place for feeling. That fear is a disease. That she needs to be strong to seal the Honmoon, to protect the others.
Our faults and fears must never be seen
Rumi swallows then tries again.
“I know I believe—”
The note breaks apart in her throat and her knees hit the concrete.
Her breath catches, and then the sob breaks loose—unforgiving, gut-deep, unavoidable.
Her patterns are spreading. They’ve reached her voice.
No.
No, no, no, no
She’s had control. She’s trained for control. Celine beat it into her. She learned to compress it, starve it, silence it.
"You don’t have to forever. Just until you turn the Honmoon gold. And then your patterns will go away. Then you’ll be perfect."
She’s been so good. So close to being free. Why now? why?
“ WHY? ” The word tears out of her like she’s never felt before.
It rumbles. Low. echoey, wrong .
The red flash arcs out of her chest like a wave. The Honmoon below ripples red across its threads.
Rumi jerks back like she’s been shocked. Her palm slams against the rooftop. Her heartbeat is in her teeth.
Was that her? She’s never done that before.
She pants, blinking through the wind whipping her hair across her face.
What is happening to her?
She can’t—Mira and Zoey can’t find out. Not now. They’d never understand, plus they need to stay focused. It’s what’s best for them. For the world.
She’ll fix this. Fix her. She has to.