(3rd POV)
The city was aggressively cheerful.
The morning sun spilled over every glass tower, streetlamp, and overpriced café like it had a personal vendetta against subtlety. Buses hummed. Food carts sizzled. Pedestrians buzzed by with the focused chaos of city life, perfectly in sync with the lively hum of downtown Seoul.
It was the kind of morning that practically screamed "good vibes only."
Which made the crowd outside the mirrored studio building all the more deafening.
They were loud. Chanting. Vibrating with anticipation and the kind of intense energy usually reserved for sports riots or religious awakenings. Glowsticks flailed. Posters glittered. Some were even crying. It was chaotic, barely controlled — and somehow still managed to radiate joy instead of dread.
They were here for Huntr/x.
And not far from that ever-growing K-pop swarm was a much less joyful presence pacing in a dim alley like he was preparing for a courtroom trial with reality itself.
A tall, dark-skinned man in sleek black robes embroidered with soft, shimmering star patterns muttered curses under his breath, silver-streaked dreads tied back in a low tail that swung with every frustrated pivot. His jacket, sharp in its tailoring, remained buttoned at the chest, giving off the unfortunate impression of a very stylish priest on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Sable Nova was stressed.
(1st POV Sable)
'Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Focus. Think. This is fine. Everything's fine. This is probably fine.'
I paced harder, ignoring the judgmental glances of a nearby pigeon.
'I'm not hallucinating. I'm not high. I didn't just end up in any fictional world. I'm in K-pop Demon Hunters. With capital letters.'
I stopped, dragging a hand down my face.
'How the hell is this my life now?'
The signs were all there — literally. The glowing white lines? Honmoon. The demons crawling out of reality like broken origami? Definitely not a coincidence. And the girl from earlier? She basically confirmed it by saying Rumi was inside this building.
And Rumi wasn't just a name. She was the main character.
I let out a groan and leaned against the wall.
'Okay… not gonna lie. In retrospect, this might not even crack the top five weirdest things to happen since I died.'
I sighed. Long. Deep. Full of cosmic regret.
'Alright, let's confirm the timeline.'
I rolled my shoulders and raised a hand, summoning a proxy.
With a brief shimmer and a soft pop of blue light, the translucent soul-sparrow formed in my palm. It blinked up at me with curious glowing eyes and let out a faint, questioning chirp.
"Yeah, I know, buddy," I muttered. "We're both in deep cosmic crap. Let's fly."
The proxy zipped into the air and flitted through the nearest roof vent. I closed my eyes, syncing my senses.
'Time to play magical drone pilot.'
Immediately I was navigating a winding mess of air vents, all screws and dust and wrong turns.
'Who designs these things? It's like trying to GPS my way through a tin can spaghetti maze.'
Eventually, the sparrow slipped out into open space — and I froze.
The inside of the studio was bathed in stage lights and glowing gold. A massive neon sign that simply read GOLDEN shimmered behind the stage in bold stylized hangul, casting sharp reflections off polished tile floors. Cameras were everywhere — perched on tripods, held by sweating crew, suspended from rails above. Staff swarmed the set like bees, adjusting lighting rigs and mics.
And there — front and center — stood the reason my soul was curling up in existential dread.
Three figures.
Perfectly dressed. Perfectly poised. Perfectly fictional.
Huntr/x.
And in the middle? Rumi.
I didn't need subtitles. I didn't need plot spoilers. I knew exactly who I was looking at.
Through the proxy's eyes, I saw them—not in a fan meet, not in an interview, but on stage mid-rehearsal.
And wow. Okay.
The lights weren't even at full power, but the shimmer practically smacked me in the face.
They moved with practiced precision across a golden stage platform, surrounded by sweeping panels that resembled starlight fractured into architecture. A large neon sign hung overhead, flashing the words "GOLDEN DEBUT SHOWCASE" in Hangul—stylized, elegant, and dramatic enough to make a theater kid weep. The cameras were rolling, the crew was scattered like busy ants, and the three girls at the center of it all?
They were glowing.
Starting with the one in the spotlight.
A white sleeveless zip-front top hugged her frame, perfectly tailored and deadly chic. She matched it with high-waisted white shorts that showed off long, powerful legs—legs currently stomping through choreography like they owned gravity. A cropped black jacket sat neatly over her shoulders, detailed with sharp golden chain accents that caught the light every time she spun. Her signature purple braid stayed locked in place even as she danced, swinging like a comet trail behind her. Gold earrings, gold chain belts, white lace-up boots to the knee—part battle gear, part fashion statement, all power.
Rumi.
To her right, a tall figure in a black crop top and matching pants moved like a blade—smooth, efficient, just a hint of menace in her precision. Her angular face was serious, her movements sharp, clean. The gold accents on her outfit were minimal, almost like a challenge to the spotlight to find her in the first place.
Mira.
And on the left—pure energy. A black off-shoulder top hugged her form while the golden embellishments danced with her every step. Her twin braided buns bounced along with the rhythm, her smile almost painfully bright even in a rehearsal setting. Her footwork was lighter, more expressive, like she was feeling the music with her entire body.
Zoey.
I watched in silence as the group powered through the first half of their performance. Even without full sound mixing, the music was catchy—glittering synths over pulsing bass, timed like clockwork to choreography that felt half pop concert, half exorcism. It was hypnotic.
Until it wasn't.
Rumi missed a note.
Not just a small wobble. A crack.
It hit like a needle skipping on vinyl—jarring and sharp. She froze mid-phrase, her expression flickering between panic and exhaustion. The music cut off. Crew members glanced around. Mira blinked and took a step toward her. Zoey stopped mid-twirl.
Rumi didn't say anything. She didn't scream or collapse. She just… nodded to the stage manager, turned on her heel, and walked offstage—her pace a little too fast to be casual.
I followed her movement as she disappeared behind one of the curtains and down a hall. She was headed to what looked like a backstage bathroom or dressing room.
I stared after her.
Then unsummoned the proxy with a flick of thought. It gave a soft, melancholy chirp before dissipating into glittery wisps.
The visual feed cut out. I was back in my own body—still crouched in a side alley near the crowd's endless, chaotic chanting. But now, my mind was racing.
Something was wrong with her. That voice crack wasn't just overuse—it was strain. Or pain. Or both.
And if that was happening, then maybe this wasn't just a regular rehearsal.
Maybe this was when things started unraveling.
I leaned against the brick wall behind me, processing.
Did I intervene? Could I even do that?
'How the hell do you walk up to a fictional K-pop idol mid-crisis and say "Hi, I'm from another world and I think your demonic half is killing your vocal cords"?'
Yeah, no. That'd go over real well.
…
I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled.
Okay. Rumi's struggling. The timeline is spiraling into plot territory. The warning signs are showing up like red flags at a discount theme park.
But I had to be honest with myself—this wasn't my story. Not really.
Whatever Rumi and her crew were going through? It wasn't part of my mission. I couldn't afford to get emotionally entangled in the personal arcs of anime-coded idol demon slayers, no matter how weirdly invested I was getting.
I had my own objective. The Chalice was still running on fumes, and if I wanted to get stronger—or hell, get home—I needed energy. Resources. Options.
And right now? That meant money.
With one last glance toward the crowd, I turned and stepped out of the alley, brushing invisible dust off my robe-suit hybrid and stretching my neck.
Time to "acquire" more local currency.
Preferably from someone wearing too much cologne and carrying a wallet the size of a brick.
Because sometimes, survival means doing what you're good at.
And I was very good at improvisational economics.
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A/N: Our MC has resorted to petty thievery, *sigh* you do what you gotta do I guess.
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SEEEE YAAA NEXT TIMMMME!!!!!!!!!