(Third Person POV)
The man in the grey business suit strolled into frame like he owned the alleyway. His jacket hung open, crisp white shirt underneath, collar relaxed, no tie — casual, but deliberate. In his hands, he carried two gleaming symbols: the intricate logo of Saja Boys in one, the bold insignia of Huntr/x in the other.
"Two bands, one award," he declared, his voice smooth with just the right edge of anticipation.
The screen cut to a slow spin of a crystalline snowflake, light catching in every facet.
"Every snowflake is special," he continued, now revealed holding the shimmering flake delicately between his fingers. He smiled faintly. "But one snowflake… is probably the best."
The image faded into a sweeping shot of a mountain — carved into its rocky face were massive stone visages of the Saja Boys and Huntr/x, gazing out like modern pop-idol demigods.
"Who will be the top of the mountain?" the host teased, his words riding the echo of the wind through stone peaks.
The screen transitioned again, this time to the Earth from the black expanse of space. Slowly, the camera panned to a small, crater-pocked rock drifting into frame — unmistakably shaped like the moon… except with the host's smiling face covering one side.
"Fans from around the universe will decide," he announced as the moon-rock began to drift faster. Behind it, the emblems of both groups shimmered into existence. The rock tilted forward, hurtling toward Earth — flames licking across its surface as it entered the atmosphere, his grinning face still there like a cosmic prank.
The burning rock smashed through the atmosphere and, with the sound of shattering glass, the logo appeared in its place:
International Idol Awards
"Finally," the host's voice boomed, "the moment you've been waiting for."
Now onstage beneath dazzling lights, he stood with a roaring crowd stretching out before him, camera flashes flickering like tiny stars.
"Here are the five-year reigning champs of the International Idol Awards — Huntr/x!" He gestured to his right, and the massive screen behind him lit up with the group's name in bold letters. Their hit How It's Done blasted for a few seconds, the crowd erupting in screams and applause.
"And…" the host's tone sharpened with excitement, "versus the heart-stealing newcomers…" He turned, sweeping his hand to his left.
"The Saja Boys!"
Another eruption of cheers rattled the air as their name shined across the screen, followed by a burst of Soda Pop's relentlessly catchy hook.
The host grinned into the camera.
"Who will win?"
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Sable POV)
Somewhere high above the screaming masses, tucked away on the steel bones of the stadium roof, I sat like a king on his private balcony… if kings wore black priest's robes tailored sharp enough to pass for a suit and ate discount microwave popcorn out of a crumpled paper bag.
The helmet sat beside me, catching the glow of the stage lights, temporarily abandoned so I could actually enjoy my snack. Legs dangling over the edge, I tilted the bag and let a few kernels roll into my mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the buttery salt like it was fine wine. Down below, the crowd was a living, breathing ocean of glow sticks and shrieks.
Honestly? I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view without having to smell anyone's perfume choices.
Technically, I was here for work — or, you know, soul-harvesting in the middle of a supernatural turf war — but there's something to be said for treating yourself before the chaos starts. And this? This was shaping up to be peak drama.
The stage lights shifted into a dazzling pre-show pattern, and I leaned back on my elbows, grinning to myself.
Yesterday's prep work flickered through my head — the wards I'd planted in all the fun places, the proxies positioned like hidden cameras, the little stone runes tucked into corners no human would ever notice. My chessboard was set, pieces in place. All I had to do was… wait.
And snack.
I popped another kernel in my mouth.
Below, the announcer was hamming it up like his life depended on it, milking every syllable for crowd hype. The music swelled, lights flared — the kind of overproduced spectacle that made even normal humans feel like something historic was about to happen.
The moment the massive screen flashed Huntr/x in big, glittering letters, the pitch of the crowd's screaming spiked so high I could swear my audio dampeners would have whined in protest — if I were wearing the helmet.
Yup. I smirked, taking another lazy bite of popcorn.
"Let the drama begin," I muttered under my breath.
The stage lit up again, pulling me out of my thoughts and slamming me right back into the present. I sat forward, elbows on my knees, every bit the audience member settling in for the first act.
Because sure, there was a high probability this would devolve into demonic chaos…
But until then? This was just really, really good theater.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Rumi's POV)
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that vibrated in my chest. The stage lights were hot on my skin, the smell of fog machines and perfume hanging thick in the air.
"Here to perform their hot new single 'Golden'—it's Huntr/x!" the host's voice boomed, and the audience erupted like the roof had been blown off.
The opening notes hit, and instinct took over.
I was a ghost, I was alone (Hah)
Eo du wojin ap gil sok e, given the throne
I didn't know how to believe
I was the queen I was meant to be…
My voice carried over the swell of the music, the choreography locked in muscle memory, my heart syncing with the beat. For those first moments, everything felt perfect.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Sable's POV)
Okay, I'll admit it — the song was… pretty good.
I leaned forward slightly, the paper bag of popcorn crinkling in my grip, tapping my finger against my leg in time with the beat. Not bad at all. Tight vocals, clean choreography, the works.
And then Rumi's solo hit. She owned the moment, every note razor-sharp. I was halfway to mentally giving it a nine-out-of-ten when the entire stage snapped to black.
I didn't even flinch.
The track cut abruptly, replaced with the pounding, darker opening of Touchdown. That wasn't on the setlist — I knew it wouldn't be. I'd seen this play out before. Literally. Like clockwork. Just like the show.
I set the popcorn down and pushed to my feet with a grunt, slipping my helmet back on. My visor caught the chaotic flashes of light as "Mira" and "Zoey" stepped in, their movements… wrong. Predatory.
Not them.
Demons. Just like the show had scripted.
On stage, the two shoved Rumi back and forth, jeering loud enough for the crowd to catch it. The laughter wasn't friendly — it was meant to cut. Then, right on cue, they tore her jacket clean off, exposing the curling purple markings along her arm.
Her face froze. Her breathing hitched. And just like that, the performance was gone — all that remained was raw panic, betrayal carved into every feature.
The markings didn't stop at her arm. Even from here, I could see them slowly creeping further along her skin, webbing outward in jagged, glowing veins that coiled over her collarbone and up the side of her neck, as if whatever was inside her was trying to claw its way to the surface.
Of course, she didn't know yet. Didn't know the two in front of her weren't her friends. But I did. I knew exactly how she'd react, how it would spiral. I'd already seen this script play out once.
Her panic curdled into something sharper. She let out a yell — not the normal kind. This one hit. The air itself seemed to shudder, the sound ripping through the glass fixtures above and shattering them in a spray of glittering shards. Lights blew, scaffolding groaned, and part of the stage came crashing down, sending the crowd into a brief, shrieking chaos.
I stood still, watching through my visor as she scanned the stage like a cornered animal before bolting for the backstage — right on schedule.
A long, quiet sigh escaped me. For once, there was no sarcasm in it.
I raised a hand, summoning a small, translucent bird that shimmered faintly in the stadium lights. "Follow her," I murmured, releasing it into the air.
The proxy darted off toward the backstage, wings beating soundlessly.
Timing was everything — and thanks to knowing the beats of this little drama, I already had a pretty good idea of when the curtain would fall.
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A/N:Things are picking up again…
So how do you guys like it so far is it rushed is it to fast?
Do I...need to do a rewrite🤔
Jk…..or am I 😃
Now leave a comment leave a review and….
SEEEE YAAAAAA NNNEEEXXTTT TIIIIMMMMEEE!!!!!!