(Sable POV)
From my perch above the stadium, the proxy's feed painted me a very tidy picture of Rumi's emotional implosion tour.
First stop: Jinu.
The confrontation was everything you'd expect from a high-drama betrayal scene — sharp words, raised voices, and then the real twist. He spilled his sob story, the kind designed to win sympathy if you didn't already know better. I did. She didn't. And the worst part? The moment she realized he'd lied about his past, you could see the fight drain out of her like water down a cracked vase.
Then came the second scream.
Not just sound — a demonic roar from deep enough that I felt it even from the steel rafters of the stadium. The Honmoon's barrier shivered like glass in a thunderclap.
She didn't fight after that. Just walked away, head low, like the war had already been lost.
The proxy trailed her all the way to an ancient tree out in the quieter edges of the city — the kind of old shrine tree wrapped in weathered rope and heavy with religious charms. Waiting there was Celine, her guardian-slash-trainer, standing still as a statue.
Rumi dropped to her knees before her, sword raised horizontally in both hands like she was offering her neck along with it. The message couldn't have been clearer — "end it."
But Celine didn't. Couldn't. Instead, they talked.
If you could call it talking.
Celine wanted her to hide the markings again, bury them, pretend the cracks weren't there. Rumi's answer came jagged, each word peeling at the Honmoon itself, her voice edged in fury and pain. She accused Celine of not truly loving all of her — only the parts that fit neatly into the image they'd built.
And then she said it.
That she'd rather see the Honmoon destroyed.
That was the moment she reached for teleportation, her braid whipping with the motion. And that was when I moved.
The proxy dove in close, talons catching the braid like a hook just as the spell shimmered around her. If she was going somewhere, so was I — even if she didn't know it yet.
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Rumi POV
The world blinked.
One second, I was standing beneath the old shrine tree, Celine's face etched in something between pity and disappointment, the next — snap — the cold stink of the city hit me like a slap.
The teleport dropped me in a narrow alleyway, the kind where the sun never bothered to reach. Damp brick. Trash bins. Distant hum of traffic. My knees gave out before I could think, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the gritty pavement.
The fight had gone out of me somewhere back at that tree. Now there was just… the emptiness.
I don't know how long I sat there, breathing shallow, trying not to think. Then movement caught my eye — a faint shimmer perched on the lip of a crooked drainpipe.
A bird.
No — not a bird. It was translucent, edges blurred like it didn't fully belong here.
I blinked at it, confusion worming its way past the exhaustion.
"What…" I started to murmur.
And then the air around it rippled — concentric waves in space itself, warping the alley like water disturbed by a stone. The shimmer widened, deepened… and someone stepped through.
Tall. Dark. That black motorcycle helmet catching the dim light.
Helmet Man.
He stood there like he'd just walked in from the corner store, tilting his head at me.
"…It's always an alleyway," he said, voice casual, almost amused, like we were just two strangers commenting on the weather.
Helmet Man didn't move right away. Just stood there in that ripple-distorted air like some kind of smug specter, head tilted slightly, visor catching what little light this alley had.
Then, without a word, he reached up and unlatched the helmet. The hiss of the seal broke the silence before he pulled it free.
I wasn't sure what I'd expected — maybe scars, maybe a face too sharp to be real — but what I saw made my brain stutter.
He was tall — really tall, towering even in the cramped alley, the kind of height that made me instinctively straighten my posture. Dreadlocks, each threaded with silver streaks that spiraled down every loc, were tied back into a low ponytail that brushed his shoulder. His skin was rich chocolate, smooth under the faint spill of city light, and his eyes… silver-white, catching and holding my gaze like a pair of cold moons.
And then he opened his mouth.
"You look like shit," he said flatly. His gaze flicked over me — the torn sweater, the sweat, the streaked eyeliner, and… yeah, the still-glowing purple patterns crawling over my skin. "Very purple and shiny shit."
I stared at him. Blinked once. Scoffed. "Thanks for the poetry."
"Anytime," he said without missing a beat, then crouched in front of me, forearms resting casually on his knees like we were just chatting in a coffee shop. "You gonna keep sitting there feeling sorry for yourself, or are you gonna stand up?"
I turned my head away. "You don't know anything about—"
"Oh, I do," he cut in. "I know you're spiraling. I know you think you've lost everything. And I know that if you sit in this hole long enough, you'll start convincing yourself you deserve it."
My jaw tightened. "You don't—"
"I also know," he continued, voice just sharp enough to make me look back at him, "that you've already done harder things than this. That you're stronger than whatever they've been whispering in your ear. And that the only reason you're still breathing is because somewhere under all this self-pity, you don't actually want to quit."
His eyes were steady. No pity, no judgment — just the kind of certainty I hadn't felt in weeks.
I hated how much it got to me.
He straightened slightly, tone softening. "Look. You've been pushed, cornered, lied to. Fine. That's today's mess. But tomorrow? Tomorrow you get to hit back. You can burn them out of the sky if you want. You just have to get up first."
Something in my chest loosened, just a little. Enough to breathe.
"…And you think I can do that?" I asked quietly.
"I know you can," he said simply. "But not alone."
That was when he stood, extending his gloved hand down toward me. "I've got a plan to end Gwi-Ma for good. I'll need your cooperation."
I stared at the hand for a long beat. My fingers curled in my lap — then I reached out and took his, letting him pull me to my feet. "Alright," I said, nodding once.
"Good. Then head to Namsan Tower." He released my hand and turned to go, then paused. "Oh, one more thing."
Something small and metallic arced through the air toward me. I caught it automatically — a pocket watch, old-fashioned, its silver case warm from his hand.
"Hold on to that, Fruit Roll-Up."
"…I will," I said automatically — then frowned. "Wait. Did you just call me—"
"Oh, and my name's Sable Nova," he added over his shoulder.
I blinked. "…Rumi."
He just deadpanned at me. "Yeah, I know. About half the world knows."
My eyebrow twitched, but before I could say anything, he was already gone. Not a trace, not even the echo of his footsteps.
A long exhale later, I closed my fingers around the pocket watch. Pink smoke curled at my feet, and in the next blink, the alley was empty.
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A/N:MC is not a good therapist, I give him one rupee.
Anyway how did you like the "inspirational speech" I was trying to figure what to say to someone who would figure it out on their own anyway, so it was a little hard
Now leave a comment leave a review and….
SSSSSEEEEE YYYAAAAAA NNNNEEEEEXXXXTTTT TYTIIIMMMEEEE!!!!!!!!!!