Rain dripped from the awnings as Jordan left the alley, the faint smell of sulfur still lingering in his nose. He pulled his hood tighter and walked on, blending into the late-night Seoul crowd. To everyone else, he was just another tall guy in dark clothes heading home. No one would have guessed he had just killed a demon.
The streets were loud with laughter and neon, but Jordan felt detached, like he was watching life through glass. His phone buzzed. A message from his manager:
"Don't be late tomorrow. Small showcase at 8PM. Wear something light, the venue's hot."
Jordan sighed. A showcase. A "polite" word for a tiny concert that didn't even guarantee new fans. He typed back a quick thumbs-up emoji and slid the phone into his pocket.
He passed a convenience store. His stomach growled.
Inside, the air smelled like instant noodles and warm bread. He grabbed a triangle kimbap and a canned coffee, paying without making eye contact. The cashier glanced up, eyes widening for a second — maybe recognizing him — but Jordan kept moving before she could ask. Fame had its downsides, even when you weren't that famous.
At home, a small apartment cluttered with sheet music and half-burned candles, he ate on the couch. The silence pressed in around him. He turned on the TV — an old rerun of K-Pop Demon Hunter, the very show he had once watched in another life. The girls' theme song blared, bright and heroic, their choreography sharp and perfect.
Jordan leaned back, chewing slowly. "Figures," he muttered. "They get the spotlight. I get the shadows."
After eating, he strummed his guitar, humming softly. A melody came unbidden, like they always did — low, aching, full of weight. He wrote a few lines in his notebook, lyrics about chains and broken wings.
He fell asleep on the couch with the guitar still in his lap.
The next evening, Jordan stood backstage at a cramped venue. The crowd outside wasn't huge — maybe a hundred people — but their chatter filled the air with anticipation.
He fixed his earpiece, adjusted his jacket. In the mirror, he caught his reflection. Same conflict as always: too American-looking to blend perfectly in Korea, too Korean-looking to blend in America. A face that didn't fit anywhere.
The MC called his name.
"Please welcome, solo artist — Jordan Kim!"
The lights hit his face as he walked out. The cheers weren't deafening, but they were genuine. A few fans in the front row held signs with his name. Their eyes shone with expectation, with belief.
The music started — Ashes & Halo.
He closed his eyes and sang.
"I walk through fire, but the flames feel cold…"
His voice filled the room, raw and aching. The fans swayed, some with tears in their eyes. They didn't know the full truth — that these words were born from loneliness, from reincarnation, from demon blood on his sword — but they felt it anyway. That was enough.
By the time the final chorus hit, the entire room was silent, hanging on his every word. Then, as the song ended, applause erupted.
Jordan smiled faintly, bowing. For a moment, he wasn't a hunter. He wasn't a lost soul. He was just a singer.
Backstage, his manager clapped him on the back. "Not bad. Keep that up and maybe one day you'll have more than a hundred people."
Jordan just nodded, sipping his water bottle. His hands trembled slightly. Singing was the only time he didn't feel out of place. The only time he belonged.
When he stepped outside after the show, the night was quiet. No demons. No shadows waiting. Just the hum of traffic, the city lights, and his own weary footsteps.
And for once, he was grateful.