The city's pulse beat faintly beyond the gallery's thick walls—a song just earshot away, busy lives rushing by, indifferent to the twin hearts now thrumming in secret. For Amal, the rest of the world narrowed to the archway and storage nook where she stood pressed against Min-jun, the air dense with paint and history. Every second vibrated with the certainty that something—someone—watched. And yet, beneath the mounting fear, something exhilarating unfurled: the dizzy, impossible hope she wasn't imagining him, or the pieces of herself reflected in his eyes.
Min-jun hadn't expected to feel so much, not after centuries of learning how to numb and retreat, but Amal's vulnerability and her hesitant touch on his arm felt like a hymn he'd forgotten how to sing. In the hush, words seemed too heavy, too final. So he reached for the language that had always been theirs: music.
A battered upright piano, half-shrouded in a paint-stained tarp, sat in the corner. Amal startled when Min-jun approached it, his hand sure as a hunter's, and swept the tarp away. Even in the dim light, she saw the age and scars on the wood—a relic among relics, hopelessly out of place and yet, somehow, inevitable.
He pressed a key, and the note burst out sharp and plaintive, ringing against the silence. For a moment, Amal was a child again—believing in magic, in the secret symphonies of rain and laughter. Min-jun played another note, then a chord, letting his hands find their old rhythm. The gallery filled with trembling sound, melancholy and yearning woven together. Every note was a memory, every phrase an unanswered question.
Amal sank to the floor beside him, wiping paint from her hands, heart pounding. "I didn't know you played," she whispered.
He flashed a crooked grin, one that softened the sharpness of his features. "You knew once. We used to sneak into the choir room after school so I could practice on the old piano. You'd draw, and I'd play until the janitors chased us out."
Her breath caught—a murmur awakening in her chest, not quite a memory, but not a lie either. "What did you play?"
"Everything you asked for," he murmured, voice fading into reverence. "Mostly lullabies. You said music was the only way to make the world stay gentle."
Time, that ever-slippery illusion, twisted around her. She watched his fingers dance across cracked ivory, spinning out a tune older than logic. It was a song for the shadows: tentative, haunting, blossoming into hope before tumbling down into minor chords. As the melody filled the gallery, Amal closed her eyes, letting memories surface—her childhood bedroom, sunlight slipping through the curtains, a soft humming in the dark. Some part of her had always been waiting for this music, this boy, this impossible man risen from the edge of legends.
She opened her eyes slowly, catching Min-jun lost in the music, expression unguarded, aching. It struck her then—the depth of his hunger, not just for her blood but for the possibility of being known, being remembered, being forgiven for the centuries he'd endured and the mistakes he would never outrun.
The song reached a fragile crescendo. Shadows danced against the stripped plaster, flickering as if to their own rhythm. When the last note faded, it was as if the world was holding its breath—a question waiting for an answer.
Amal wiped a tear she hadn't meant to show. "Play it again," she said, voice breaking, "please."
Min-jun smiled, gentler this time. "Any song, any time. Just ask."
Before he could begin, a click echoed from deeper within the gallery—a door, a lock, the outside world intruding. Amal froze, the spell shattering, dread crawling up from her bare feet to the base of her skull.
Min-jun stilled, senses flaring, eyes gone preternaturally sharp. "Stay behind me," he whispered, voice iron and storm.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and slow, tapping over marble. Amal's mouth went dry. She gripped a splattered paintbrush like a talisman, unwilling to cower yet desperate for safety. Somewhere beyond the storage room, voices murmured—one smooth and unfamiliar, the other rough, almost mocking.
"I see the party's moved," the stranger's voice called, echoing off stone and portraits.
Min-jun's hand found Amal's, steady and cold. He did not look terrified—he looked deadly, a prince made for dusk rather than dawn. "Whatever happens," he murmured, "do not let go."
She swallowed, heart thudding so loudly she could barely hear her own hope. "Who are they?"
He offered only a sideways glance, the bare trace of a smile. "Rivals. Some monsters hunt for sport. Some hunt for hunger. And some… for revenge."
The first shadow materialized at the entrance—a tall figure in an immaculate suit, his features half-hidden beneath a silver mask. Behind him, another lingered, broader, more dangerous, his eyes flickering golden in the dark.
Amal squeezed Min-jun's hand, refusing to show even a hint of fear. "You wanted me to remember," she said quietly, focusing on the sound of his music still echoing in her bones. "Then fight with me now. Not as a victim, but as myself."
Min-jun's pride—hard-won and battered—blazed in his eyes. He stepped forward, voice ringing clear and bright, the edge of a new melody beneath every word. "You want her, you'll go through me."
And as the night reached out, hungry and full of secrets, the gallery filled with the music of resolve—a night serenade written not for despair, but for courage, defiance, and the hope that together, even the lost could find their way home.