Chapter Text
“Jinu, no,” Rumi gasps.
“I’m sorry.” Through half-lidded eyes, Jinu watches her still before him, face frozen in utter shock and horror. “I’m sorry for everything,” he rasps.
In spite of the searing heat and agony bearing down his back, smothering his being up in flames one inch at a time, Jinu keeps his gaze latched on Rumi’s face. His eyes trace over every line, adamant on engraving this moment into memory.
Distantly, he notes that there is a faint, sapphire glow illuminating from the centre of his chest—with every moment that passes, the radiance only intensifies.
His soul, he realizes dauntingly. His very soul is seeping out of his body.
Perhaps this should raise more alarm in him. Perhaps, had he been in a clear state of mind, he would’ve been thrown into a despairing panic, fighting against the fire that eats away at him, devouring him whole.
He would be a fool and a liar if he claimed he didn’t fear death.
And yet, despite bearing such a fear—such a human fear, his mind unhelpfully supplies—he feels only a sort of resignation and acceptance.
He also feels a distinct wave of exhilaration wash over him, because as his soul is torn away from him, the voice of Gwi-Ma begins to waver in his head, the taunts and sneers growing quieter and quieter.
The quiet.
It’s peaceful.
If this is what life is like for Rumi—if he never had to hear Gwi-Ma’s derision and pointed jeers ever again—he understands why she had clung onto the hope of freedom for so long.
Freedom. He repeats the word in his head, tasting the sound of it, as one would taste a new, foreign food. Freedom forever. That would be nice, he’d like to think.
At some point, his eyes must’ve slipped shut, and he jolts back to reality at the sound of Rumi’s desperate pleading.
“No—I wanted to set you free, Jinu—!” She grabs him by the collar, wearing an indecipherable expression. She appears enraged, but there are tears poking away at the corner of her eyes, and her voice is laced with trepidation. “We were so close—you can’t do this. What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. It loses its authoritative effect when her voice cracks.
“Rumi,” he says quietly, uttering the world as though he was whispering a final prayer. “You did set me free.”
“No. Stop that,” she orders him. It sounds more like a plea. “Jinu—”
“I can’t hear him in my head anymore,” he tells her, and that fact alone is strange in itself, because isn’t Gwi-Ma right behind him? His God is here, draining his life away at the meagre flick of his wrist, and yet with Rumi standing before him, it’s like they’re the only two in the world.
His God is killing him, but at least in his final moments, Rumi is there to chase his demons away.
He should have listened to her. He should have placed his faith in her.
She was right. Gwi-Ma could be defeated.
And Jinu was too blind to see it.
“I’m free. Can’t you see that?” He wishes the anguish burning him alive would simply finish him, but first and foremost, he wants to strip away the stricken look marring Rumi’s face. He attempts a reassuring smile, his lips pulling upward, despite the unbearable strain. “I’m free,” he says aloud in awe and wonder.
He’s going to die, and he’s going to be free.
“Jinu, this isn’t right. You haven’t—it’s not—this isn’t fair,” she jostles him, and he can’t help but wince. When he notices that half his body is unresponsive, he looks down, and immediately regrets it.
Half his body is gone. The flames lick away at him, working their way up his chest.
The sight is nauseating, and quite frankly, he feels the distinct urge to puke his guts out at the revolting image. But then again, he doesn’t have a stomach anymore, so that shouldn’t be possible. At least that’s convenient.
Unfortunately, that thought only increases to worsen the hysteria of it all.
“Rumi!” a voice shouts from behind Jinu, pressed with non-negotiable urgency. “We need you here!”
Rumi’s gaze flickers behind him momentarily, and there is clear reluctance and remorse in her eyes as her attention snaps back to him.
“I…” she chokes, her stare boring deep into him as they search with no little amount of helplessness. “Jinu,” she says, and it’s like she can’t bring herself to add more. She says his name like it’s an apology.
“It’s okay.” Instinctively, he reaches for her hands, but when nothing moves, he grits his teeth, knowing full well his hands are gone as well.
Rumi looks down. “Your soul,” she whispers mournfully, enraptured by the blue light trickling out of his chest. “It’s beautiful.”
Jinu smiles.
Gently, he presses his forehead against hers. Rumi jolts, eyes widening, but to his relief, she doesn’t pull away.
“My soul,” he echoes softly. “It’s yours, now.”
Rumi opens her mouth, but no words escape her as she gapes at him. A tear cascades down her cheek.
“It’s mine to give, and yours to take, if you’ll have me.” His vision is blurring, and so he lets his eyes fall shut, allowing the darkness to encompass him. He forces himself to believe that the lull of sleep is accepted of his own volition.
His cheeks tingle. Rumi is holding onto his face. The gesture is touching. “No, no, no—” she grits out. Her voice is growing distant. “Stop. You can’t do this to me, stop.” The words rush out of her in a frenzy, full of haste and distress. “Jinu.”
“Rumi,” he responds in a broken murmur. “Thank you.”
“No!” The last thing he hears is her agonized cry before a lapse of silence embraces him.
As he hovers in the limbo between life and death, hoping that the settlement of his fate would be dealt with swiftly, he takes the time to appreciate the quiet one last time.
So this is how it feels to die.
Surprisingly, it’s not all that bad. He would have even recommended it to some of the other demons, had he been given the chance to.
For the first time in four hundred years, both his body and mind feel as light as a feather. It’s like he’s floating.
No more restrictive chains tethering him to eternal submission. No more masters who wish to toy with him until he breaks.
As long as the afterlife is quiet, he thinks he can survive the rest of eternity just like this, content in his bubble of isolated silence.
He opens his eyes.
“Ugh,” he scrunches his face, minimizing the blinding light that seems quite adamant on scorching his eyes alive.
Scrubbing two fists over closed eyelids, he grumbles incoherently, flopping down onto the hard ground beneath him.
“Someone’s tired today,” someone snorts above him, clearly amused. “Didn’t sleep well?”
“Mmhm,” Jinu sighs. He didn’t need sleep, but the concept sounded pleasing enough.
“Dumbass,” they say, sounding both fond and familiar. They sound like Abby.
They sound like Abby.
The events leading up to this moment come crashing down on him, and Jinu jerks awake, pushing himself off the floor to rest in a sitting position. He swivels his head around, only to be met with an unimpressed-looking Abby.
“Got something on my face?” Abby raises a brow, adjusting the hem of his gat on his head.
“I—” Jinu’s jaw drops, and he stares at Abby in complete disbelief. He looks around them and notices the scenery is practically identical to the landscape they have back in their realm beneath the Honmoon.
So he’s back here.
Of course he ends up in hell.
But at least Abby is here to suffer with him.
“No way,” Jinu gapes, a slow grin forming on his face. “You’re in hell too?”
Abby rolls his eyes, tipping Jinu’s hat off his head. The hat falls sadly onto the cold floor. “Very funny.”
“Are the others here?” Jinu rises to a stand. They were in their tiny shared compartment of a house, and to his delight, it’s a perfect replica of the real deal they have back home. Besides the old, seasoned couch they’d set in the dead centre of the compact living space, the room was completely void of furniture.
Jinu treads over to the couch, poking at the stinky, wrinkled cushions testingly. Woah, did they feel real. The workers at hell must be pretty good at their job.
“Nope,” Abby responds, popping the ‘p.’ He’s watching Jinu with traces of confusion lining his face as Jinu continues to feel the couch with an expression of awe. “They’re busy practicing for the gig tomorrow. Baby thinks he’s not pulling off the ‘baby’ look quite convincingly enough to fool the humans, so I suppose they’re working on that.”
Jinu’s hand freezes mid-motion. “...What?” He blinks, uncomprehending.
“You know? For the gig tomorrow?” Abs repeats slowly. “Fuck’s sake, did you hit your head? Get yourself together, man.” He saunters over, slapping Jinu on the back, the gesture good-natured. “Remember your proposal you planned?”
“My proposal,” Jinu echoes dumbly. “The one I gave to Gwi-Ma? About how we could defeat the hunters?”
“‘Gave?’” Abby looks at him strangely. “Did you already talk to him about it?” he questions. “I thought you were going to tell him tomorrow.”
Jinu slowly retracts his arm, pulling away from the couch. Suddenly, the startling accuracy of the design no longer serves to bring him amusement.
“Abs,” Jinu falters. How does he ask this without sounding mad? “Abs, what day is it?”
“What day?” Abby crosses his arms, and although the suspicion still lingers in his analytical gaze, he does at least spare the question some level of half-hearted consideration. “I don’t know,” he says after a brief reprieve. “You know me, Jinu. I don’t keep track of that. Ask Romance—he’d probably know,” Abby shrugs. He heads for the front door, signaling his departure and the end of their exchange. “I’ll catch you later—”
“Wait.” Jinu grabs Abby by the arm.
A flash of irritation flashes over Abby’ face. “What is it now?” he asks.
“Are you sure you don’t know?” Jinu insists. “If you could just rack your brain a little harder—this is kind of important—”
“You know I’m not good with human dates. Just ask Romance,” Abby tells him again, and clearly, Abby is not understanding him correctly, judging by his look of indifference.
Does he not understand? Jinu needs to know. He needs to know, because this is not possible.
“Abs,” Jinu hisses, grip tightening on the demon’s arm. “Tell me. What day is it in the human world?”
“Since when were you obsessed with that shit?” Abby scoffs, lips pulled into an irritated frown. “Ugh, let me think. It’s sometime mid—mid, uh—mid-October, or something. I don’t fucking know. Happy?” He tugs his arm free, other hand reaching over to rub at the area pointedly, before turning to walk away. Jinu doesn’t stop him, barely processing his departure.
According to Abby, it’s the middle of October. That was a little less than a month ago.
That was also the day right before he’d made his proposal to Gwi-Ma.
His proposal, which was to infiltrate the human ranks in hopes of stripping the hunters of their power by eliminating the source of their fame: the fans.
Unbidden, his legs give out beneath him, and he falls to a crouch, his hanbok robe sprawling around him in one fell flutter.
How was this possible? This shouldn’t have been possible.
Is this what Hell has in store for him? Is this what he’ll have to live with for the rest of his undying days?
But what if this was real? Could this be a second chance?
He grits his teeth, digging the heels of his palms into his eyelids until he sees stars and specks of black dot his vision.
There is no such thing as a second chance, Gwi-Ma had once told him early on in their established relationship. You fail once, and it’s over.
But if this truly was a second chance, Jinu would never forgive himself for brashly throwing away the opportunity that’s being presented to him on a silver platter.
Still, there is much to consider, should he really choose to go back to the human world.
The simple truth is that he doesn’t want to relive the experience he had there. He doesn’t think he could bear it again, going back to the very place where he’d been forced to balance Gwi-Ma’s constant whispering in the corner of his mind while he toyed with the feelings of the only one in this world who strived to understand him.
And then there’s also the fact that so many souls from the realm of the living were extracted as a consequence of his interference. So many lives lost in favour of feeding Gwi-Ma’s unsated hunger.
At the time, the success of his ploy had been inconceivable to him, but undeniably something he was proud of. He had relished the pulse of begrudging acknowledgment and recognition that had filtered through Gwi-Ma’s end of their shared link—the feeling of warmth between them was foreign, and although it was terminated soon after it had begun, it had felt shamefully good. The sensation was almost addicting.
Jinu pats his cheeks before shaking his head roughly, trying to ward off that familiar spiral.
With a sigh, he clamps his hands on the top of his knees and pushes himself to a stand. He plucks his discarded hat off the floor, slipping it back on top of his unruly curls.
He comes to the decision that he will take this gift presented to him.
It’s an entirely self-serving endeavour, really. If he truly is in the past, the hunters are only a song or two away from completely sealing off the Underworld from the living realm. The Honmoon is almost whole—all of them can feel it. It was why Gwi-Ma had been growing irritable, near the end. He had started to panic.
If Jinu remains dormant and stands idle—if he keeps his plans and schematics to himself—then no harm will be done to the lives that thrive above. Everyone will be better off.
He clenches his fists.
Everyone will be better off, except him. He’ll still be stuck down here, forced to endure Gwi-Ma’s wrath for the rest of eternity.
So, as the beginnings of a new plan begin to formulate in his mind—one that would undermine Gwi-Ma’s rule this time, rather than enforce it—Jinu accepts that he is a selfish creature. One that would put billions of human lives at stake, just for the sake of attaining his own freedom.
Selfish. Apathetic. Unfeeling. Deceitful. Soulless—
“Your soul… it’s beautiful.” Brown eyes bore into him, searching. Knowing.
He locks his jaw, hissing at the burning memory. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know him—he lied to her.
She’s wrong, and he knows it. She was happy before he barged into her life and ruined her spotless reputation. She was whole before he sent the others to humiliate her on stage and lay naked her hideous truth to the world.
But her patterns aren’t hideous, a voice inside him corrects softly. They’re beautiful, too.
Jinu pauses, before quickly adhering to the correction.
It’s true. Rumi’s patterns were, in fact, beautiful.
He just wishes he could say the same about his.
Her markings were born by accident—on the inside, she was pure her entire life.
Jinu had done everything to earn his.
The little isolated house near the borders of demon civilization sticks out like a sore thumb. From where Jinu is standing, it is nothing but a mere speck on the horizon, with nothing surrounding it. The entire plain is empty, void of life and commotion.
It’s a foreign experience, roaming around the outskirts of No-Man’s Land. It’s even stranger still, visiting an abode set apart from the rest of the crowded mass villages near Gwi-Ma’s temple.
To live so far apart from the Common Lands is a choice that’s typically frowned upon. Taking such drastic measures in isolating yourself insinuates that you have something to hide, and any amount of suspicion cast upon yourself is never favourable.
Still, there are the occasional few that manage to slip under the radar. A few that manage to run wild, escaping the watching, wrathful eye of Gwi-Ma’s goons. Individuals of this category are demons who’d rather die defiant than live submissive, and such a strong character never lasts long in their world. Extermination and execution is always on their tail.
Now standing before the abandoned threshold, Jinu glances around one last time to ensure absolute privacy. He’s aware this behaviour is skittish and most certainly worth reporting, should he be caught—the owner of this house has long since been killed off, and there is no reason anyone should be anywhere near this location.
And anyway, there’s a haunting quality to this place. It serves as a bad omen for most.
It makes this place perfect for discrete dealings that are better left off the record.
Slowly, he pries the front door open, and it gives way without resistance. As he slips into the foyer, he tugs his hat lower, shading his eyes. This place was creepy.
On the other end of the corridor, a masked figure awaits him.
“Jinu,” the demon greets. Her voice is gravelly with disuse and age, and as she begins trekking closer, he offhandedly notes that their posture is slightly slouched. Slung on the side of the demon’s shoulder is a well-worn, beige handbag. With every step she takes, the sound of clinking vials and glasses fill the crusty, bitter air. Most noticeably is the little black, yarn cat hazardously strewn on the corner of her mask.
“I was told you have what I’m looking for,” Jinu says after a moment of hesitation. “Are you…?”
Cat Mask nods solemnly. “The dealer, yes,” she finishes for him. Once she’s face to face—or at least, as much as she can be, with how Jinu is at least a head taller—the demon sticks her hand in the bag. A moment later, she fishes out a vial containing a sparkling, blood-red liquid.
Jinu stares at the mysterious substance. It is oddly enticing, despite not looking appetizing in the slightest.
Cat Mask clears their throat, and Jinu snaps out of his stupor.
“What do I owe you?” he asks. Unlike the human realm, there is no materialistic form of currency. “Secrets? A favour? An assassination?”
To his surprise, Cat Mask only shakes her head, raspy laughter scratching their throat. “On the house, just this once,” she informs him.
“What?” Jinu frowns.
Cat Mask laughs again, extending her hand to drop the vial into his palm. Obligingly, Jinu clenches a hand around the neck of the bottle, careful to keep his claws pointed away from the glass.
“You see, boy,” she addresses him, gauging his reaction carefully as he brings the bottle before his face to watch the liquid slosh around inside. The substance is oddly viscous—it’s more syrupy than fluid. “I must say, your act of direct disobedience intrigues me. It’s not everyday that one of Gwi-Ma’s favourites comes searching for Aejol.”
Jinu stiffens, and Cat Mask must catch the sudden tension tightening his frame, as she waves him off.
“Don’t worry. I have no reason to turn you in. After all, I wouldn’t like to be caught up in the same crime.”
“And there’s really no catch?” Jinu runs a thumb over the shining glass, eyeing Cat Mask with open suspicion. “That’s not easy to believe.”
Cat Mask pauses. “Well. There’s one thing I’d like to know,” she confesses, and Jinu holds back his growl of annoyance. Of course there is. “Relax, boy. My only question is this.”
Her stare is piercing, and he resists the urge to squirm under the sudden scrutiny.
“Why are you turning away from your master now?” she inquires curiously. “You’ve always been loyal to him. You’ve never tried to run—are you going to run now? Finally, after four hundred years of devotion?”
Jinu grits his teeth. “That’s more than one question,” he responds stiffly, but Cat Mask only stares expectantly.
He sighs.
“Times are changing,” he begins at last. “There are some things I’ve discovered that I don’t want to disclose with him. Yes, I’ve never tried to leave his side in the past, but as of late, his attention has been wandering off from me. I think I’m willing to test my luck.”
Gwi-Ma’s surveillance comes and goes every hundred or so years. His God has many playthings—Gwi-Ma rotates through each one of his servants systemically, as a child would fixate on certain toys on certain days, discarding them once they grew bored.
It must be Jinu’s luck that for the greater portion of this particular century, he’s been left alone with his own endeavours without being bothered. The endless taunts of Gwi-Ma’s voice still plague his mind regardless of his physical absence, but at least he’s almost certain Gwi-Ma isn’t currently actively listening.
“Satisfied?” Jinu scoffs, and Cat Mask nods amicably. “Good. Then I’ll be off.”
He can feel Cat Mask’s impending gaze bore into the back of his head as he walks down the corridor to the door. He wills himself to keep an even pace, as to not let his discomfort and haste see the light of day.
Only when the front door slides shut behind him, does he finally ease off the invisible, strenuous weight building on his shoulders. With the tip of his claw, he flicks the bottle cap off the lip, before chugging the entire contents of the bottle in one fell swoop.
Once the substance is down his throat, he gags. That tasted disgusting.
As he tosses the empty vial away into one of the many decaying bushes that are scattered throughout the land, he starts walking back to the Common Lands.
With nothing left to do but indulge in his own thoughts, the calculations run rampant in his head once more, racing a mile a minute.
The Aejol lasts twenty days.
For twenty days, he will be able to close off and selectively filter what comes out of his end of the link between him and Gwi-Ma.
He exhales shakily. Last time, it took eighteen days to almost fully shatter the Honmoon.
He just needs to play his role convincingly, right until the very last second, when Rumi offers him an escape. When she tells him to sabotage the Saja Boys and let the Huntrix win the Idol Awards, that is when the tides will turn in his favour. That will be when he’ll finally be able to shed away his layers of secrecy. He’ll support the rightful side of the narrative this time.
As he steps onto the Common Lands territory, his feet guiding him to the temple of Gwi-Ma (more out of muscle memory, if anything), he swallows down his trepidation, hoping that his facade will stay on long enough for him to complete the daunting task at hand.
The chance of freedom is dangling right above his head.
He would be a fool not to take it, now that it’s being offered for a second time.