Saja.exe has stopped responding

"I love you."

The stupid toy squeaks pathetically as a clawed paw presses down over and over, forcing out that pitiful "I love you." The sound is tinny, artificial—a hollow echo of the warmth that once lived behind those words. It’s irritating. Familiar voices blur into a noisy, endless stream—love, love, love. Once, laughter used to spill from his lips, laced with venom and bitterness. Back then, their laughter was a weapon, sharp enough to cut through the pretense of this human world. Their little fans surely clutched these toys at night, squeezing the tiny bodies repeatedly, listening to their idols’ voices while shedding silent tears. Those girls never knew the demons behind the smiles—how the Saja Boys mocked their devotion between takes. He used to laugh the loudest then. He’d scrutinize the prototype figures, wrinkling his nose at the saccharine phrase embroidered on his pink jacket—meant for romantics. The fabric itched against his skin, too human, too soft. He’d mock how Jinu looked too rugged, how a tiny tiger was stitched onto his pocket. "They turned you into a zoo exhibit," he’d sneer, flicking the embroidered beast with a claw. He’d laugh at how the plush Abby barely fit in his hands—those shoulders were too broad. "What, did they think you’re a fucking bodybuilder?" He’d roll his eyes at Mystery’s synthetic bangs, glued down with “harmless” adhesive. "Bet they used the same glue for their morals," he’d mutter, peeling a strand back just to watch it snap into place. Even as a toy, Romance kept his poison-pink swoop of hair. "Of course you got to keep your drama," Baby would sigh, as if it were an affront. It was funny back then. When they all stood side by side, sneering at another themed merchandise drop. Their unity was a performance, but the disdain was real—a rare honesty in their fabricated lives. Now, the toys lay in a neat row before him. Aligned like tombstones. Only Baby Saja was missing. Because he survived. The irony tastes like blood on his tongue. Baby feels a wet tiger nose nudge his side—golden eyes watch intently, tracking every flicker of emotion, while sharp fangs stretch into something like a smile. The tiger’s breath is warm, too warm for a creature of the underworld, but then again, so is the tear sliding down Baby’s cheek. The demonic tiger stomps a paw on Jinu’s toy, grunting when the mechanical voice chirps "love you." The sound is wrong. Jinu never sounded so sweet. A crow’s cry echoes it—its head swivels wildly, three pairs of eyes searching for its master. The bird’s feathers are frayed, its demonic energy fading like ink in water. Where will he emerge this time? Hiding behind that ridiculous dance hat again? Off hunting those vicious huntresses? The crow remembers the huntresses’ blades, how they gleamed under stage lights—pretty, it thinks, like their lies. It’s impossible that Jinu left them—that’s absurd. Baby wants to believe it. Purple marks shimmer faintly on his hand like bloodstains. They pulse weakly, a dying heartbeat. His fingers dig into the tiger’s fur as he presses Abby’s toy himself. The plush depresses with a squeak, too cheerful for the silence that follows. "Go, Baby Saja!" the recording replies—a relic from their hot-sauce challenge marathon. Abby’s voice is staticky now, the memory of his grin flickering like a corrupted file. The tiger cocks its head. It sprawls clumsily across Baby’s lap, drool soaking into black pants. The fabric stains darker, a wet shadow spreading like guilt. The apartment is empty and cold now, the old TV silent, Mystery’s nail polish still on the table. The bottle is half-empty, the polish inside congealed—a metaphor he’d have once mocked. The air faintly smells of hairspray—as if Romance might step out of the bathroom any second, complaining about shitty skincare. "They don’t even make serums for demons," he’d whine, and Baby would toss a towel at his head. Baby remembers—their first time in human forms. Dark skin turned pale, a blue fringe falling over his eyes. The human world was too bright, too loud, a sensory assault they’d laughed off as part of the act. How he’d lunged at Jinu, pounding his chest with tiny fists, no demonic claws in sight. "You’re too perfect," he’d hissed, and Jinu had just grinned, unfazed. "Girls love this!" Abby had laughed loudest, flexing at the mirror. His reflection had winked back, a parody of vanity. Mystery scoffed, tossing long hair over his golden irises. "At least I don’t look like a gym rat," he’d sniffed, but Baby saw the way he’d lingered in front of glass windows, admiring his silhouette. Romance already shoved aside garish shirts, baffled by human fashion. "Do they want to look like rainbows?" he’d groaned, and Baby had stolen the loudest one just to annoy him. That was so long ago. The square dance. The huntresses. The concert hall. The way the stage lights burned their retinas, how the crowd’s screams drowned out their own thoughts. Sometimes, Baby wonders if it even happened to him. Maybe it was all a dream, a glitch in the system—Saja.exe, corrupted memory file. They couldn’t have left him alone—yet the apartment drowns in darkness, no knocks at the door. The silence is a living thing, gnawing at the edges of the room. The uneaten pizza remains on the table. The cheese is stiff now, the toppings curled like dead leaves. Jinu’s always-locked room stands open—the tiger drags over a blanket that still smells of lavender and cinnamon. Baby buries his face in it, and for a second, he’s back in the demon world, pressed between his brothers in a tangled heap of limbs and laughter. The crow perches on Baby’s shoulder, claws pricking through fabric. He feels the pain—proof he’s alive. How disgusting. Demons shouldn’t feel. Demons shouldn’t care. Somewhere, three girls laugh loudly, pouring Blue Lagoon cocktails, citrus sharp on their tongues. They clink glasses, toasting their victory, oblivious to the hollow-eyed boy clutching plushies in the dark. They won this war—fair and square. Demons don’t feel. Demons don’t care. Their friendships end where food begins. But Baby isn’t hungry. He’s starving. Baby scratches the tiger’s ear as the crow nestles closer. The toys repeat their phrases. The words are worn thin, like a record played too many times. "That’s my Baby Saja!" "My little elixir." "I love you." The demon beasts grunt replies. They smell polyester, stuffing, and store-bought cleanliness—they feel their energy fading. The tiger’s fur is matted now, the crow’s feathers dull. They’re ghosts of themselves, just like him. Baby feels it too. Rumi purged her demon half, and the scraps of that power went to him. He’s a battery running on borrowed charge. Demons are callous. Demons are ice. Demons don’t grieve. Then why does his chest ache like his heart’s been ripped out? Baby thinks: It’d be easier if I’d dissolved into that sickly smoke with the rest. No more toys. No more voices. Just quiet. He doesn’t feel like a demon. Demons don’t have families. He did. They came to steal hearts and souls—yet Baby gathers the plushies, crushing them to his chest, pressing their plastic hearts relentlessly. If he squeezes hard enough, maybe they’ll whisper the truth: We’re still here. We didn’t leave you. They smell like detergent and retail stores. No trace of sulfur, no hint of the underworld’s rot. The crow blinks all six eyes. The tiger sleeps coiled around him, tail brushing his back. Plush Jinu says "love you" again. The real one never said it aloud—never needed to. Actions spoke louder. A hand ruffling his hair. A shared smirk mid-performance. A shoulder to lean on when the human world felt like too much. They were mighty evil spirits. Baby remembers tormenting lesser demons in their slimy realm; how they’d laugh as imps scurried away, how Abby would flex just to watch them cower. Abby patiently teaching him to teleport; "Focus, brat," he’d growl, but his hands were gentle. Rolling his eyes while flicking Mystery’s bangs aside; "You’re vain," Baby would say, and Mystery would smirk, "And you’re jealous." Enduring Romance’s poetry, which even succubi found tedious. "Just one more stanza!" he’d plead, and Baby would groan, but he’d listen. That was life. Their tiny, fleeting not-life, full of inexplicable warmth and interlaced fingers. A stolen eternity in a world that wanted them dead. Now, only Rumi’s residual energy and a few stuffed friends remain. Baby Saja never cries. The crow pecks salt from his face, the tears dissolving into the tiger’s faded blue fur. The bird doesn’t understand. It only knows the taste of sorrow. Weakening fingers keep pressing—the tiger’s peaceful snores calm him. Baby slumps against the table, staring into nothing. The void stares back. Don’t close your eyes. No, no, no— His pupils dilate, straining against the dark room. A little longer—the purple marks dissolve, seeping into skin, becoming ashen smoke. He’s unraveling. Good. Baby shuts his eyes. The toys clatter to the floor. The sound is final, like a coffin closing. The crow clutches his clothes, tucking its head under a wing like nesting. The tiger lifts its head, letting Baby bury his face in its fur. For a moment, it’s Jinu’s chest he’s leaning against, solid and steady. The apartment falls silent. Toy Jinu says "love you" one last time before the batteries die. Baby doesn’t hear it. A shudder runs through him, erasing the last marks. He sinks into sleep slowly—like sticky syrup. Like sinking into the demon world’s tar pits, where they used to play. A click. A creak—the door cracks open. A painfully familiar chuckle rings out. The sound is rough, real, alive. Strong arms scoop him up, pulling him against broad shoulders. The scent of lavender and cinnamon overwhelms him—impossible, impossible— Someone kicks the toys aside, muttering about that damn hair swoop. "Told them to fix it," the voice grumbles, and Baby’s heart stutters. The same voice that minutes ago oozed "love you" from a speaker now says: "Time to go home."