Execution

***

In Rumi’s heart dwell thousands of words that will never be spoken aloud. Dozens of gazes are etched into her mind—gazes that only made themselves known amidst the rustle of sheets and the hum of the nighttime city. Rumi never complained. Not once. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t afford to. She had long since learned: showing weakness is a luxury no hunter can afford. It lingers as a salty aftertaste on the tongue, tight in the chest, settling like bitterness in the lungs, making it hard to breathe. Selene once told her that her mother died because of weakness. But Rumi knows—she died because of love. And despite it all, there is so much love in Rumi’s heart—distorted love, and, as Selene says, far too sincere—that it physically hurts, pressing down on her chest like a crushing weight. And at the same time, there’s so much hatred—savage, primal, blood-deep—that it confuses her completely, pulling her down into this emotional mire until she’s drowning in it. Until Hongmun chooses her as the next hunter. From that moment on, her heart—too big for her chest—has room only for hope. Hope as sincere as her love, and as deep as her hate. Hope becomes the only thing keeping her from drowning again. Even as the markings on her shoulders begin to spread with alarming speed. Her hunter’s instincts whisper that she should get rid of them, the message reinforced by a faint itch beneath the skin. Rumi doesn’t react. Or at least she tries not to. And she doesn’t complain. Not once. Instead, she throws herself into training, sings softly within the silence of her room, and hides her fear deep in her soul, even from herself. There is so much fear in her, oh, she can almost feel its weight in her hands. And that feels all the more wrong, because hunters are not supposed to know fear. And yet Rumi, even here, is wrong. Entirely ridiculous. And still, she fights. Eventually, Selene introduces her to two other hunters—Mira and Zoe. The sharp gleam of the moon and the warming sun. Rumi allows herself to smile—brightly, unforgivably so. For just a moment, more sincerely than she’s allowed. Zoe introduces herself in broken Korean, with hesitations and nervous tapping against her leg. Mira doesn’t say more than a single sentence. But Rumi sees the most important thing: the same hope burning in their eyes—vivid, like a lone lighthouse in a raging storm. Deep down, she suddenly knows—they’ll get along. Even if most of her hatred and love remains buried in her subconscious. After all, they’re hunters. And for hunters, weakness is a luxury none can afford.

***

Everything falls apart too suddenly. Rumi doesn’t see it coming. She’s too lost in hope, forgetting that things for her have never been like they are for others. That her true nature—sinful and sweetly deceptive—will always come back to haunt her. It happens fast—her voice disappears, flimsy excuses take shape, a new demonic boy band enters the stage, and guilt crashes down like a tidal wave. For a second, Rumi wonders where things went wrong—before bursting into laughter at her own foolishness. She knows exactly when it all went off course—from the very beginning, when Hongmun gave her—a demonic wretch with a too-human heart—a chance at redemption. The ending was always collapse. Always a downfall of what others so carefully built. And Rumi wants to laugh even harder, until her bones vibrate. She wants to scream, to sob out a muffled “why?”, because all the other words are still locked inside her mind—never able to find freedom among the lies. And then, as if fate were mocking her further, Jinwoo drops into her life—some demon seducer turned failure. The first time he looks at her, there’s such contempt in his eyes she almost punches him. Maybe twice. Hatred erupts within Rumi more violently than she expected. It crawls through her veins like a languid poison, setting her skin aflame where her hunter’s marks pulse. It’s so intense, a shiver runs down her spine—acidic, like guilt. Rumi doesn’t intend to meet with him. But something in the coldness of his eyes draws her in. And she doesn’t care if it’s fueled by hate—hate feels appropriate when it comes to demons. But all her justifications fall apart the moment he speaks. Words that pierce too deeply, stop her hand mid-swing. For Rumi, that very human comprehension feels like a forbidden luxury—wrapped in gold. It’s something she should run from, snarl at, crush beneath her heel. Instead, Rumi makes an unforgivable mistake. She accepts it. And she’s the one to arrange the next meeting.

***

Jinwoo’s awkwardness in the human world is almost amusing. His movements are jerky, like rusted machinery—slow, cautious. But the way he looks at her remains unchanged, as though he’s peeling back her soul without even realizing. Rumi feels unsettled. A little afraid. But mostly—deep in her bones—she feels comfort. To be seen wholly—raw, wrong, jagged at the edges, and utterly exhausted—feels like a strange kind of freedom. Something sacred, forbidden to people like her. And so the question forms, logical in its own way: Why did Jinwoo become a demon? Why would someone so perceptive, so strangely compassionate, give his soul away? What did he choose in exchange for freedom? The words choke in Rumi’s throat—too personal, too vulnerable. Her hatred simmers now, more chronic than acute, pulsing faintly beneath the skin. And amid that, something else. Something warm. Something burning. And Jinwoo’s eyes—something has shifted there, too. He’s not as sarcastic, not as biting. Still the same in many ways—painfully understanding, infuriatingly sincere in his intent. He never crosses the line. Never speaks of the thing between them. Not when they’re in public. He’s not bothered by it, it seems. Rumi smirks bitterly. She envies him. Because as usual, she’s the only one who doesn’t fit—even when it comes to demons. Maybe it is funny. Maybe it is stupid. And shamefully… terrifying. Terrifying to realize how deeply that cursed warmth has sunk into her, from his rare smiles and endless villain speeches. Terrifying that her hatred has become shallow. That their conversations, like slow executions, bring nothing but agony and the desperate purity of faith. They both know where this is heading. Even if Rumi promises to free him. Even if she’s willing to die to do it.

***

At first, everything shines gold—the kind of gold you want to bask in: soft, divine, radiant. Then suddenly—darkness. Cold at the nape of her neck. The air tastes like metal. And in the next instant—red. Blood red. Zoe’s and Mira’s faces flash by like a carousel about to break free of its track. Cold washes over Rumi again. It brushes her bare shoulders and whispers—"demon, demon, demon"—from the lips of her friends. Everything becomes too vast, while Rumi herself shrinks into a small, shapeless speck in an ocean of accusing eyes. And tragically, they are all on her. It suffocates her. Awakens a primal terror in her blood. She screams—a desperate, inhuman wail, like a prayer from the depths of hell begging for forgiveness. The music fades. So does Rumi’s breath. She hears nothing but the frantic pounding of her own heart and the sound of footsteps walking away. Hope and certainty shatter beneath the weight of weapons in her friends’ hands. Rumi can’t hate them. Right now—there’s no one she can hate but herself. So she runs. Seeking the only one who might accept her. Jinwoo. The coldness in his eyes feels different now—more deceptive. His words strike hot, burning Rumi deeper than the loss of all her dreams. Maybe because Jinwoo was one of them. Was. The word turns to bitter ash in her mouth, twisting her stomach. And Rumi understands: this is one endless execution, one that will never end while she still breathes—while she still tries to resist what she is. Going to Selene feels like the right choice. There’s no one left who might understand her—her thoughts, maybe even her feelings. Because, in the end, not even Rumi could understand her own feelings.

***

Foolish. In the end, all things are finite. And Rumi thinks—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to meet her end at the hands of her not-quite-mother. Of course, Selene is too weak for that. She always was. Rumi has no strength left for anything but one final impulse—to meet her end with dignity. A moment in that liminal space feels peaceful. As if that’s how it was always meant to be. She doesn’t even notice how she ends up there—onstage, face-to-face with the demon king. Face-to-face with Jinwoo. Something warped ignites inside her—not hate, not hope—something like love. Disgusting, sickly-sweet, the kind that killed her mother. And how ironic, that she’s no better. That same love pushes her into reckless action—the desire to save, to fight, to resist. Her voice doesn’t tremble. Her words echo—harsh and hollow—through the space in her chest. She hears Zoe’s voice, then Mira’s achingly sincere one. She swallows the lump in her throat. They’re together again. But Rumi is focused on one thing—the cold eyes in the distance. She steps forward, driven by a need to be closer. To feel comfort—just once. That’s why she doesn’t react in time when fire rushes toward her. The heat floods her lungs, grips her chest, presses and presses and presses— Then, with a single spark, all pressure vanishes. Dissolves in the warmth of eyes that see her differently. All words vanish from her mind. She freezes. Horrified by the truth. That Jinwoo, who wanted freedom so desperately, gave up everything that remained— To save her. A demonic soul unworthy of saving. Something inside her breaks. Rumi doesn’t know what it is yet. But suddenly, everything inside her turns inside out—like a heretic stepping into a holy place— And fills her heart with crimson fire. On her tongue rests something achingly familiar—something she’s never been told: “I love you.” And her heart breaks completely. Because those words will never be said aloud.