Freaks on The Run

The knife flew swiftly toward the bullseye, only to shatter into thousands of iridescent shreds the moment it hit its target. The rain of seemingly sharp crystals left the target untouched, as if the basic training equipment secretly held some otherworldly, legendary quality. Tsk! — the voice of the young man faded into silence, unheard. Sweat rolled between his eyes, trailing down a beautifully sculpted nose before falling, mirroring the faint, beautiful light of millions of shards covering the floor. The room was dark, but there were enough fragments to illuminate it just enough to reveal the lanky, stooped figure standing in the center. Exhaustion seemed etched into his very bones—his shoulders round and stiff. The young man wasn’t particularly tall or muscular, yet possessed a pair of legs so long and well-toned, he looked like a predator poised to strike. He sighed. Failure—again. Long fingers brushed aside an unruly lock of ash-purple, almost white hair. His man bun had fallen apart hours ago, unnoticed. Soft strands tickled the middle of his back, making already weary muscles tense. There was no point in continuing. No luck today, nor yesterday. For a second, he wondered if there would ever be luck in his training at all. Funny enough, he usually considered himself lucky—and so did everyone else. The downside, of course, was always present. The things he actually cared about, more than minimally, rarely earned the title of “lucky.” With another sharp inhale, he willed the shards to disappear. They slowly melted into hauntingly beautiful threads of Honmoon, which welcomed them back as if every little piece were its child.  Gradually, the room sank into darkness again. It was his own private target practice ground. It had housed him for years, ever since he’d first manifested a tiny, opal-like dagger. The complete darkness didn’t bother him—he’d find his way out without the help of his… oddities. The young man’s eyes gleamed yellow before he closed them. It was time to hit the shower—and maybe, just maybe, get more than five hours of sleep tonight. *** The climb up the stairs felt just as draining as hours of throwing and slicing. The pain in his back and shoulders paled in comparison to the exhaustion in his legs. Had he sat down for more than twenty minutes today? Probably not. The way up from the training grounds felt endless, drowned in shadows. As the only room with no windows in the penthouse—right in the heart of Seoul—it was like a den where a wounded animal might crawl to lick its wounds. More often than not, that’s exactly what it was used for. He wasn’t sure how long he had been in there today. When he first entered, the sun had still been up—bright, only slightly tinged with shy orange. Now, the corridor windows showed a dark skyline. A myriad of lights twinkled in unison with the magical barrier of Honmoon, dimming little by little as more people drifted off to sleep. He saw it every day, and it never failed to fascinate him. So many lives, hidden behind concrete and glass. So many purposes and talents. So much grief and frustration in failing to bring them to life. He huffed at his reflection, pushing the thought away. He was already in a gloomy mood—no need to add to the tightness in his chest. His reflection stared back with a mix of fading gold and warm brown, the latter growing stronger until the gold disappeared completely. Satisfied, he turned left. The sound of television and humming drifted to his ears. " It's always the beginning of the story The stillness is suddenly torn apart In the noisy flames in my heart I become awkward, forgetful—ya, Hangaji!" Another young man hummed, pleased. His fit figure lazily sprawled across a giant couch, arms thrown back to support his dozing form. His handsome face—with its strong jaw and full lips—hovered between sleep and awareness. “Mmm,” Hangaji acknowledged absentmindedly, his head already buried in the fridge. “You’re up, Jisoo. What's up?” “Was thinking whether you’d come out or not. Almost fell asleep—this couch is hella comfy. You should try it sometime,” Jisoo replied, his laughing eyes following Hangaji’s movements, as if straightening and cracking open a can of grape soda carried some deeper meaning. It fizzed musically. “I would, if your giant ass didn’t take up all the space. Look at Jira—she’s sleeping on the floor. Again.” A tired moan echoed from the floor in front of the couch. The voice that followed tasted like unripe plum—tart, hoarse, and tinged with sweetness. “It’s good for my back,” came a mumble, as a head full of long, emerald-green hair peeked out from behind Jisoo’s body. “Ah, and I’m the one whose name means ‘puppy’ here…” the drink tasted heavenly on his tongue, chemically perfect. "Any luck?" Unlike her voice, Jira’s eyes were soft and wide—so dark her pupils nearly disappeared into the black. It was hard to tell whether she was looking at Hangaji or past him, unfocused and distant. "Same. None," he shrugged, as if that wasn’t the running theme of his every nightmare. His face remained blank, if not outright bored. At that, Jisoo slid off the couch and stretched. Scars mapped the surface of his bare chest—a sight familiar and close to all three of them. A well-toned arm reached down, lifting the half-asleep girl off the carpet and gently placing her over his shoulder. Jira didn’t make a sound. More often than not, that’s how she ended up in her bed—carried off by her brother like she was six years old and weighed nothing. "Maybe it’s time you chill and rest for a few days?" her brother muttered good-naturedly. "Umma called. No training tomorrow—something came up. Take the chance to catch up on your dreams." "Sure." The empty can landed perfectly in the trash. "As soon as I make progress." "Keep that in mind," Jisoo said, stepping up to him. A free hand landed firmly on Hangaji’s shoulder. The warm weight of it was grounding. Hangaji sighed in spite of himself. Jisoo smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His true feelings were buried in subtle cues: the way he stood—towering slightly, the way his fingers squeezed a little too tight. The scar at the corner of his upper lip caught in the lamp light, shadowed his face in a mask of amused threat. "Turn the lights off on your way out, yeah?" "Alright." "Tomorrow we rest, you hear me? No dance practice, no vocals, no weapons." Jisoo’s fingers tapped along with each restriction. "Jira wants to check out the new boba place near the station. We tag along and make sure she doesn’t wander into trouble—again." In all honesty, Jira was a walking doomsday magnet. Hangaji hummed, shrugged off the heavy hand, straightened his back, and looked up from under the choppy curtain of his ashy bangs. "Okay, bro. Watch the seaweed-head. No training." "Good." Jisoo’s smile widened—this time genuine, gleaming like he’d just gotten his secret wish. "Night, kiddo!" Hangaji rolled his eyes at his brother’s retreating back and muttered under his breath, aimlessly: "I’m two years older than you." No one heard it. A sly smirk crept across his face. No training could mean a lot of things.

***

Their little group leisurely moved through the streets of Seoul, matching their pace to the people around them. In the year 2042, the world seemed to have slipped back into the early 2020s in almost everything: clothes, technology, music. Luckily for them, the atmosphere grew warmer, and their mismatched appearance didn’t raise anyone’s eyebrows. First was Jira, moving like a short and very focused locomotive. Her green hair stuck out in every direction, defying gravity as if it were offensive to lie flat. Her dark eyes squinted, bothered only by the shining sun; she wore no makeup. Her large, oversized black hoodie seemed out of place in the summer heat, hiding under itself a pair of tight shorts. Jira appeared completely unbothered. She was a creature of heat and humidity, an amphibian in human form, which she seemed to prove by wearing a pair of ridiculous frog-shaped slippers. Slouching, she moved ahead, then stepped into a shallow puddle and yawned. In contrast, Hangaji looked like he had just come off a photoshoot. His light lilac hair seemed to embody moonlight—shiny and well-kept. Threads of pearls caught glimpses of the sun in his hair and ears, and his light blouse left little to the imagination of gawking passersby. His tall frame was supported by bags full of t-shirts of questionable quality and fashion. He looked down from time to time, seeing the same sight each time: a black shirt with a giant Tyrannosaurus rex surrounded by chugs of piss-yellow beer. He squinted in disgust. “Why do we need this trash again?” His voice sounded bored, but beneath the antagonism, there was some humor. “It’s vintage.” Jisoo was already wearing the said vintage shirt. His hair was damp from sweat and heat, and the sun made it look the deepest chocolate brown one could imagine. His silver jewelry and masterfully placed piercings clashed with the ridiculousness of his new outfit, but his sheer confidence and charisma still made heads turn in awe. The young man was clearly taller than the rest of his friends and most people around. His spiky hair and well-kept physique made him seem almost eternal amid the monotony of the crowd. A blushing couple passed him, locking their gazes on his features as if accidentally. Jisoo smiled slyly and winked. The girl squeaked softly and ran off, crimson with blush. “Stop rizzing people up, Jisoo,” Jira commented, still standing in the puddle. The soft coolness of the water felt lovely in the hot weather. “What is ‘rizzing up’?” Jisoo asked nonchalantly. “And why should I stop?” “It means you’re trying to be a walking thirst trap in that trash, and the contrast gives people aneurysms.” “Hmmm, I wouldn’t put it so harshly,” the girl said, turning to face them, her cupid’s bow-shaped lips curved in a lazy smile. “But generally, I agree with Hangaji.” “This happens once in a millennium. Brace yourself for the truth!” Hangaji dramatically waved his hands but stopped, feeling the sweaty blouse stick to his back. While cooling, it sent a shiver down his spine. Jisoo laughed, and the Honmoon around them seemed to glimpse brighter. “Ah, guys, I missed hanging out with you!” “We’re literally next to each other 99% of the time, except for bathroom breaks,” Jira said plainly. “Speak for yourself,” the lilac-haired boy muttered. “He follows me to the toilet, too. My privacy is a nonexistent concept at this point.” His siblings let out a shared happy hum, as if his lament for freedom was a silly little comment. “In the last concert you sang you’d let the world burn for us. So enjoy it!” Jisoo raised a hand and ruffled Hangaji’s perfectly styled curls, making the older boy growl. “Jira wrote it, and I sing what she makes me sing.” The girl brightened up. In her hands, a small frog-shaped fan materialized from her pocket. She blew a gush of pleasant cold wind onto his face. It seemed to cure the boy’s mood instantly, as he sighed in relief. “Yes, and the Honmoon shone the prettiest rainbow I’ve seen!” Her lips were suddenly touched by a rare, sincere smile. “It says ‘I love you’ louder than any words could. I think about it all the time. And! It’s on all our social media. The fans cried like babies!” “Aughh!” Hangaji stomped off. The embarrassment flushed his cheeks, as his brother and sister followed, clearly laughing at him. The memory entered his mind, raw and overpowering. It had been one of their biggest shows to date, and he got emotional, seeing so many adoring people around. Thousands chanted along with him like an angelic choir, their souls so bright he felt like he was staring straight into the sun. It was beautiful. The communal singing was an act of admiration that touched his heart and made his voice break just right for every fan account to blow up. It felt like living up to her. “The WolVEz” weren’t the religious craze their hunter predecessors “HUNTRIX” had been. Sadly or not, they were a batch that wouldn’t have fit into the industry when it was at its brightest and barely fit now, collecting a smaller yet very loyal following. The pack had tripled its number in the last year, soaring higher and higher in the charts. But still, they weren’t the idols they might have been meant to be. For the first time in history, there were two male hunters wielding the holy Honmoon weapons. Their female comrade conjured a long-range weapon that looked like a crossbow— also far from ordinary. Whether it was the mysterious force of the new rainbow Honmoon or not, no group before them could compare. Aside from their mystic lives, their career success was quite unheard of. They were more alternative than pop, more rugged than polished, more dim than bright. They were a mixed-gender group, their faces and bodies adorned with piercings and tattoos, different in build and height, publicly known to have come together with the help of their parents’ reputations. They were scandalous. Widely discussed. Always in the background of the news channels. And, of course, one of them was a half-demon. That, surprisingly, was perhaps the weirdest thing to happen to the hunters’ order twice in a row. Not that it mattered anymore. The world was peaceful, and the barrier was sealed. No demons had been seen for over twenty years—no slips, no scratches on the countless luminous threads that covered the entire planet. Nobody knew what was happening in the Underworld after the defeat of Gwi-ma. No news. Not even a whisper. The two remaining not-so-demons roamed the world hand in hand with their family. Hangaji looked up, finally reaching the boba shop his adopted sister had been so eager to check out. From the advertisement shield behind the small café, his own face was looking back at him. The producers and makeup artists had made him look even more seductive and sensual than his usual appearance allowed. A slight smile played on his sinfully parted lips, half his face hidden behind curled bangs. He was lying on deep-blue sheets, surrounded by pears and glass, frozen in time before, perhaps, an embrace with a lover. The promotion for a new fragrance shone regally, promising an aroma of passion. Several people in the boba shop stared at it while waiting for their orders, mouths slightly agape or sighing. Of course, it went viral. Part of him whispered in pride. He quickly shut it down. “…So they make drinks inspired by us?” Jisoo asked from behind him, glancing around like a king supervising his subjects. Jira’s nose was buried deep in her phone screen, tapping out the beginning of a post. “Yeah, since we have a show in three days, Mama set off a limited edition set of drinks!” Jira sounded excited, though the promotion of their band wasn’t the real reason for it. She showed her phone screen in front of Jisoo’s face, who then lowered it for Hangaji to see as well. Three tall drinks in the picture looked delicious. One was a dark blue mix of blackberry and yellow pineapple tapioca, topped with a cute cream hat. Sprinkles of stars and crescent moons littered it. Their mascot, a plush wolf, had bright yellow eyes and periwinkle fur—not too far off from his own hair. The wolf plushie looked adorable and seemed like the softest little puppy. He supposed the drink was meant to represent him and his tastes. Hangaji wondered if he had ever had a blackberry in his life. The next drink seemed like a more traditional milk-tea variant, though bright and colorful. Strawberry and kiwi flavors were paired with vanilla juice balls. The cream hat copied his own, only now instead of stars, there were cherry blossoms. The little wolf plushie seemed asleep, as if it had just had a big meal. The sugary drink was already a dead giveaway, but the spring-green pup was definitely something Jira would sell her soul for. The last drink was an iced coffee with chocolate and rose syrups. The cream looked especially delicious, adorned with yellow sparkles and ice shaped like stars. The little wolf on the cup bore an uncanny resemblance to Jisoo’s sly-looking smirk. “Eh, why coffee?” Jisoo squinted. He hated coffee. “You guys got a treat, and mine will probably taste like sweetened dirt.” “You can take mine,” Hangaji offered. “Pineapple and blackberry feels like a bit much for my taste. The aesthetic is admirable, I suppose.” “You guys can do whatever you want, but we need to take a few selfies for promo,” Jira said. Her attitude toward things like this was always pragmatic. She dug into one of the bags hanging off Hangaji’s shoulder and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. On her heart-shaped face, they looked comically fashionable, successfully hiding her lack of makeup. Another deep dive, and a plain black, figure-hugging T-shirt emerged. She promptly shoved it into Jisoo’s arms. He raised a brow but shamelessly swapped the T-rex monstrosity he was wearing for the tight shirt. Someone behind them choked on their drink. Jisoo rolled his shoulders, making sure the shirt hugged him in all the right places, then flashed a dazzling smile somewhere behind Hangaji, earning a squeal from a fan. Hangaji sighed, flipped his hair, touched up his makeup, and once again looked like a moon prince sent to Earth. “You guys look perfect!” Jira said, the T-rex shirt already messily folded in her bag. “Ready?” “Yeah!” the boys replied in unison. A small group of fans was already approaching, buzzing with excitement. Jira’s smile spread wide. “Let’s get this party started!”

***

The days leading up to the show always felt like too much and too little at the same time. Responsibilities cascaded endlessly. Last-minute changes demanded a well-oiled machine: dance practice, costume fittings, vocal strain that left them raspy by nightfall. Thanks to the legacy of HUNTRIX, “The WolVEz” were afforded the luxury of being proper pop stars. But with that legacy came the pressure to achieve the unreachable—to become the True Idols. The three of them were on stage, testing mics and finalizing choreography. Everything felt like muscle memory. Raise your hands. Move. Change position. Don’t forget the steps. Slide past Jisoo into his new spot. Hit every note. Present your heart to the world. Hangaji thrived. The music sent shivers down his spine, the steps made sense, the lyrics cut deep. He was in his element—his mind blissfully quiet. The backup dancers, on break, bobbed their heads in time with the beat, their excitement infectious. The opening show of their international tour was in three hours, but music lovers from around the world were already gathering. Their quiet murmur could be heard from the heart of the stadium, thanks to Hangaji’s inhuman hearing. His voice faltered for a second.The music stopped. Jira turned to him, concern written on her face. Her lips silently formed the words: “Are you okay?” He nodded, though a hollow feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Let’s go again from the chorus!” Jisoo passed him on his way back to position, his face unreadable. He gave Hangaji’s shoulder a light pat. “Relax.” Hangaji inhaled through his teeth. Yeah. The music resumed, and his voice rose again—more meticulous this time: “I’m so pretty I melt your face off! Giving you trouble's become my obsession. Swinging fast, I’m gonna crack your heart in— Wake up, wake up, wake u—!” A cough shattered his throat. A moment later, Jisoo pressed a water bottle into his shaking hand. Jira patted his back. “Hey, maybe you need a vocal rest. You’ve been training and singing around the clock these past few weeks,” Jira said gently, her voice cutting through his jagged breaths. “We have time.” “ I feel a sense of déjà vu looking at you three.” They turned their heads in harmony. “Oh!” “Mama!” “Umma!” “Hi, kids!” Rumi’s laugh rang out through their happy squeals. A moment later, her form was overwhelmed by the sheer force of a wholesome group hug. Beside her, Mira was tugged to the floor a second later. “Hey!” Mira’s facade of annoyance crumbled instantly. Jira hugged her tight. “Missed you too.” Her well-manicured hand ruffled Hangaji’s hair, and he immediately felt like melting. Their presence brought immense comfort. “It’s great to see you here,” he rasped. “Sorry.” “No need for that, Hangaji,” Rumi said, shaking her head. Her gentle smile was soft and motherly, her hand on his cheek—warm like summer sun. Jisoo brushed nonexistent dust from her long lilac skirt, smirking like a complete idiot. Rumi giggled and leaned in for another hug with the excited boy. He had long outgrown her, but in her arms, he still felt like a child. “We came to congratulate you all.” Mira straightened her posture, Jira still clinging to her side. Rumi pecked Mira’s forehead. “You’ll be among the biggest names in the industry in no time.” “Thank you very much!” the three youngsters said in perfect unison, bowing deeply. “We brought you gifts, too!” Rumi smiled. Her iconic braid shimmered under the spotlight, but nothing compared to the glint in her eyes. Twenty years had passed since her patterns were revealed to the world. She still wore them proudly, her open-shouldered dress glimmering. In her hands was a small metallic box. With a soft click, she opened it. Inside, nestled in velvet, were three custom IEMs—each engraved with their names in shimmering gold, reflecting the rainbow lights beneath their feet. “During each show, we had our personal earpieces...” the half-demoness began. “They’re extra secure. Could survive falling off a plane if it came to it,” Mira finished, her grin bright enough to power a city. “We’re proud of you, brats.” Hangaji swallowed hard. “It’s a new chapter. You deserve to start it well.” “I want you to be so good, you obliterate everyone!” The former hunters spoke together. The meaning still clear. Jisoo’s eyes welled with tears. Jira quickly stacked her earpieces in. Hangaji stared down at the one in his palm. Something about today felt... too good to be true. “You guys are the best!” Jisoo swept Mira and Jira into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m gonna cry!” “Augh, no!!!” Jira’s muffled protest came from where her face was squished into his chest. “I’m gonna!” “Stop it, you overgrown teddy bear!” Their banter faded into the background for Hangaji. His eyes locked on the earpiece in his hand. This was real. This was it. The day he had dreamed of for years—the one he imagined while throwing Honmoon daggers aimlessly, singing endlessly, and reading old journals. Every lyric, doodle, sticker, every stray thought that helped him get to know his mother—it all led to today. A shiver ran down his spine. What if he wasn’t ready? What if his throat betraying him was a sign? What if today, everything went terribly, awfully wrong? “Hangaji.” Rumi’s patterned hand squeezed his shoulder in a comforting way. He felt his own markings stir beneath the foundation, flaring up. His nails slowly shifted into monstrous black claws. “What’s on your mind, love?” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Her question made his thoughts go both silent and deafening all at once. He squeezed the small device gently. “I’m... I’m just scared, I suppose.” He looked at her. In her warm brown eyes, his glowing yellow ones flickered like two frozen candlelights. “There’s a lot of responsibility. We’ve got so far to go. I don’t want to let you down.” His head hung low. Words stopped coming. Rumi’s expression was gentle, knowing. “She’d be crying with pride if she saw you now, Hangaji.” His reflection in the black-glass floor looked back at him—terror-struck one moment, wearing a crooked, forced smile the next. “You really think so?” “I knew her better than anyone, love.” Her hand brushed a wild lock of hair from his face. “I know so. She’d be proud of you no matter what happens—unless you harmed a turtle somehow.” She laughed, and he joined her, softly. All the journals he’d inherited had turtles doodled in the margins. He wouldn’t dream of touching one.“Breathe with me, okay?” She held his shoulders and guided him. Four seconds in. Four seconds hold. Four seconds out. Rumi was an anchor he could cling to. His fear eased slightly. “I broke into a million pieces, and I can't go back But now I’m seeing all the beauty in the broken glass...” She sang softly, steadily—like a mantra. A balm for shared pain. “The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony My voice without the lies—this is what it sounds like.” He finished the verse for her, looking at the woman who had raised him—not just as a mentor or guardian, but as a second mother. “Thank you, Rumi.” He hugged her gently. “I’ll make sure no turtles are harmed during the show.” Rumi let out a tiny giggle—more relief than amusement. “You do that. And we’ll be right there for you, all of you.” He hugged her more firmly. It was going to be okay. The Honmoon shimmered under their feet, dancing in time with Jisoo’s laughter. It felt lighter today. Then again, Honmoon and Jisoo were practically one — drawn to the boy’s supernova energy like gravity. Hangaji found comfort in the sound of his siblings’ joy. His family had his back—and he had theirs. It would go great.

***

A mix of bile and blood kept pouring from his mangled lips. The smell of smoke and meat and blood —blood, blood, blood— It was everywhere. It was on him. In his mouth. In his nose. Sparks of electricity. Pain. Screams —so many screams— crushed his senses. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Hell had come to take him home.