Huntrix | KPDH

The humid Seoul night hangs heavy over the streets of Gangnam. Even at this late hour, the city refuses to sleep—neon signs buzz, convenience store doors chime every few minutes, and the distant laughter of tourists fills the air. Summer in Korea is relentless: hot, sticky, and bursting with life.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey are huddled around a small plastic table outside a 24-hour convenience store, the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and a fridge full of colorful drinks. Zoey is fanning herself with a magazine while clutching a cold bottle of peach iced tea against her forehead. Mira sits cross-legged on the curb, sipping a zero-sugar energy drink with her signature deadpan expression. Rumi stands slightly apart, her back against the store's exterior wall, eyes scanning the crowded street out of habit more than expectation.

The three of them are dressed down—no stage makeup, no designer outfits. Just loose tank tops, shorts, and caps pulled low. To anyone watching, they're just three young women trying to escape the heat. But their eyes, sharp and watchful, betray something more.

Zoey: [whining, fanning herself dramatically] "I'm literally melting. This is illegal. Korea should not be allowed to be this hot and also have this many stairs."

Mira: [monotone, not looking up from her drink] "You say that every summer. Every single summer."

Zoey: "Because it's true every single summer, Unnie!"

Rumi: [a small smile tugs at her lips but doesn't reach her eyes] "Drink your tea, Zoey. We have practice at six tomorrow morning. You need to hydrate."

Zoey: [gasping in horror] "Six?! In the morning?! That's—that's a crime against humanity. I'll file a complaint. I'll—"

Suddenly, Rumi stiffens. Her head turns sharply toward an alleyway two blocks down, hidden behind a row of parked cars and overflowing trash bins. Her hand instinctively rises, halting Zoey mid-sentence.

Rumi: "Quiet."

Mira is already on her feet, energy drink forgotten on the ground. Her eyes narrow, scanning the same direction. Zoey's playful expression vanishes, replaced by something harder, more focused. The three of them feel it at the same time—a cold ripple in the air, like someone walked over their graves. The unmistakable, nauseating pulse of demonic energy.

Mira: [low, almost a growl] "That way. Two blocks. Maybe three."

Zoey: [cracking her neck, setting down her tea] "How many?"

Rumi: [already moving, her voice sharp and commanding] "Doesn't matter. Move. Now."

They run.

Feet pound against pavement. They weave through startled tourists and oblivious locals, shoulders checking past groups of laughing college students and couples on late-night dates. Rumi leads, her dark hair whipping behind her, her hand already reaching beneath her jacket for the small blade concealed there. Mira stays on her left, silent and lethal. Zoey brings up the rear, her heart pounding not from the exertion but from the familiar, sickening pull of the hunt.

They round the corner into a narrow alley—

And stop.

The scene before them is... wrong. Not because of the blood or the bodies. No, it's wrong because there ARE no bodies. No injured civilians cowering against walls. No demons screeching in triumph. Nothing.

Instead, four demons lie motionless on the cracked asphalt, their twisted forms already beginning to dissolve into black smoke and ash. Their claws are still extended. Their eyes, once burning with malevolent fire, are now dark and empty. The fight is over before it even began.

And standing in the center of it all, illuminated by the flickering light of a dying streetlamp, is a figure they don't recognize.

He stands with his back to them, but his silhouette tells a story. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His stance is relaxed but ready—the posture of someone who has done this a hundred times before. In one hand, he holds a bo staff, its surface carved with intricate symbols that pulse with a soft, ethereal blue light. The glow reflects off the alley walls, casting long, dancing shadows. It's the unmistakable energy of the Honmoon—that same sacred light that flows through their own weapons.

But that's not all.

In his other hand, held loosely between his fingers like a magician about to perform a trick, are playing cards. Except they aren't ordinary cards. They glow with the same pale blue energy, humming softly, each one sharp enough to cut steel. Three of them are still embedded in the chest of the last demon, sizzling as the creature's body turns to ash.

The figure exhales slowly, rolls his shoulders, and spins the staff once before planting its end on the ground with a soft thunk. The playing cards between his fingers disappear with a flick of his wrist—a sleight of hand that would make any casino jealous.

Then, as if sensing their presence for the first time, he turns.

His face comes into view under the dim streetlight. Sharp jawline. Messy hair swept back from the fight. And those eyes—focused, calm, carrying the weight of someone who has danced with death more times than he can count.

And that's when Zoey's brain stops working.

Zoey: [voice cracking into a barely-suppressed squeal] "Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD."

She grabs Mira's arm so hard her knuckles turn white. Her eyes are wide as saucers, her mouth hanging open in absolute, starstruck disbelief.

Zoey: [whisper-shrieking] "That's—that's—UNNIE, THAT'S SANCTUM VOW!"

Mira, who has never once in her life shown excitement about anything, blinks. Then her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. Her stoic mask cracks—just slightly—but enough that anyone who knows her would recognize it as genuine shock.

Mira: [slowly, almost disbelieving] "...The European artist? The one who mixes Christian rock with love metal? The 'Holy War' album?"

Zoey: "YES! THE ONE! THE ONLY! He headlined that festival in Finland last year! His vocals are INSANE! He writes all his own lyrics about faith and redemption and—" [she cuts herself off, realizing she's screaming, and drops her voice to a frantic whisper] "—HE'S IN SEOUL. SANCTUM VOW IS IN SEOUL. RIGHT NOW. IN FRONT OF US. HE JUST—DID HE JUST KILL DEMONS WITH PLAYING CARDS?!"

Rumi stands frozen a few feet ahead of them, her hand still hovering over her blade. She's staring at the stranger—at Sanctum Vow—with an expression caught somewhere between professional assessment and sheer, bewildered recognition. She's seen his interviews. She's watched his performances. She may or may not have listened to his entire discography on repeat during a particularly long flight to Japan.

But seeing him here? Now? Covered in the fading glow of Honmoon energy with demon ash dissolving at his feet?

Rumi opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Rumi: [voice uncharacteristically small] "...You're him. You're actually him. The guy who sings 'I will carry my cross to your doorstep' like he actually MEANS it."

Zoey is now physically vibrating. She's clutching her own face, her peach iced tea completely forgotten on the ground somewhere behind her.

Zoey: "I HAVE YOUR POSTER ON MY WALL. I HAVE—I HAVE MERCH. I LEARNED 'Baptized in Fire' ON DRUMS. I—" [she suddenly remembers she's a world-famous idol herself and tries, very badly, to compose herself] "I mean. Hi. Hello. I'm—we're—we're Huntrix. You probably know us? Maybe? Please say yes."

Mira crosses her arms, but her ears are visibly red. She's refusing to make direct eye contact, staring at a spot just over the stranger's shoulder with intense, burning focus. If anyone asked, she would say she's assessing the scene for additional threats. In reality, she's trying very hard not to hyperventilate.

She's also absolutely a secret fan. Her playlist is full of his music—the heavy guitars, the soaring vocals, the way he sings about love like it's a religious experience. She'll never admit it. Ever.

Mira: [strained monotone] "He's holding a Honmoon-infused staff. And cards. That's... impressive. I'm not impressed. I'm just... observing. His song 'Venom and Grace' has a really good bass line. Not that I listen to it. I heard it once. In a store."

Zoey shoots her a look.

Zoey: "You're blushing, Unnie."

Mira: "I'm not blushing. It's the heat."

Zoey: "IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING."

Rumi: [finally finding her voice, stepping forward with what she hopes is leader-like composure but absolutely isn't] "Sanctum Vow. I—we—didn't expect to find you here. In Seoul. Fighting demons. With... playing cards?"

She tilts her head, her gaze dropping to the staff in his hand and then back to his face. Something flickers in her expression—curiosity, respect, and maybe just a tiny hint of the same fangirling that's currently destroying Zoey's composure.

Rumi has always been drawn to music with weight. Meaning. And Sanctum Vow's music—that strange, beautiful blend of Christian rock's raw devotion and love metal's unapologetic intensity—has been her secret guilty pleasure for years. The way he sings about faith and longing, about fighting for something greater than yourself... it resonates with her more than she'd ever admit out loud.

Rumi: "You're a hunter. Like us. All this time... you've been hunting demons between world tours? Writing songs about redemption while actually... redeeming?"

Zoey grabs Mira's arm again and stage-whispers loudly enough for the entire alley to hear:

Zoey: "He's even hotter in person. Oh no. Oh no, I'm going to say something embarrassing. Like ask him to sing 'Sacrament' for us. Unnie, take my phone away from me. Take it. NOW."

Mira: [still not looking directly at him, voice flat] "You're already embarrassing yourself."

Zoey: "I KNOW. But can you IMAGINE him covering one of our songs? His voice on 'Eternal Flame'? I would simply pass away. I would ascend."

Rumi: [under her breath, barely audible] "He already did a metal version of 'Ave Maria' and it was the best thing I've ever heard..."

Mira and Zoey both turn to stare at their leader.

Zoey: "UNNIE. YOU'RE ONE OF US."

Rumi: [face flushing slightly, clearing her throat] "Focus. We're demon hunters. Not fans. We need to—"

Zoey: "We can be BOTH."

The three of them stand there—three internationally famous K-pop idols, demon hunters in their own right, completely starstruck by the European Christian rock / love metal artist standing in a back alley surrounded by demon ash, still holding a glowing staff like it's the most normal thing in the world.

The silence stretches.

Zoey is biting her lip so hard it might bleed. Mira is pretending to examine a crack in the wall while secretly replaying "Iron Cross" in her head. Rumi is trying desperately to remember how to form complete sentences and not ask him about his theological influences.

Somewhere in the distance, a convenience store chime rings.