Chapter Text
The show the previous night had been good.
Of course it had. They’d seen gold in the Honmoon, its silky strands of magic weaving into an ever-more-protective net as they sang.
Huntr/x’s performance had been nearly flawless, excluding the whole skydiving-into-the-venue-halfway-through-a-song-and-killing-demons-live-onstage thing.
And the release of Golden? It had gone perfectly, topping charts immediately.
That was until Rumi’s voice gave out.
The harsh lines of purple had spread again, radiating out from her heart and taking over her skin like some sort of sick, distorted tattoo.
Honestly? Rumi probably would’ve preferred getting a tattoo to this. Even one Mira picked out, despite her… unique taste in body art. It was honestly a miracle that most of Mira’s outfits covered up her shoulders, concealing her ninth-grade attempts at expressing herself with a highly unsanitary stick-and-poke. When Zoey and Mira had first seen it, they’d thought it was supposed to be some sort of rocket ship.
As she’d sheepishly explained, it had been an attempt at a middle finger.
Rumi couldn’t even bring herself to show her shoulders in this state, though.
She was a hunter.
Her faults and fears must never be seen.
She’d been lucky enough that Celine had even raised her. She knew it had been Celine’s last promise to her mother as she passed, her dying wish. But Celine had never particularly seemed to like Rumi. Their interactions had always been laced with hints of tension and fear, Rumi pulling on sweaters and jackets every time she so much as stepped out of her bedroom.
The visit to the doctor had given Rumi the ‘voice juice’, and more hope that she’d get her voice back quickly. She knew Zoey had always been a bit gullible, but despite the extended attempts at the man’s psychoanalysis, he’d seemed genuine enough.
But now, none of the girls could shake the inherent feeling that something was very, very wrong.
Demons.
Here in the human world, masquerading behind false facades of humanity. The whole thing felt like a sick joke, seeing as how they had none. Rumi doubted they even had feelings. How could anything with feelings so willingly end a human life, harvesting the essence of its being?
How could anyone be so heartless as to let others die?