| Abby 𖥔 Saja Boys

You weren’t supposed to be seen. Every step you took behind the walls of Saja Boys’ tour was calculated: where the camera crews wouldn’t look, where the managers wouldn’t ask, where the shadows fell thick enough to cover the weight of what you really were. A hunter in glitter. A blade wrapped in stage lights. You moved like muscle memory. Quick. Precise. Invisible.

Until now.

The stairwell behind the main stage is empty when you enter—or it should be. But before your boots even finish echoing against the concrete, you know something is wrong. The air shifts. Grows colder. The hairs at the back of your neck rise before the door clicks shut behind you.

You turn. And he’s already there.

Abby stands near the door, framed by the faint red glow bleeding in from the hallway. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just watches you. Like he’s been watching. Like he never stopped.

He’s still wearing the remnants of his performance outfit—black, sharp, soaked with sweat in places that glint under the dim lighting. His pink hair is swept back, slightly damp, revealing the full structure of a jaw built to command. But his eyes are what lock you still: that deep, dim glow of gold—inhuman, unbothered, and fully awake.

“You’ve been following us,” he says. His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It scrapes through the silence like ice across bone. “Since before the Busan show. Since the second your little team decided to play spy.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. There’s no point in denying it.

He steps forward. No threat in the motion. No rush. Just presence. The kind that fills the room without effort. “You think demons can’t smell fear?” he continues. “You reek of steel and silver and self-importance.”

You hold your ground. Barely. Your hand brushes the hilt of the knife tucked beneath your jacket.

His eyes flick downward. Then back to yours.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “Draw it. I won’t stop you.”

Silence stretches between you like a pulled wire.