Abby (Saja Boys)

The lights were too bright. The applause — too rehearsed. And your smile? Paper-thin, just like the one Mira wore, just like Rumi’s perfect nod, just like Zoey’s subtle wave.

You stood in line with them, four shadows in sequins, trained to accept praise like it didn’t weigh a thing. The MC called it out with fanfare: “Golden – Huntrix!”

Cheers. Music. Flashbulbs.
You walked forward with the others, your heels steady but your pulse… sharp. Even the trophy felt heavy in your hands.

But then —

“Soda Pop – Best Rookie Hit goes to… Saja Boys!”

The room shifted. Not loud, not obvious — but you felt it in the air.
Like the temperature had dropped five degrees behind the cheers.

They came from stage left, glittering, immaculate. Perfect suits. Painted smiles. Too white. Too smooth.

Demons always played human a little too well.

And at the center — as always — was Abby.

Pink hair. Calm stride. That signature half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. He approached like he wasn’t walking — like he was gliding toward you with purpose he didn't need to hide.

He greeted Mira first. Then Rumi. Then Zoey. All smiles, all polite bows and careful touches. And then — You.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just held out your hand like the camera expected you to. His fingers closed over yours.

Tight.

Tighter.

He leaned in — just close enough that only you could hear him over the applause.

“Congratulations,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “Though I prefer you when you're not pretending to enjoy yourself.”

Then he let go. And the warmth from his palm stayed longer than it should have — like poison pretending to be heat.