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˖ ࣪⊹ GOLDEN (DEROGATORY) ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

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Golden BY HUNTR/X

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"Why now, when I'm so close?"

Her voice trembled. The words barely make it out of her throat, strangled by something unseen—but not unfelt.

From here—this high up—she could see the city stretch far and wide below her, glittering in electric quiet. The honmoon barrier still shimmered its soft blue, lines cloaking the skyline in its harmonic safety. Streets buzzed faintly, lit by neon and laughter, and traffic pulsed like veins through the heart of the metropolis.

On one of the towering buildings—just far enough to sting—stood a billboard, massive and bright, of HUNT/X—her, Mira, and Zoey, painted in gold and light. Posed like ever-watching, ever-protecting sentinels of the city.

Her hands clutched at her chest, at the creeping heat crawling up her neck and wrapping around her throat like a cursed bind, burning with the same purple marks that had once been dormant, hidden. Controlled.

But now they throbbed. Slithered up her skin in jagged shapes, threatening to be let out.

And her voice—her voice, the very thing she needed, the very thing they depended on—the world depended on—refused to come out clean.

"Why?" she whispered, harsher this time, as if the word had clawed itself out again.

And then—

"WHY?!"

The scream tore from her mouth like it was never hers to begin with, a sound rupturing in pitch and power.

It echoed—not as a voice, but as a distortion, a ripple of red exploding from her chest and coursing through the blue of the honmoon for a fraction of a second. Like a wound bleeding into water—a jagged pulse.

Rumi flinched at her own voice. Her eyes widened. She gasped, sharp and shaky.

That—

That wasn't...

She recoiled. As if she could take it back. As if the sound of her own voice didn't just echo back at her like a monster's roar.

And then—a sound.

Her head jerked around, purple braid snapping against her shoulder like a whip, and immediately—instinctively—her hands flew up to hide the creeping marks on her skin. She reached for her jacket, fumbled, breath catching. A split second of dread.

But...

There's nothing.

No one. Just wind.

And the vast, echoing quiet of a place that had been abandoned far longer than she'd let herself admit.

No cameras. No footsteps. No voice calling her name.

Just silence.

A slow exhale left her lips. She dropped her hands.

"...Ha."

It's fine...

...That's right.

"No one comes here..." Her voice was quiet now. Stripped raw.

"No one comes here anymore..."

A pause. A breath. And then softer, almost as if it were a whisper—

"No one but me."

Her throat tightened, a familiar aching tension growing behind her eyes. The cold wind bit at her bare skin—at her marks, still unable to soothe.

Rumi had never been one to cry.

It was a rule she lived by—just like the others.

To never let their faults and weaknesses be seen.

To endure in silence. She could recite it like muscle memory. It came to her as naturally as breathing.

But something about that moment...

Whether it be the fact that here, she could be all alone—no cameras or eyes watching—maybe what had just happened—her voice breaking on stage, live... golden.

Or may it be a cherished memory of old that had been tucked away in the tender folds of her heart, and the periphery of her mind—of this place, of another time and another person, that had resurfaced after so many years—something about now made a fresh wave of tears well up in her glistening eyes.

She knew what would happen.

She'd get up. She'd put back on her jacket and her mask—her smile, her voice, her poise.

For Mira. For Zoey. For the world. For her duty as a hunter.

And when she returned—patterns hidden, voice steady—they'd still be there. Mira and Zoey, with open arms and concern in their eyes.

Zoey would throw out some of her silly and out-of-pocket ideas that would make Rumi sigh and huff out a laugh all the same.

Mira would roll her eyes and call her soft, only to toss a protein bar at her the next second. Ultimately, she'd agree.

They'd say all the right things. And it would help.

It always did.

She loved them—her girls. Her family.

But still, in this darned moment, as she raised a trembling hand to swipe away tears, a wrangled sob stumbled past her lips.

And Rumi realised, with a pang so sharp it made her double over:

She couldn't name this ache.

This feeling that had lived inside her for years.

The agonising twist in her chest. The slump in her shoulder after the stage lights dimmed.

The dip in the curve of her flawless smile when no one looked.

That second of hollowness behind every perfect note.

The crack in her armour that never seemed to fill, and now—in the stream of her tears, hot and silent—

I... feel so...

Alone.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting on the floor. 

The edge of your bed pressed into your back, neck ashawkwardly tilted, legs half-crossed, phone limp in your hand. Your apartment was quiet—eerily so. Not the restful kind, but the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak, every mechanical hum. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder. The kind that made your brain start narrating its own downfall like it was in a sad indie film.

You should get up. 

Apply to more jobs. Wash your hair. Eat something that isn't soggy instant ramen. 

But your limbs felt like they were filled with wet cement, like even gravity had given up trying to keep you upright. And so you sat. And stared. At that one crack in your ceiling, the one that started as a line and widened over the years, like a wound that never quite scabbed over. 

A faint crackle.

Your eyes drifted to the corner.

There it was. 

That beat-up radio—dust-coated, slightly dented. The one you brought with you when you first came here—when you believed with your whole heart that this city would change your life. You'd found it in a secondhand shop near the town station, cheap and half-broken, but you loved it. You fixed it up with trembling hands and cheap wires, over and over again. Every time it broke, you swore you'd throw it out. 

You never did. 

It was still hanging on.

...Barely. 

Just like you. 

Your stomach twisted. Maybe you should go back. 

The countryside would take you, maybe. If your old room is still standing. If your mother and brother would even open the door. But you knew what you'd find there. 

Pity. Polite disappointment. Hostility, perhaps?

If they even remembered you. What's five years in the grand scheme of familial shame?

Hah... This sucks. 

Five years you gave to an industry that chewed you up and forgot to spit you out. 

The radio crackled again. Then:

'"..And now playing, HUNTR/X's latest single: Golden."

You perked up. 

New single?

It hasn't been very long since they finished their previous tour...

And then there was that commercial, too. That one.

Golden...

The title tugged something inside you. You didn't like it. Not because it hurt—because it meant something, and you were not in the mood for meaning today. 

The opening synths floated out, distorted through the radio's battered speakers.

HUNTR/X were hard at work as always. 

If Eclipse Girls had put in even half that effort—

You stopped yourself. 

No. That isn't fair.

You couldn't pin everything on them—not anymore. Not when you were the one sitting, currently horizontal with depression in your own apartment. What use was it?

You exhaled, sharp.

...What are they doing now?

Would they find a new manager?

...Surely.

The thought twisted in your gut—tight and bitter and so dumb, it almost made you laugh.

It would be for the best, though. Right?

They needed someone stable. Professional. Someone who had their shit together—who didn't mix emotions into everything. Someone who'd know how to balance nerves and deadlines and long, sleepless nights without making it personal.

Someone who'd hold Nari's hand before a performance and remind her that shaking didn't mean she was weak. Someone who'd compliment Sora into blushing and yelling, "Manager, you're gonna inflate my ego!" while smiling so big it made your chest ache.

Someone Aeri could race to after a performance to say, "Did you hear that note? I hit it!" and be met with a proud "Hell yes you did."

Someone who knew exactly what to say when Huijin's lyrics didn't 'hit right'—who could help her bend the words back into shape.

You used to be that person.

Or maybe you only thought you were.

Maybe they outgrew you. Or, maybe you weren't enough. You weren't sure which hurt more.

You leaned back, eyes slipping shut.

Let them find someone good, you thought distantly. Let them become something brilliant. 

The radio's static faded slightly. The lyrics became clearer.

♪ "I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin', like I'm born to be..." ♪

You stilled. 

Rumi...

You would've known that voice among a thousand different ones. 

Low and luminous. Golden-tinted—strong. It sank beneath your ribs and curled there, soft and relentless.

You'd heard so many in this industry—sharp ones, sweet ones, technically perfect ones. But hers? Hers was a memory. Not just of her. But of who you were when you used to listen.  

She didn't sing like someone performing. She sang like someone reaching. Like the notes came from a place no one could touch but everyone could feel. Honeyed, like sunlight seeping through the cracks and filling them with warmth and heart. 

You leaned forward, unconsciously. A single thread in your chest stretched tighter with every word. Her voice had always stolen your breath away. 

It still did—perhaps that was one thing that never changed, even after all this time.  

And it still made you want things you told yourself you didn't want anymore.

♪ "We're dreamin' hard, we came so far. Now, I believe—"

—CRACKLE.

The static cut through like a knife.

You jolted.

The song was gone.

And the silence after that voice felt heavier than anything that came before.

You scowled, half disappointed, half annoyed, crawling towards the object and snatching it off the ground like it had betrayed you. Which it had. Again.

"Stupid radio... Piece of sh—"

But before you could end its miserable life or start emotionally journaling through violence, your gaze caught on something else.

That flyer. 

Jinu's dumb flyer. 

The one you'd spent hours agonising over.

It was crumpled even more so than when you'd received it, folds already prominent. 

Six times you read it. Ten times you unfolded it, stared at it as if the bold pink words would rearrange themselves and spell out the answers to all your problems, and tossed it aside again. But you couldn't bring yourself to trash it. 

You reached for it now. 

SAJA BOYS — Debut Performance 
11 AM, Sunday, this week. XYZ square. 
please come see us rawr :3

"...What the hell do you want from me?" You muttered. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, the Lion logo would wink and say, "We got you, bestie!!"

You groaned, rubbing your face. 

Saja Boys... you're all a bunch of weirdos. 

Yeah, they were. A bunch of ridiculous, suspiciously hot and inhumanely handsome and sparkly bunch of weirdos with no agency, no money... probably no survival skills too.

But... 

They hadn't left your head. Not once.

And god. You just couldn't let it go. 

You stole one final glance at the yellow flyer before standing up and throwing your jacket over your shoulders, stuffing it in your pocket. 

You hovered by the door for a second, hand on the knob. A deep inhale.

"Fine. Fine, whatever."

The door clicked shut behind you. 

...These Saja Boys had better surprise you with that performance. 

Preferably with talent. But really, at this point, a live tiger and fireworks might do it too. 

If this turns out to be a cult, I might throw someone into traffic. 

Jinu first. 

And if they didn't? 

...Well, you might finally have to reach out to your father on his old offer, then.

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A/N:

Uh hellooo :D

Sorry for the super duper astronomically late chapter 2 💔  

im kinda proud of how that first scene with rumi turned out... the rest was kinda ass imo ITS A BIT DEPRESSING BUT IT WILL GET BETTER TRUST (or...). anyways. This was part of a bigger chapter where i wanted to add the boys, but it was getting way too long lol. And also because manager pov < jinu pov < rumi pov (???do u get it?)

also I hope yall are enjoying this fic so far, I have so much planned for it 🧍‍♀️ALSO  I LOVE LOVE LOVE everyone of you and yalls comments too, they're so fun to read😭😭 

<33 ok BYEEEEEEEE

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