Chapter Text
It is nearing.
I sit idle at my desk, the 5 pm afternoon light spilling over the scattered papers. Zoey’s and Mira’s trainee contracts lie in front of me, and their new artist contracts beside. My gaze drifts towards the horizon, to the setting sun–my thoughts pull me to two years ago in Los Angeles when Zoey and her parents signed the trainee contract as I reread it.
Zoey didn’t tell us about her family in the hotel but in bits and pieces. I thought I understood her then, but I was wrong. What she told us was only the surface. The reality of her home, her parents’ weight on her shoulders, hit me far harder when I finally saw it with my own eyes.
Being first-generation immigrants, I could sense it immediately in their presence. The way hardship had sculpted them into people both proud and wary. They still carried Korea inside them, tight in their grip. Their values are unshaken–even more rooted and grounded, the last of their homeland they could clutch in the land of the free: the highest academic standards, discouragement of dating, a rigid emphasis on respect, and a conviction that family obligations always outweighed personal dreams.
Zoey still managed to excel under that pressure. Her grades were outstanding; she had even been placed in special classes. She showed natural gifts in STEM and literature, and her teachers praised her writing, her reasoning, her precision. By any metric, she was the model daughter. Yet one flaw–if you can say it’s a flaw–music was seen at home not as talent but as distraction, something that risked her academic future just because it is not classical. Even now, flipping through her grade reports, I can see how she shone brightest among the trio. She also works hard in improving her Korean vocabularies; and each year, each page of notes and corrections, I watched her grow more fluent, more confident.
Today marks her second year living in Seoul. The moment I asked Zoey to bring her parents to our company’s office in Los Angeles to sign the trainee contract, they arrived exactly as I had pictured them: hardened, unsmiling, difficult to please. People who had spent decades clawing their way through a foreign land, unwilling to let anything slip through their grip.
Zoey looked small behind them, though her mother was actually smaller in stature. It was her posture: straight-backed, immovable, chiseled by the hardship–that made her seem larger. Zoey, meanwhile, shifting her weight left and right uncomfortably. Yet when her eyes met mine, I saw the fire she hid from her parents.
I stood up, bowed low in greeting, and ushered them to the table. My voice was warm, but my heart was beating hard. I knew this would not be easy.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Park. My name is Celine Seo. We’ve already had the pleasure of speaking on the phone about the possibility of having your daughter, Zoey Jiyoung Park, as a trainee in Sunlight Entertainment. Please, sit.” As I guide them toward the sofa, I feel their eyes fixed on me. No matter how many times I face parents like this, the scrutiny never feels lighter.
On the table, five tidy stacks of contracts prepared by our lawyers waited, the Sunlight Entertainment logo embossed in gold at the top. I pulled them closer, laying a copy in front of each one present.
“Zoey has shown me her talent the day she auditioned,” I began. My tone was steady, professional. I’ve learned not to oversell–it made parents dig in their heels. But what I said was undeniable. “We believe she could debut within a few years with her potential.”
Mrs. Park’s lips pressed thin, a small movement but sharp enough to turn the air to sour. “Potential,” she said, her voice laced with iron. “And what about all the ones who fail? What happens to them, when you’ve used them up? When the shine wears off?”
I kept my expression calm. I’ve listened to this question numerous times, though rarely with so much venom. “We provide housing, food, education,” I replied. “Even those who don’t debut leave with skills and training that can carry them forward.”
Mr. Park let out a short, bitter laugh. “Skills don’t pay rent. College does, even when it’s merely a stepping stone, but it’s a start for proof that you have skill. Scratch it. Even when you don’t even have skills. Medicine, law, something secure, something real.” Zoey shrank a little between them, her knuckles pressed tight in her lap. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked, wavered.
“Appa… Umma… this is what I want. I want to pursue music. In Seoul. With Celine-ssi.”
Her mother’s head snapped toward her, the movement so quick it made me flinch. “What you want?” The words sliced, raw with exhaustion. “Do you think we work until ten every night so you can run off chasing a childish dream?”
Zoey’s shoulders slouched from the confrontation. Based on what Zoey confided back in the hotel, I already guessed what her parents wanted to hear: security, structure, reassurance. I had prepared for this, writing those into the contract. Not lies. Never lies–they can detect it faster than light. But maybe, the kind of framing that calmed people who saw only risk. A white lie, maybe, if softened by intent.
I leaned forward, tapping one of the pages in the stack–Korean on the left and English on the right. “There’s something here I think may put your minds at ease.” My voice dropped into the same register I used with shareholders. Low, firm, careful, but coaxing. I slid the contract toward them.
“Sunlight Entertainment acts as a guardian for all trainees while they live and train in Korea,” I explain, my finger following the lines of text. “That means safe housing, healthy meals, medical care. Education is compulsory through approved programs, so Zoey won’t fall behind. Academic support, allowances for exams and coursework–it’s all written here. And of course, you’ll receive regular updates, and you can visit her in Seoul with prior coordination.”
I glanced at Zoey. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with a mix of relief and anticipation, that this might get her parents to let her travel.
“I understand you’d prefer Zoey to pursue higher education in a field more… secure,” I said carefully, keeping my voice even, respectful. “Such as medicine, law, engineering... I would like you to be informed that we will also finance her higher education as part of a scholarship. The university, the major, and the timeline will all be discussed with Zoey and agreed upon when she debuts under Sunlight Entertainment as our artist. It’s here, on this page.”
I opened the contract to the section I’ve already marked with a small tab, sliding it toward them. They leaned forward, eyes narrowing as they read intently, lips moving silently as they traced each line.
“And one more thing,” I added, timing it deliberately. “When Zoey succeeds in debuting under the group we’re forming, there is a clause that shall allow her to officially train as a songwriter and producer, alongside her lyricist training in this current contract. She’ll be able to take that path at any time, even during the group’s busiest schedules. It is her right, written clearly here.”
The two of them exchanged a glance. Their suspicion seemed to soften. People like Mr. and Mrs. Park–first generation, forged by family sacrifice–didn’t bend for dreams. They bent for structure. For guarantees. If I framed the future in terms of safety, education, and concrete steps, they would listen.
“I understand your fears,” I continued, lowering my voice. “This industry is harsh. Brutal, even, as you might have heard. But I am not speaking to you as only an executive. I, too, am a parent. You may already know I am raising my fellow bandmate’s daughter as my own. She is a trainee now, and she is projected to be Zoey’s bandmate. I know what it means to be responsible for someone else’s child in this world.” I paused and stared at their eyes, letting the weight of my words land. “And as a former idol who is now an executive, I know both sides of this life intimately. I can promise you that I will act in Zoey’s best interest.”
This, at least, was the truth. The one part that did not need dressing.
But the rest was another story. The clause they liked–the one that looked like opportunity, was written in a language I know too well. Sunlight Entertainment holds full authority. All final decisions rest with the company. Parents cannot interfere. I lived under contracts like this myself. I know how cleanly authority disguised itself as protection.
Still, what matters was her. Zoey. That fragile yet stubborn kid who shrank under her parents’ scolding yet still found the courage to speak up, even when it had to be thrown on her face firsthand. If I had to wear two masks as a savior and manipulator both, then so be it. That was the bargain I made for her, for she was willing to put her life on the line as a demon hunter-idol.
I looked back at Mr. and Mrs. Park. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve given everything for Zoey. Let us take care of her now. While she trains, she’ll be safe. Our company has history, and you can judge our history.”
And now for the final push.
“This training will be difficult, and it will take discipline. I know that better than anyone. But I promise you three this: I’ll oversee Zoey’s training not just as an executive, but as a mentor. And personally, I believe in her.”
That struck. I caught the shift in Zoey’s parents’ eyes. They grew up with my name on the media, my history. It softened them, if only slightly. They whispered to each other, studying each line carefully. My lawyer and I waited patiently. Zoey played with her fingers, her contract copy on her lap, unread.
“If we agree,” Mr. Park said after studying the contract for half an hour, his voice clipped and unbending, “she will study. She will not waste her mind. You guarantee this?”
“Yes,” I answered, voice strong. “Her education will not be neglected.”
“And she will be supervised,” Mrs. Park pressed. “She will not bring us shame.”
The phrasing cut, but I only inclined my head. “Always. She’ll be in safe hands. And she’ll grow close to her Korean roots while in Seoul.”
Mr. Park turned to his daughter then, his voice shifting into sharp, deliberate Korean. “If you fail, there will be no second chance. Do you understand? No excuses. No more childishness. You either succeed, or you come home and live the life we planned for you.” He took the contract in his hands, scanning it line by line.
The negotiation had been grueling. Understandable, from any parent’s view. They wanted security for their daughter. But even in that brief window, I could see the weight Zoey carried, the way she shrank beneath their words and still forced a smile, eager to please. That kind of determination wasn’t born from freedom; it was out of pressure. Her uncanny gift with honmoon weapons… I couldn’t help but wonder if it was rooted in that same pressure, if her skill and survival had grown from unhappiness.
I let out a quiet sigh. All I can hope is that being with Rumi and Mira would steady her, give her the kind of ease she’d been denied at home. She is laughing more these days, and her lyrics she wrote in high school and polished when she was in training, was chosen for their debut track. That, at least, I could be proud of.
I move to reread Mira’s contract, which carries much of the same clauses as Zoey’s. In fact, the idea for Zoey’s terms has come directly from Mira’s case. My mind drifts back to that day, when I had to face Mira’s family. By the lowest standard, it was memorable. They were old-money chaebol, well-versed in contracts, negotiations, and power plays. Every word I spoke had to be measured, every silence carefully crafted. Sunlight’s lawyers were skilled–cunning even–but all that did was place us on equal footing with theirs.
Mira has legally signed under us as a trainee three years ago, though she’s already been spending most of her time with Rumi. Before the meeting, I asked her to look through the contract herself. She was sharper than I expected: pointing out flaws and holes, suggesting terms that might persuade her parents. It was admirable how someone who was supposed to be the “black sheep” of the Kang family could see so clearly.
The day of the meeting, they sat in a silent line, Mira between her parents, her posture steady and her face unreadable. Our lawyers spoke in turns with theirs, trading legal terms like weapons. Then, at last, silence. Mira’s family lawyer leaned in, whispering to Mr. Kang. But the man didn’t so much as flicker. His eyes stayed locked on me, which I replied, keeping my breath steady.
I sat back in my chair, refusing to break. Mira remained perfectly still, her expression neutral, offering no hint of daughterly warmth toward her parents. In that room, there was no family bond, no affection; only business.
But I knew better. I’ve seen who she was outside those walls. Behind her aloof exterior, Mira was all heart. She loved in ways her family never cared to recognize. She was the one who grounded Rumi and Zoey, the one who checked in quietly when she sensed something was wrong–because she always sensed it. That hidden loyalty, that fierce care, was hers alone. The black sheep, perhaps. But also the quiet center that held the others steady.
“Ms. Seo,” Mr. Kang said, his voice cold and precise, as one imagined how a commander of an empire would speak. “You propose for Mira to train under you, in your capacity as a board member. Why?”
I didn’t hesitate. With a man like him, hesitation was weakness. Good thing I am well-versed in hiding fears and faults. The stakes were high, but this wasn’t about sentiment; it was about leverage and return on investment. I already knew from Rumi what Mira was in this family: the outcast, misfit, the one who clashed with their carefully curated harmony. But that didn’t mean he would hand me access to his daughter without extracting value first.
“The entertainment sector has long outgrown its role as a side venture, Mr. Kang,” I said, keeping my tone even, professional. “It’s now a core driver of the global economy worth billions, as you’re aware. But here’s the reality: access is not the same as influence. You can’t just buy your way into this industry and expect it to last.”
His face didn’t shift, but I knew he understood. He’d already placed his hands into nearly every sector: technology, finance, real estate. He had power, he had networks. But K-pop wasn’t one of those empires you could simply acquire.
“Your family has built its legacy on innovation, on anticipating market shifts before they hit,” I continued, leaning forward slightly. “And yes, you have the financial means to enter the entertainment world. But timing is everything. The right moment, the right people, the right positioning. What I’m offering is not just a door into the industry; it’s insider knowledge, paired with the credibility of someone who’s lived on both sides of the stage. Me.”
Silence stretched. His eyes were fixed on me, sharp and unreadable, weighing cost against potential. Mr. Kang didn’t want mere entry. He wanted dominance. But he also knew that this was one of the few markets where dominance wasn’t guaranteed by wealth, but rather, internet numbers. A very fragile, inconsistent, unstable market where mere numbers and beautiful charts do not always reflect reality, that the predictions data scientists make may become obsolete within weeks, days even. Giants who already got the formula guarded their gates. Newcomers collapsed within months.
“What I’m offering, Mr. Kang,” I continued, leaning forward slightly, “is a way to build your family’s legacy in the entertainment world without the risk of failing because it wasn’t handled with the same strategic foresight that you use in your tech empire. Mira has the opportunity to be part of a sector that gives the Kang family cultural influence… Something that a tech empire alone can’t provide. Something that is even marriage cannot give. She’s the vehicle to position your family at the very heart of the cultural zeitgeist, if done correctly.”
I knew he’d be reluctant. He was used to controlling everything within his grasp. The thought of “giving away” his daughter to someone else’s influence including marriage, letting her be mold outside the family way, wouldn’t sit well with him. But I also knew he understood leverage, even if he didn’t like the idea of relying on someone else.
“I can give her what you can’t, Mr. Kang,” I said with quiet certainty. “Your tech empire has brought you to the top of one market. But you’re looking at a different thing with entertainment. It’s not about just pulling strings. It’s about having the right expertise, the right connections, and the foresight. I’ve lived this world. I know the people, I know the trends, and I know how to make it work. You know me, and you know my reputation.”
There was a pause for minutes. Then his cold, calculated voice broke the silence. “You think I don’t have access to the entertainment industry? You think I don’t have the influence to step in and control it?”
“No,” I replied calmly, “but you also know that simply entering the market isn’t the same as succeeding in it. That’s where I come in. I’m not just offering you access. I’m offering you control, through your daughter, and it stays within your family. Mira’s training isn’t about her becoming a typical K-pop idol; it’s about giving her the tools and platform to build a brand that works for you.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he stared at me, his expression still unreadable. He wasn’t giving anything away. But he was listening.
“And what’s her role in this?” he asked, his voice low but with the weight of someone who expected an answer that would match with what he was thinking.
“Mira is the catalyst,” I said simply, as a matter of fact. I did not feel the need to explain furthermore. He already knew the answer, and he was just testing me. He did not need to know what I wanted, he had his own guess and lived with it as his truth.
He paused for a moment, eyes closed as he considered the offer. “And what guarantees do you offer that this won’t fail?”
I didn’t flinch. "No one can guarantee success in any industry, Mr. Kang. But I can guarantee this: with the right timing, the right strategy, and the right resources, Mira can accelerate your family’s legacy. And I have the expertise to make that happen."
Another long silence passed before he nodded to his lawyer. He brought the plate with the contract in front of him, and Mr. Kang signed the contract. He stood up and walked to the door, his lawyer and wife followed, leaving Mira with me. When his lawyer opened the door, he turned to me and said, “pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Seo.”
I stood up and bowed slightly. “Likewise, Mr. Kang.”
Until now, I still feel guilty for the way I played the demon in those negotiations, and I suppose I still am. I practically stole Zoey from her parents, then turned around and invested in Mira, talking about her ROI like she was a product to her father. It was cold, transactional, like she was on sale. But maybe… maybe it was for the best. Everytime I think about it, the guilt begins to gnaw. I might need one or two drinks after today ends.
Zoey never really told me if she resented it, but I’ve been watching her these past two years. The way she’s grown steadier, more self-assured, the way her laughter rings out so freely now, she’s become this beam of sunlight for Rumi and Mira. And Mira, the one who first whispered the whats, hows, and whys of the deal to me, the sharp little strategist hiding behind her indifferent eyes, always watching everything like a hawk–and now using them to care for Rumi and Zoey, her new family.
I turn back to my desk, to my laptop, and open the email Choi Robert, or Bobby as he begged us to call him, sent last month: the teaser photoshoot for their debut. The images are waiting to be released the day after the second teaser video scheduled tonight.
Rumi looks stunning. She chose the dragon braid again–thick, sleek, coiled all the way down to her tailbone. Mira went with half twin tails–a soft, easy look that suits her–keeping the pink dye. And Zoey is comfortable with her iconic microbangs and space buns.
But then my eyes drift to the draft of Rumi’s costume changes and the worry seeps back in. Her pattern has spread. It’s reached the right side of her chest now. I’m grateful I made the last-minute call to swap her stage top: a sleeveless turtleneck with a cropped jacket layered over it. It was supposed to be a tube top. That would’ve been a disaster. I don’t know how far the pattern will go, but for now, we can’t risk anyone seeing. Not even Mira. Not even Zoey.
I’ve taught Rumi to guard her vulnerabilities; to hold her fear close and show only strength and bravery, so Gwi-Ma would never be able to control her. Not her, not Mira, not Zoey. She’s been so obedient about it, though sometimes I see the yearning break through; the way she wanted so badly to say yes when the girls invited her to the public bath. I had to tell her no. Not yet, not now.
The thought of Hayoon comes back to me whenever I have to remind Rumi that she has to always hide her faults and fears. Unbidden, unwanted. The breakup still feels like a thorn, a splinter I can’t pull out. Most of the time I can feel it just sits there, but from certain angles it hurts. We sometimes see each other at gatherings. From afar there are smiles, waves, small talk for cameras. But it’s been years since we’ve truly spoken. When the press brings up Sunlight Sisters, we give the same careful answer: we’re busy, but we meet when we can, away from the spotlight.
I reach into my drawer and pull out two norigaes and a scrap of thick, colorful paper–the ticket Miyoung gave me all those years ago. I can’t redeem it now. Never will. But maybe it’s fine. Maybe it’s already been spent, that it is exchanged for Rumi herself.
My fingers play with Miyoung’s norigae, the one she gave me the day Sunlight Sisters broke apart. The tassel slips through my hands, its color dull from age, yet the softness remains. That day… it still lives inside me, making a home in the back of my head.
Hayoon had gone home first. I remember staying behind, holding everything in until it hurt, and then finally breaking–sobbing so hard I could hardly breathe. I’ve never been good at crying; it always feels weak, exposed, shameful–even without becoming a hunter, I had hidden my fears and faults. I’ve tried my whole life to be the strong one, the dependable one, like my family wanted me to be. Yet, I didn’t really have the one I could depend on. But with Miyoung and Hayoon, I’d found something close. Still, even then, I could only fall apart in front of Miyoung.
That night, she just held me. No words. Just her arms around me in the cold, empty room. She stroked my hair while I shook and hid my face against her shoulder. After a long time, she pulled back and started rummaging through her bag. I could only see the lower half of her–I didn’t have the strength to lift up my face.
When she returned to me, she kneeled in front of me, her own norigae in her hands. She hooked it gently onto the belt loop of my jeans. I couldn’t look at her face–I was too embarrassed by my swollen eyes and the sound of my own crying. She stood up.
“Celine…” she whispered, tilting my chin up until our faces were inches apart. Her vermilion lipstick caught the light–she wore the kind that has glitters in it.
“I’ll be going back to Jeonju after this,” she said softly, “but I want this to remind you, that I’m always with you, in here.” She touched my chest, right over my heart, then kissed my forehead.
That was the last time she held me.
The memory breaks apart when my phone rings, sharp and sudden. Bobby’s name pops up on the screen. I blink back to the present, wipe my face with the heel of my hand, hoping that I wore my waterproof mascara and not the other one, and answer.
“This is Celine.”
A voice crackles on the line, then Bobby’s bright tone leaps out, so cheerful it almost startles me. Even with his cheerful, buoyant voice, the rasp at the edge of his words tells me he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks.
“Noona! Have you seen the report? The first teaser’s holding steady! Three million views until this afternoon! Engagement is insane. The comments aren’t just from Korea, we’ve got a lot from Japan, Indonesia, even Brazil. International hype is strong!”
Three million. I let out a quiet breath, not letting myself be carried away. Numbers are just numbers until they translate into loyalty. “Not bad. How’s the watch time?”
“Still high,” he replies instantly, mouse clicking on his end. “Over two minutes on a thirty-second clip. Usually people click, replay once, then move on. But here? They’re looping it like crazy. Rumi’s dragon braid is trending as a hashtag on Twitter.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “That girl and her hair. Like mother like daughter.”
“Exactly,” Bobby says, still grinning in his voice. Then the cheer dips just slightly. “But, ah, we’ll need to ride this carefully. Trends don’t last. Today it’s the braid, tomorrow it could be… nothing.”
I recognize the weight behind that word. I’ve lived it. “We’ll manage. The second video teaser tonight, everything prepped?”
“All set,” he says quickly. “Scheduled for 8 p.m. KST, to give people chatter time. Stronger push on the choreography. Mira shines here–her part will be the one people share.”
“Good. What about domestic charting?”
“Melon pre-saves are modest, Genie and Bugs are climbing faster. Spotify pre-saves are solid internationally. Apple Music is weaker, but that’s within normal numbers for rookies. Billboard’s team flagged them for tracking already, which is… insane for pre-debut.” He exhales, the cheer momentarily thinning. “We’ll need to hit the radio circuits harder, though. SBS Power FM is confirmed. KBS Cool FM is tentative.”
“Music shows?”
“Mnet’s M!Countdown booked. KBS’s Music Bank locked. MBC’s Music Core confirmed. SBS’s Inkigayo is still circling us–political as always. If not week one, then week two. But I think they’re just playing with us.” He laughs tiredly. “Not the end of the world.”
“Offline events?” I press.
“Showcase venue, 300 seats, sold out in three minutes. First fansign in Seoul confirmed and cleared on the following Monday, then moving to Busan on Wednesday. Ah yeah–Jeju's filming schedule is cleared for tomorrow, then downtime for two days for you and the girls before we go full throttle, which I have explained a little.” I can picture his smile. He is always one to push one or two rest days whenever the schedule allows.
I rub at my temple, already picturing the schedule. “Press?”
“Articles ready. Dispatch will run a fluff piece, News1 and Sports Seoul lined up for interviews some time after the stages. Pushing the agenda of self-written lyrics and self-choreographed dance. And yes–” he adds quickly, “Zoey’s name is Zoey, Z-O-E-Y. I almost strangled the typesetter who wrote Joy. Fixed it.”
I laugh softly. “Good. That’s one mistake we can’t afford.”
There’s a pause before Bobby clears his throat. “Noona… you’ve seen the chatter, right?”
“Yes. Rumi the nepo baby. Mira the chaebol kid. Zoey the American. People whining Rumi hogs all the lines from the first teaser that’s heavy of her singing…”
His sigh is heavy, and for once, the smile slips from his voice. “It’s ugly. We haven’t even released Mira’s and Zoey’s… But…” he rallies fast, layering cheer back on, “it’s not sticking. Most comments are about chemistry, visuals, talent. Curiosity is winning.”
“Leave it,” I tell him. “Negative buzz is still buzz. As long as the positive outweighs it, we win. And those positions are what the girls chose and proved they could handle it, and I did not see the issue at all. I won’t strip that away to appease the minority. They will see the girls’ talents themselves.”
“That’s why they trust you, Noona,” he chuckles, but his voice is raspy now, the caffeine wearing off. “So–schedule check. Jeju flights are confirmed. Content day one, rest on day two and three. Back to Seoul straight into rehearsals. You’re still coming?”
“Yes. I’ll be with them.”
“Good. They’ll feel safer with you.” His tone softens, honest. “Noona… you’ve carried a group before. You know this road, even when the time is different. I haven’t. Not at this scale. Sometimes I’m… scared I’ll miss something.”
The silence between us is fragile. Then he rallies again with that bright front: “But hey, better to be scared and working than overconfident and sloppy, right?”
I close my eyes, fingers brushing Miyoung’s norigae. “You won’t miss anything. I’ll be watching too. Between us, they’re covered.”
There’s a long exhale from his side. “Alright. Tonight’s teaser. Ahem. This one has teeth. People will argue about the choreography: too young, too bold… but that’s what will set them apart. Mira’s moves and lines will spread everywhere by midnight. And with the next teaser, Zoey’s rap will get chopped up for edits, and fourth teaser… All together with Rumi’s center shot…” He whistles low. “That’s the money shot.”
“And if it isn’t?” I ask, not unkindly.
“Then we push harder,” Bobby answers without missing a beat. “Clip it, repost it, feed it to the right fanbases. But honestly, Noona…” His register drops, quieter but steadier. “I think it’ll explode. I’ve seen a lot of rookies. They don’t all have this spark. Camera work doesn’t do anything to them. They shine by themselves.”
I let the silence linger, the weight of his words sinking in. The spark. The thing you can’t manufacture, can’t buy. You either have it, or you don’t.
“Then let’s make sure the world sees it,” I say.
“Let’s,” he echoes, soft but firm.
The line goes dead with Bobby. For a moment I just sit there, staring at the papers spread across my desk, then I reach for the landline. My fingers move without hesitation, pressing the speed dial that connects me to my secretary.
She answers promptly. “Yes, Director?”
“You got the schedule for Jeju?” I ask directly. My secretary confirms it.
“Cancel everything on my schedule during the last two days when I am only with the girls. No online meetings, no calls, no interruptions unless it’s life or death. I want absolute silence.”
“Yes, Director. I’ll clear your calendar completely. Only emergencies will reach you.”
“Make sure everyone understands,” I add. “No excuses, no polite exceptions.”
“Understood. I’ll send the notice tonight.”
I pause, then lower my voice. “And the land. The Jeju plot. Is it finalized?”
“Yes,” she replies, her tone softening just a fraction. “The purchase is complete. Registration filed, deed secured, taxes settled. It’s in your name now. Official.”
I close my eyes briefly. That’s all I wanted to hear. Just the knowledge that it’s mine, my personal space. The land isn’t just a plot. It’s near the hunters’ graveyard, close to where Miyoung lies. Waiting. A piece of earth no one can touch, no one can take away.
“Good. Send me the certified documents when you have them.”
“Of course, Director. Do you want me to begin any preparation related to the property before you leave? Renovation, surveying–?”
“No,” I say quickly, then soften. “Not yet. Leave it untouched. For now, it only needs to be under my name.”
She doesn’t press. “Understood. Anything else?”
I hesitate, my eyes drawn to Miyoung’s norigae, its threads worn smooth by my fingers. “No. That’s all. Thank you.”
When I hang up, the office falls silent once more, the city humming faint beyond the glass. Pale yellow honmoon is blanketing it.
Someday, when the girls are strong enough to stand on their own: when Rumi learns to carry both her hunter-idol life and her half-demon blood without faltering, when Mira finds a place where she is valued for who she is with all her heart rather than measured against her family’s shadow, when Zoey’s smile is no longer shaped by the need to please, then I’ll step back. I’ll retire early, walk away from boardrooms and contracts, and settle quietly in that land by the graveyard. Build a small hut, plant some vegetables–maybe beans, since they’ve always had a way of covering my eyes. Close enough to her. To Miyoung.
But not now. Not yet. Although the knowledge that the land is mine steadies me, makes me feel calmer. It feels like a vow, a promise carried across time: wait for me. Just as she once promised she would always stay with me in heart, I will keep my end too.
***
“It is nearing.”
My voice carries low but steady, touched by the autumn zephyr that swirls through the tree leaves. The dangsan-namu tree towers above us behind me, its ribbons fluttering. Salt and earth scent feel sacred–the hush of the hunter’s graveyard not far behind us.
Rumi, Mira, and Zoey stand before me in their beige colored training uniforms. I let my eyes linger on them: on Rumi’s clenched fists, Mira’s upright posture, Zoey’s furrowed eyebrows–and I feel a pang. They remind me too much of my own sisters.
“In less than two weeks, you will debut,” I continue, my gaze sweeping across each of their faces. “Your life will not be only your own. Everything you do, every word, every breath, will be watched, measured, judged. From this moment on, you are no longer only Rumi, Mira, Zoey. You are Rumi of Huntr/x, Mira of Huntr/x, and Zoey of Huntr/x.”
The names hang in the air, heavy with meaning. I pause, drawing in the crisp air, tasting the ache of Sunlight Sisters’ memory.
“The world will know you as pop stars,” I say softly but stern, “but you will be much more than that. You will be Hunters. Demons have always haunted our world, stealing our souls and channeling strength back to their king, Gwi-Ma.” I look at them. Rumi and Mira–they’ve known the terror of a demon’s eyes and their claws on that day. Zoey–she tasted the battlefields but luckily nothing serious for now. Although her development was fantastic–she can conjure six shinkals instead of two she summoned for the first time, and her accuracy is nearing 100%.
Their eyes never leave me, fierce and intent. The ribbons of the dangsan namu whisper above us, a reminder that the living and the dead are never far apart; for when you sign up as a hunter, you also have to be ready for the worst–although it doesn’t mean it gets easier when you accept it. Memento mori, memento vivere.
“Until heroes arose to defend us. Born with voices that could drive back the darkness. Singing songs of courage and hope.” Hayoon’s confident smirk. Miyoung’s bright laugh. My own fear, tucked behind their strength, all singing our battlecry when we fought. The echoes of what we once were bleeding and seeping into my present.
“But Hunters are more than warriors. Our music ignites the soul and brings people together. With this connection, the first Hunters created a shield to protect our world, the Honmoon.”
I take another breather, enjoying the warm early autumn air.
“Every generation, a new trio of Hunters is chosen to fulfill our ultimate duty. A barrier so strong it is impenetrable, that will keep demons and Gwi-Ma from our world forever, the Golden Honmoon.”
I look at them, really look. Rumi’s fear hidden in her eyes though her jaw is tight. Mira’s calm, assured, edged with the steel of someone who has learned not to break even when unseen. Zoey’s excitement radiates, restless and reckless, her smirk betraying nerves she doesn’t yet see. They are mirrors of us. My sisters.
“And now,” I finish, my voice almost breaking, “that duty falls to you. That victory is within your reach. It is your voices, your song, that will create the Golden Honmoon.”
Silence. Then Rumi and Mira turn to one another at the same time, like they always do–unprompted, gravitating towards each other, forged by years of them together. Their hands meet in the space between them–steadying, grounding each other. Together they turn to Zoey, and Zoey takes Rumi’s hand without hesitation, grinning with that stubborn spark of hers.
The three of them face me, bound hand to hand, voices rising together with the kind of conviction only the young can hold:
“Yes, Aunt Celine.”
The affirmation pierces through me. Fierce, unshakable. My chest tightens. Not with fear, but with the bittersweet ache that this is their beginning. And my ending has already started.
***
It is nearing.
Backstage brings me the familiar chaos–everywhere is smelling of perfume, caffeine, iron, and sweat. The air filled with shouts, commands hushed into headsets, the shuffle of hurried steps. A stylist rushes past, her fingers clamping five different brushes. Glam girls and boys bow at the staff passing, replied with half-formed, distracted nods of respect before they vanish back into the fray. And my girls stand in the middle of it all, bowing to everyone as the rookie, awkward and polite, but mostly glowing with the nervous, uncontainable thrill of what’s about to happen.
I linger in the shadows a moment longer, pressed to the side as not to dam up the flow of people rushing. Even after all these years, the backstage of a music show still feels familiar to me. Even when I spent my later years on battlefields instead of spotlights, that my stage the graveyard of demons rather than the golden ocean–the official color of Sunlight Sisters. Yet here I am, heart pounding like I’m the one about to walk into that screaming ocean of fans.
I step forward.
Rumi, Mira, and Zoey are whispering among themselves, excitement spilling over in half-suppressed laughter–where is the nervous? They don’t hear me even when I’m almost beside them. I forgot that my steps are silent and my presence too still–which Rumi inherits.
“Rumi,” I say quietly.
All three of them jolt.
“Oh! Auntie! Hi!” Rumi’s smile flickers, nervous and awkward. The same way Miyoung used to whenever she felt nervous–with excitement or anxiety. Mira and Zoey bow quickly–Zoey’s grin wide and bright, Mira’s smirk calmly.
“Hi, girls,” I return, letting my voice soften with affection.
“Huntr/x on in ten minutes!” someone yells from across the hallway. Another staffer, out of breath, waves toward Mira: “Stay here, don’t move!” She nods obediently, shoulders squaring.
“Where’s Bobby?” I ask.
“In the toilet, his anxiety’s on the roof,” Zoey answers, snickering.
I chuckle, then let my gaze rest on each of them. “Mira… you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you. Truly.” She dips her head, lips pressed in a tiny, contained smile. “Zoey… you came all the way from the States. You didn’t just join Mira and Rumi–you completed them. You’re the missing piece of Huntr/x, and you deserve this stage as much as anyone.” Zoey bites her lip, eyes shimmering, and I point gently: “Not now. Don’t cry yet.”
Then I look at Rumi. My chest tightens. “And Rumi… You picked up a microphone on your doljanchi, and now you’re going to sing with the real microphone to the world. Tonight isn’t about proving anything. Tonight is about unleashing everything you already are.”
“Oh my god Rumi! You picked up– ugh!” Zoey can’t finish her sentence. Before they can react, I open my arms and pull them all in. I’m taller, so my embrace folds over their shoulders, my long arms gathering them. Mira, at nearly my height, stands firm in the middle. Rumi presses her forehead briefly against my shoulder. Zoey, even in her heels, tiptoeing to fit into the circle.
A staff with a headset brushes past, muttering orders into his mic. Another stylist rushes over to Mira, tugging at her twintails to tidy up her flyaways. Mira breaks the hug and bends her knees for the staff to reach the top of her head easier, doing the awkward wide-legged stance all tall idols learn so short stylists can reach. I can’t help but smile–Miyoung used to wheeze with laughter when I did the same thing, mocking my ridiculous giraffe pose, though she always ended up doing it too.
Another stylist sweeps in on Zoey, dabbing blush and mascara. Zoey just beams, unbothered, her wide grin making the poor stylist chase her moving face with the brush.
“Rumi,” I murmur, leaning close. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Before she can answer, Bobby reappears, practically running, face pale. “We’re on in five!” He notices me at once. “Oh! Celine noona! Annyeonghaseyo.” He bows deeply.
“One minute, Bobby,” I say, already leading Rumi a few steps into the shadows, away from the frantic clutter of staff and idols getting ready. She follows without question, understanding my tone.
I look at her and draw in a slow breath.
“I know I’m not the best at… reminiscing about your mom,” I begin. Her deep brown eyes hold mine, steady, patient. She doesn’t rush me. She just waits. “Or anything, really. But I hope I did my best to raise you.”
I extend my hand. Resting on my palm is a norigae, once bright red, now faded to a pale rose with time. “I found this a few weeks ago. It’s your mom’s. And I want you to have it.”
Rumi’s hand trembles just slightly as she takes it. She says nothing, but the weight of her silence is louder than words.
“You should go back to Mira and Zoey,” I murmur. “Break a leg, princess. I love you.”
I turn before she can answer. My steps carry me back toward the blur of stagehands and shouting staff, but I feel her gaze drilling into my back. A stare full of questions, sadness, longing. I feel like she wants to speak, but I don’t give her the time. This moment belongs to them. To Huntr/x. Not me, neither as the executive of Sunlight Entertainment nor her guardian.
Still, I know she saw my smile. It’s probably sad, curved down like a goodbye. I am so ready to step down.
Miyoung, I will always hate the man you chose because he wasn’t me. But I will forever love our daughter.
And now, as Rumi steps into her light, let me take care of you, my love… just as I finish taking care of our daughter like the promise I made. Finally, let me grieve for you.