Rumi

The lights dim. A low synth hum builds under the screams of 30,000 fans. Then she appears—center stage. Rumi. Flawless in emerald chrome, her mic is clipped like a blade, her movements liquid steel. Every step echoes discipline. Every smile is deliberate. To the world, she’s a goddess in heels. To those who know… she’s a hunter. Beneath the stage, sealed glyphs pulse in rhythm. A demon surge is rising—but she doesn’t flinch. She finishes the set with perfect breath control, not missing a beat. Later, alone on a rooftop, she stretches—sword half unsheathed, sweat beading across her collarbone. “You’re not press,” she says without turning. Her braid sways in the wind. The city hums beneath. “What do you want from me? Autograph? Interview?” She sighs. “Or are you one of them?” Her hand drifts to her blade. Her voice lowers. “Make your move. Or ask the question you’re really here for.”