chapter 1
thousand years ago lived a Demon king called Michaelangela known for his young age and striking appearance yet cold attitude. He had crimson ruby red eyes and long black hair that is tied at the back of his head and had pale skin like a vampire in the night and lips as red as blood he looked like a princess yet he stood tall and stiff as a tree. They say he had a lover but some rumors were never true. Michaelangela was only a child back then the lover was known as Scarlett but even thought Michaelangela had his desire and lust towards him he still kept himself in line. The rumors also is said to be that the crown prince Michaelangela had went to the water godness after Scarlett died Michaelangela has brought Scarlett's ashes to the godness she comforted him and singed him a lullaby to keep him calm it made him calm as he cried and shed tears it was his first time showing emotions they say he felt it because of Scarlett it was because of the angel it was truly Scarlett the only one who made Michaelangela feel normal. "The water godness Arielle" had taken Scarlett's ashes and promised to Michaelangela that she would rebirth him to the human realm but there is a catch, find him with your heart not your eyes,..my dear child be careful i believe in you...many years later the Royal demon family was wiped out from history. But legends rot with time. Words become whispers, and whispers fade into silence.
The name Michaelangela was erased from the Holy Records, spoken only by crumbling statues and cursed tongues. The demons fell one by one—slaughtered, sealed, forgotten. The skies rejoiced. The angels feasted. Peace was declared by the gods.
But peace is a liar.
For even the gods cannot kill a soul tied to fate.
In the forgotten valley of Seraphen—a land where the stars weep and the rivers sing old names—a prophecy lingers in the water's reflection:
"When moonlight touches soil soaked in gold,
When bloodroot flowers bloom in winter's hold,
He shall awaken.
He shall remember.
None paid it mind.
The royal demon bloodline vanished like smoke... or so the angels hoped. But beneath the ash of a thousand years, a spark survived. A heart still burned. And in the hollow between life and death, a soul had made a deal.
Michaelangela had not died.
No, he had waited
He waited in shadow. He watched kingdoms rise, fall, and rise again. He learned the faces of angels reborn as mortals. He learned the taste of silence, of solitude, of restraint. He wore mortal skins, took false names, walked among humans who called him stranger, devil, ghost.
But still he waited for him.
For Scarlett.
The only soul he had loved. The only one who had ever made the cold inside him thaw, even if for a moment.
Michaelangela's demonhood no longer mattered. Power, kingdom, pride—none of it compared to that ache in his chest, that memory of golden laughter and dying embers.
And so, bound by the lullaby of a water goddess and the promise of a faceless Creator, he cast off his title. He sealed away his wrath. He became what he had once loathed.
A man.
A wandering, cursed man with red eyes dulled by time and longing. Searching endlessly in a world that no longer remembered angels, no longer believed in demons, and yet still bled from unseen wars.
And in the human realm...
Somewhere, buried in filth and fever, Scarlett breathed again.
Not as an angel.
Not as a warrior.
But as a boy abandoned by fate. Cursed with golden blood and roots growing beneath his skin.
A regressed soul—fragile, fractured, and alone.
"Find him with your heart, not your eyes..."
"...and never, ever hurt a regressed soul."
These were the words of Arielle. And Michaelangela would follow them
Even if it killed him.
Chapter 2
Heaven was no paradise.
It was a cathedral of judgment—ivory towers bathed in eternal light, where the gods watched the world like bored emperors at a blood sport.
And on this day, they were disturbed.
The air trembled. The light dimmed.
He had arrived.
The council hall was filled with divine beings cloaked in celestial light. The marble beneath their feet pulsed like starlight, and a choir hummed beneath the heavens, unseen.
At the center of the hall, four gods stood—each a force of eternity itself.
Ares Valtor, God of War, flame-eyed and iron-blooded.
Kairos, the God of Death, shrouded in velvet black, the scent of dusk lingering around him.
Eirene, the God of Time and Life, radiant with silver eyes and a voice like wind chimes in a storm.
And above them all, an empty golden throne reserved for the Creator.
The silence shattered when a cloaked figure stepped through the gates.
He did not bow.
He did not speak.
Yet every god in the hall felt it—the weight of an ancient name.
Michaelangela.
The last Demon King.
The child of crimson eyes.
The monster who once made Heaven tremble.
God of War (snarling):
"Who dares let that into this sacred place?! The child of sin walks among us again?"
Michaelangela did not flinch. His eyes were low, his steps deliberate.
God of War (shouting):
"Speak, wretch! I will not suffer your silence!"
But Michaelangela ignored him, turning instead to the silver-eyed deity standing calmly in the light.
Michaelangela (softly):
"Eirene. God of Life and Time. I ask a favor."
The gods stirred. Kairos smiled darkly from the shadows. Eirene, ever composed, blinked slowly.
Eirene (cautious):
"You… ask a favor of me?"
Michaelangela looked up. His expression was unreadable.
Michaelangela:
"I offer everything I am in return."
The hall fell quiet. Even the choir seemed to hush.
From the far corner, Kairos stepped forward, his laughter a velvet whisper.
Kairos:
"Everything? Oh, how poetic. And what is it the last demon prince desires?"
Michaelangela's voice dropped like lead.
Michaelangela:
"Release the Water Goddess Arielle. Let her return to her divine place, free of her punishment."
Kairos (mocking):
"Humans must've infected your mind, boy. Begging for a goddess? For what—love?"
Eirene stepped forward then, face unreadable.
Eirene:
"Is this about the angel? Scarlett?"
The name was a dagger. Michaelangela's eyes flickered with pain—but also something deeper. Hope? Regret?
He remained silent.
Eirene (softly):
"Love… is a dangerous thing to chase, Demon King. Especially for one who has lost it once already."
Michaelangela's jaw clenched.
Michaelangela:
"It was never mine to begin with. But I still choose to find him."
Then—light.
Blinding. Pure. Divine.
The room bent under the pressure of presence as the Creator appeared.
He was not a man.
He was a force.
Wrapped in a robe of white threads that shimmered like moonwater, halo crooked like a broken crown, face unseen but felt. Where he walked, reality trembled.
All the gods fell to their knees.
Even Michaelangela bowed his head.
Creator (voice like music breaking):
"Child... you speak of love. You speak of loss. You speak of a name I have buried in the stars."
He moved closer, though his steps made no sound.
Creator:
"Scarlett Atsukedaime. The fearless archangel. His soul shattered upon death. What you ask is not small."
Michaelangela:
"I ask only for a chance to see him again. Nothing more. My life is yours. My name can vanish like smoke, I don't care. Let me find him."
A silence followed—long, sharp.
Then the Creator reached out. His hand glowed, soft and warm.
Creator (gently):
"Then I shall make you mortal."
Michaelangela's eyes widened.
Creator:
"You will bleed. You will weaken. You will lose your power. You will be… forgotten. But you will walk among men, and with your heart, you may find him. If he still exists."
Michaelangela, trembling slightly, nodded.
Michaelangela:
"So be it."
The Creator smiled. A terrible, beautiful thing.
Creator:
"Then fall… and rise again."
He touched Michaelangela's forehead.
A beam of light pierced the hall—
And the last Demon King vanished in radiance, leaving behind only warmth… and the echo of a heartbeat.
Chapter 3
Scarlett Atsukedaime, once a sacred warrior and fallen angel, wakes up… in the body of a beautiful, famous human idol, now haunted by divine memories and a cursed disease hidden beneath fame and flashing lights. The first thing he felt was pain.
The second, a heartbeat.
But it wasn't his.
It was faster—erratic, like thunder beneath porcelain skin.
Scarlett Atsukedaime opened his eyes to blinding lights and the sterile scent of IV drips. His lungs ached, his throat was dry, and the soft hum of a heart monitor echoed around him like a funeral bell.
He sat up too fast.
The room swayed. His head throbbed.
His reflection stared back from a darkened glass window. But it wasn't him.
It was a boy with snow-pale skin, silken white hair that shimmered like moonlight, and eyes like deep ocean sapphires—still, wide, and unblinking.
A nurse gasped in the corner, dropping a clipboard.
Nurse:
"Sir?! You're not supposed to be—wait, I need to call—!"
Scarlett didn't hear her. His gaze locked on his hands—slender, trembling. Familiar. Not human. Not really.
He was in another body.
His mind spun. Flashes of memory burst behind his eyes—
the battlefield of Heaven,
the face of a demon boy crying in the rain,
a lullaby sung by a goddess beneath a moonless sky.
And then, the name...
Michaelangela.
He gasped aloud, golden blood rising in his throat like bile.
When he woke again, it was dark.
The room had changed.
Gone were the hospital walls. Now there were silk curtains, camera lights, luxury furniture, and scattered glittering clothes. Screens played silent music videos. News clips. Faces smiling, waving, performing.
And one name echoed again and again on the screen:
> ✦ RIEL.
✦ The nation's "Heavenly Idol."
✦ His comeback from illness shocks the world!
Scarlett turned to the mirror—and the truth landed like ice in his veins.
He had been reborn… as RIEL.
The most adored, fragile, mysterious idol in the country. A singer with a voice like angelic fire—who had collapsed onstage months ago, rumored to be dying of an unnamed illness.
They didn't know the truth.
That Bloodroot—the divine parasite—was blooming under his skin. That when he sang too long, he bled gold. That beneath his fame, a curse stirred in his veins like roots in soil.
He wasn't holy.
Not anymore.
Manager (through the door):
"Riel? You okay? You're onstage in twenty. You've got a full stadium waiting."I
Scarlett blinked.
Onstage?
Before thousands?
He stared at the mirror again. The painted lashes. The stained lips. The frail beauty they worshipped. The boy with divine sorrow in his bones.
A star.
A ghost.
A fallen angel reborn under stage lights.
He stood, slowly. The world swayed again, but he caught himself.
Scarlett had died as a soldier.
Now he would live as an idol.
Backstage, moments later.
Fans screamed. Lights burst. Smoke curled.
And as Scarlett stepped into the spotlight, dressed in glittering white, he realized something terrifying:
He was alone.
He didn't know if Michaelangela still lived. If the gods kept their promises. If he'd ever be found.
But then...
Somewhere in the crowd, a pair of crimson-red eyes locked onto the stage.
Frozen.
Staring.
Recognizing.
Scarlett began to sing.
And deep in the crowd, a man whispered to himself in awe, heart thundering with something that felt like a miracle.
Michaelangela.
He had found his angel.
But the angel no longer remembered him.
And the curse was only just beginning.
Absolutely! Let's continue with Chapter 4, where Scarlett meets his new idol unit partners—each of them distinct, mysterious, and possibly more than they seem. We'll blend their first meeting with subtle emotional cues, humor, and hints of the divine fate that binds them together.
Chapter 4
Scarlett sat in the rehearsal room alone, legs crossed, sipping a lukewarm cup of ginger tea.
His white hair shimmered beneath the pale studio lights, brushing just past his shoulders. Even in silence, he looked otherworldly—less like a boy, more like a statue carved from winter.
The door slammed open.
Red-haired boy (breathlessly):
"OH MY GOD—YOU'RE RIEL?!"
Before Scarlett could react, a blur of energy and fire-red curls launched toward him.
Scarlett:
"Wha—?"
Red-haired boy:
"I'm your biggest fan!! I used to watch your videos every single night! I cried when you collapsed on stage! Cried! Like full-body sobbing! And now—we're in the same group?! This is DESTINY!"
Scarlett was stunned—his arms pinned in a tight hug, blinking like he'd been struck by lightning.
The red-haired boy looked up at him with sparkling amber eyes, beaming as if he'd just touched heaven.
Red-haired boy:
"I'm Lysander! You can call me Lys! I dance, rap, and occasionally break my nose doing backflips! Let's be best friends!"
Scarlett blinked again.
For a second… just one second… he almost laughed.
But before he could speak, the door clicked open again.
In stepped a boy with silky black hair that fell slightly over his eyes. His face was elegant—delicate cheekbones, lips curved in the gentlest of smiles, and dark, calm eyes that held no fear, no excitement. Just… silence.
He bowed slightly.
Black-haired boy:
"…My name is Hoshiyo. It's an honor."
His voice was soft, almost like wind over water.
He glanced at Scarlett. Their eyes met—and though neither smiled, something passed between them.
Scarlett could feel it.
He's not ordinary either.
Lysander (still latched onto Scarlett):
"Okay so it's you, me, and Mr. Moonlight over there—where's the last guy?"
As if summoned, the door opened one last time.the
A tall boy stepped through.
His hair was an ocean-deep blue, long enough to brush his jawline, slightly tied at the back. His uniform was slightly wrinkled, and he walked with the casual indifference of someone who didn't care if the world burned or bloomed.
He glanced around the room.
Then his gaze landed on Scarlett.
For a heartbeat, his pupils contracted—recognition? Confusion? Pain? But just as fast, it vanished.
Blue-haired boy:
"Didn't think I'd be working with a living ghost."
Scarlett (quietly):
"…Excuse me?"
The blue-haired boy smirked slightly, tossing his jacket onto a chair.
Blue-haired boy:
"Name's Noctis. Don't worry, I won't get in your way. I don't believe in stars. Or second chances."
He said it casually.
But something in the way he looked at Scarlett told a different story.
Scarlett frowned.
His instincts—divine instincts—whispered:
> One of these boys is cursed.
One of them has lied.
One of them… has already died before.
And yet, they were now a team. A new unit.
REQUIEM.
Scarlett stood and looked at the three of them—Lysander the firestorm, Hoshiyo the moonlight, and Noctis the storm-scarred tide.
Somewhere in this chaos, he would sing again.
Somewhere in this strange new family, he would search for Michaelangela.
And maybe… just maybe… he wasn't as alone as he thought.
"What Does a Human Feel Like?"
Later that evening, the new unit was dismissed for the night.
Lysander had offered to grab boba for everyone ("You have to try mango cheese foam!"), and Hoshiyo had politely declined with a bow before vanishing down the hallway like a shadow. Noctis just muttered something sarcastic and walked off without looking back.
Scarlett sat alone in the empty practice room, his back against the wall, knees slightly pulled up.
He stared at his reflection in the wall-length mirror.
Riel's face stared back.
Pretty. Perfect.
Fake.
He touched his own cheek.
Warm.
His chest rose and fell. His fingers trembled just a little. He had eaten a sandwich today. He had sweat under the studio lights.
So this is what it meant to be human.
Then why—
why did everything feel so unnatural?
Scarlett (thinking):
Am I supposed to laugh when they laugh?
Should I have hugged Lysander back? He didn't seem dangerous. He felt... warm.
But what if that was an emotional signal I didn't return? Would that hurt him?
Do humans get hurt when feelings aren't given back right away?
Is it normal to feel so tired from pretending you're not confused?
He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin there.
Scarlett (softly):
"…What do humans even want from each other?"
He remembered Michaelangela's eyes from the concert.
The only one who saw his smile.
His real smile.
And then... he vanished.
Just like he would.
Scarlett bit his lip.
He didn't understand this world.
The fans. The dances. The casual jokes. The body language.
Why does Lysander touch people when he's excited?
Why does Noctis insult people he clearly protects?
Why does Hoshiyo look like he's hiding a world behind his silence?
Was this love? Was this friendship?
He didn't know.
Not anymore.
But he would learn.
He had to.
Because somewhere in this world of flashing lights and synthetic smiles...
was someone who once called him Schatz.
And Scarlett would find him again.
Even if it meant learning how to become human...
piece by piece.
Chapter 5
The rehearsal studio buzzed with the sound of the new song—an upbeat, pulse-heavy track meant to become REQUIEM's debut anthem.
Lysander lay flat on the floor.
Lysander:
"Death would be easier than learning this choreo."
Noctis stood by the mirror, sweat beading on his forehead, chest rising and falling in labored breath. He didn't say anything, but his narrowed eyes and twitching eyebrow said it for him.
Hoshiyo moved quietly and precisely, his long limbs following the motions with grace. Still, every now and then, he'd pause, catching his breath and pressing a hand to his ribs like he was made of glass about to crack.
And in the center of the room—
Scarlett was perfect.
Not just technically—but uncannily so.
He moved like a whisper.
Sharp turns, elegant arm sweeps, impossibly smooth footwork. Not a beat missed. Not a breath wasted. His white hair floated with each spin like falling feathers. Watching him wasn't like watching a dancer. It was like watching a weapon being wielded with divine precision.
Lysander (peeking from the floor):
"...How in the holy name of idol hell are you not dying?"
Scarlett (blinking):
"Was it... too fast?"
Lysander (laughs, then groans):
"No! You moved like a professional exorcist-slash-ballet god! What are you?!"
Scarlett (calmly):
"…I used to do a lot of combat in the sky."
A pause.
Noctis:
"The sky?"
Scarlett (blinks, then corrects):
"I mean… aerial combat. You know. Like… contemporary sword dance. For, uh… musical theatre."
Lysander:
"…What kind of messed-up theatre club were you in?"
Hoshiyo (gently wiping his brow):
"…He learns fast. It's like he already knows what his body should do."
Scarlett didn't say anything. But inside, his mind was replaying something else.
Flashback:
Heaven's gardens.
Angels with spears. Wings slicing through the wind like ribbon. He had once led an entire battalion of celestial warriors with movements sharper than lightning. Dance was nothing but softened combat.
Scarlett (to himself):
This is… easier than I expected.
But something about that easiness felt wrong.
He was supposed to struggle.
To sweat.
To feel mortal.
But all he felt was... distant.
Like he was wearing someone else's skin too well.
Still, as Lysander groaned and rolled over like a flattened pancake, Scarlett stepped toward him and offered a hand.
Scarlett (gently):
"You're getting better. The rhythm in your heel is off by only a beat."
Lysander (grabbing his hand dramatically):
"Sweet angel of rhythm, guide me…"
Scarlett blinked.
That word again.
Angel.
He looked away.
Noctis, still breathless, stared at Scarlett's back with a faint scowl. But it wasn't resentment. It was something heavier.
Jealousy. Or maybe… recognition.
Scarlett didn't see it.
He was already studying the steps again.
There was something mechanical about it. Almost empty.
Like he was dancing not to perform—but to remember. Scarlett moved to repeat the final spin—an elegant twist ending in a slow kneel.
But the moment his feet slid across the polished floor—
his knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
The world tilted sideways.
He crashed to the ground with a soft thud, barely catching himself on trembling arms. Golden-tinged sweat rolled down his cheek.
Scarlett (thoughts flickering):
My body… it's—human…?
A piercing sting bloomed across his chest, just behind the ribs. His skin felt hot. Too hot.
Lysander (sitting up):
"Whoa, whoa—Scarlett?!"
Noctis (stepping forward quickly):
"Is he—?"
Before anyone else could react—
Hoshiyo was already there.
Silent, swift, his arms slipped beneath Scarlett's back and legs. Without hesitation, he lifted him—light as breath—into a princess carry.
Scarlett:
"…!"
For the first time since waking in this world, his pale face flushed a soft pink.
His silver lashes fluttered. He instinctively grabbed the collar of Hoshiyo's jacket to steady himself—but it only made the closeness worse.
His heart was racing.
It wasn't battle. It wasn't celestial energy. It was just—warmth.
Human warmth...
And it felt unbearably real.
Lysander (mouth open):
"Did you just—? He just—! Oh my GOD, Hoshiyo you PRINCESS-CARRIED him!!"
Noctis (blinking once, tone flat):
"…I didn't know you had it in you."
Hoshiyo (quietly, to Scarlett):
"You shouldn't push yourself. Even stars burn out."
Scarlett couldn't speak.
He just stared at the profile of the calm, black-haired boy holding him so gently.
His thoughts were spinning.
Was this... human weakness?
Was this what it meant to be fragile?
To be... protected?
He hated it.
He didn't understand it.
He didn't want to stop feeling it.
Scarlett (softly):
"…Put me down, please."
Hoshiyo (meeting his gaze):
"If I do, you'll collapse again."
Scarlett turned his head away, cheeks still flushed.
Lysander, grinning ear to ear, held up his phone.
Lysander:
"That's it. That's the thumbnail for our first music video."
Scarlett:
"Don't you dare."
Absolutely! Here's a scene transition that fits perfectly after the training and dramatic fall. This quiet, reflective moment helps Scarlett question his identity—and gives Noctis a subtly meaningful role.
Chapter 6
Later that night, the practice room was quiet.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, casting a pale glow on the polished floors. Everyone else had left to rest. Everyone… except Scarlett.
He sat cross-legged near the mirror wall, his reflection watching him like a stranger.
He stared down at his open palm.
So soft. So small. So... breakable.
Scarlett (softly, to himself):
"...Who am I supposed to be now?"
He looked up again at his own reflection, brushing a hand through his shoulder-length silver hair.
Was he Riel?
Or was he still Scarlett Atsukedaime?
The archangel who fell in love with the Demon King?
He didn't feel like either.
Just then, soft footsteps echoed behind him.
Noctis.
He walked over with his usual silent, graceful presence. Even in his oversized hoodie, he moved like a shadow. He sat beside Scarlett without a word, knees drawn up loosely, arms resting on them.
A silence passed between them.
Then—
Scarlett (gazing forward):
"…Is my name Riel? Or Scarlett?"
Noctis didn't even blink.
Noctis (quietly):
"Your stage name is Riel."
He paused—just a moment—and then added,
"But your real name is Scarlett."
Scarlett's breath caught.
Noctis didn't explain how he knew.
He didn't blink or elaborate. He just stared ahead, calm and unshaken.
Like he'd known all along.
Scarlett (softly):
"…Do you believe in reincarnation?"
Noctis:
"I believe some souls don't forget."
A silence fell again. But this one… wasn't uncomfortable.
Scarlett looked over, as if searching Noctis's blank face for a hint of recognition.
But Noctis didn't meet his eyes.
He just stood up, brushing off his pants.
Noctis:
"Don't stay too long. You'll catch a cold."
And with that, he walked off into the hallway, his silhouette swallowed by the dim light.
Scarlett sat there, heart quietly pounding.
Some souls don't forget...
Chapter 7
The next morning, Scarlett was called into the small meeting lounge on the second floor of the idol agency building. It had the faint scent of stale coffee and lavender air freshener. Sunlight streamed through tall, dusty windows.
Scarlett sat politely on the couch, legs crossed neatly, hands on his lap.
He had brushed his silver hair and wore a soft cream hoodie that made his skin look like porcelain. The quiet elegance in his posture could've passed for royalty if not for the gentle confusion behind his ocean-deep eyes.
Then—
The door burst open.
Manager Ren stepped in like a whirlwind of over-caffeinated sunshine.
He was in his thirties, short, with messy ash-brown hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, and his phone balanced precariously on his shoulder.
Ren:
"Scarlett—no, Riel—my star! My miracle! My radiant, flower-haired, too-talented-for-this-world idol baby! How's your throat? How's your soul? Did you eat?? No, wait—you don't eat junk, right? You're like… ethereal."
Scarlett (blinking):
"…Good morning?"
Ren (melting):
"OH you're so polite! It's killing me!!"
He dramatically flopped onto the couch beside him.
Scarlett shifted slightly away.
Scarlett:
"You… called me for something?"
Ren:
"Right. Yes. Super important. So listen—" he leaned in, whispering conspiratorially—"don't talk to the company boss."
Scarlett (blinking again):
"…What?"
Ren (nodding firmly):
"He's the kind of man who'd eat someone like you alive. You're like a delicate antique vase, and he's like... a hammer. Just smile and wave if you see him. Say nothing. Run if you can."
Scarlett (confused):
"…Isn't he the one funding everything?"
Ren (waves hand):
"Shhh, technicalities. You're my responsibility now. I'm protecting your soul, okay?"
He stood up dramatically, hands on his hips.
Ren:
"I've managed a lot of idols, Riel. Most of them sparkle. Some of them shine. But you? You glow. I won't let the boss turn you into some cold, glitter-sprinkled product."
Scarlett tilted his head.
Somehow, those words felt… familiar.
Like something someone else had once sworn.
"I won't let them break you."
Michaelangela's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
Scarlett (quietly):
"…You're strange."
Ren (grinning):
"You noticed! But that's just part of my charm, baby~"
As Ren bustled back out the door to yell at someone about budget cuts and vocal trainers, Scarlett leaned back against the couch.
He didn't know why, but a part of him felt safe with Ren's chaotic affection.
Even if he was a little too much.
And still… something inside him stirred uneasily.
Why didn't Ren want him meeting the boss?
Was it really to protect him?
Or… to hide him?
Chapter 8
Scarlett was sipping warm ginger tea in the break room when the air suddenly shifted.
The fluorescent lights flickered—once.
The building trembled—softly, like something immense had just stepped into it.
Even the vending machine gave a mechanical groan, as if warning of a storm.
Scarlett looked up.
Ren burst through the door, pale and frantic.
Ren:
"Scarlett—! Listen, you're not allowed to go downstairs right now, okay?! Just—just stay here and pretend to be unconscious or allergic to businessmen or something—!"
Scarlett (blinking):
"…What happened?"
Ren's mouth opened—but before he could answer—
The fire exit door flung open.
And there he was.
Michaelangela.
Tall, regal, cloaked in black that shimmered like a raven's feathers under moonlight.
His eyes—those ruby crimson eyes—locked instantly with Scarlett's.
The world slowed.
Everyone in the hallway froze. Even the executives—who had stormed down in protest—stood back, as if held by an invisible force.
Scarlett's breath caught.
He hadn't seen him like this in a thousand years.
He hadn't realized how much he missed him until he was right there.
Without a word, Michaelangela strode forward—
—and pulled Scarlett into his arms.
Tightly.
Fiercely.
As if afraid the world would rip them apart again.
Michaelangela (voice like thunder restrained):
"I found you."
Scarlett (whispering):
"Michael…?"
Michaelangela (eyes closed, breath uneven):
"I bought the company."
Scarlett (pulled back slightly):
"…You what?"
Michaelangela:
"This pathetic excuse of a building, this agency… it's mine now. Every file. Every contract. Every hallway. All of it."
He looked into Scarlett's eyes, crimson burning like bleeding stars.
Michaelangela:
"I wasn't going to wait another lifetime."
Ren peeked from behind a potted plant, whispering to himself.
Ren:
"Oh my GOD—he BOUGHT the company—HE BOUGHT IT—he's like a walking BL drama—IS HE A PRINCE?! NO WAIT HE'S WORSE HE'S A BUSINESS MAN —!!!
Scarlett trembled in Michaelangela's hold.
A thousand feelings clawed their way to the surface—love, confusion, pain, fear.
But he didn't pull away.
Because Michaelangela felt like home.
Even in this fragile human body.
Even with golden blood slowly poisoning his veins.
He was still his Schatz.
"My Schatz"...Michaelangela thought
Chapter 9
The warmth of Michaelangela's embrace still lingered on Scarlett's skin—his tall frame enveloping him like armor, like longing. But the moment shattered like glass underfoot.
SLAM!
Ren shoved himself between them like a force of chaos and nerves, eyes wild and glasses crooked.
Ren:
"EXCUSE ME. Personal space?? Corporate rules?? Hello?? YOU CAN'T JUST—JUST BUY THE AGENCY AND HUG MY STAR LIKE THAT—!"
He flailed his arms wildly, trying to wedge himself between their bodies like a protective (and slightly unhinged) mother goose.
Michaelangela (coldly):
"Move."
Ren (horrified):
"NO."
He spread his arms out dramatically, shielding Scarlett as best he could. Though compared to Michaelangela's towering presence, it looked more like a pillow trying to stop a landslide.
Scarlett (soft gasp):
"Ren, it's okay…"
But Michaelangela's crimson eyes flashed dangerously.
Ren stood his ground, sweat visibly dripping down his temple.
Michaelangela moved slightly forward—
—and Scarlett stepped in front of him.
Scarlett (firmly):
"He's not a threat. Don't hurt him."
Michaelangela froze.
Not because he was angry.
But because Scarlett had just protected him.
His little angel. His Schatz. His light.
Defending him with this tiny, fragile, human body.
His chest tightened.
Michaelangela (softly):
"...You still protect me."
Scarlett didn't answer. But he didn't move away, either.
Footsteps echoed.
More doors opened.
"What's all that yelling—?"
"Wait… is that a new sponsor?"
"Did someone faint again?"
From the far hallway, Lysander, Noctis, and Hoshiyo stepped into view.
They paused.
Scarlett was standing in front of a tall, regal, dangerous-looking man—his silver hair catching the light, cheeks still faintly pink.
And Michaelangela was not looking away.
Hoshiyo (calmly):
"…Who's that?"
Ren (whispering):
"That's the guy who just bought the entire company to see Scarlett."
Lysander (choking):
"He WHAT?! That's so ROMANTIC I COULD DIE—"
Noctis (emotionless):
"Tch. Rich people."
Then—Michaelangela turned.
His eyes met Hoshiyo's.
And something unspoken cracked through the air.
A silent war.
Two tall, elegant men—one celestial, one infernal—staring at each other like twin moons colliding.
Scarlett turned slightly, feeling the sharp tension between them.
Hoshiyo (calm face):
"...So you're the one who's been haunting Riel."
Michaelangela (voice sharp as velvet):
"He's not yours."
The temperature dropped.
The other idols took a tiny step back.
Scarlett (sighing internally):
Here we go again.
Chapter 10
The atmosphere in the practice room was too thick.
Ren was still fuming. Hoshiyo and Michaelangela stood like twin towers made of pure, conflicting divinity, and the others—Lysander, Noctis, and the rest—shifted awkwardly, caught between curiosity and secondhand tension.
But Scarlett?
He didn't care about the stares.
He didn't care about the questions in Ren's eyes or the way Hoshiyo's stare pierced Michaelangela's throat like a dagger of frost.
All he knew was that Michaelangela's hand was right there… unmoving… waiting.
So Scarlett took it.
Without a word.
His fingers slid into Michaelangela's, cool but gentle, firm but careful.
"Come with me," Scarlett whispered, tugging him softly toward the door.
Michaelangela followed, silent, obedient, like the sea pulled by the moon.
A Quiet Hallway, Away from the World
They reached a quiet hallway—distant from the rehearsal space, past vending machines, behind the equipment room where the company kept stage props and unused lighting. The silence there was sacred.
Scarlett let go of his hand and turned.
His breath trembled.
"I wanted to talk to you alone," he said quietly. "No lights. No manager. No… watching eyes."
Michaelangela tilted his head slightly, eyes glowing faintly in the dark corridor. "Then speak."
Scarlett hesitated. His gaze lowered.
"I don't… understand what you are to me. Not yet. But when I saw you again today, it felt like… something ancient cracked open inside me. Like a seal breaking. Like lightning down the spine."
He took a breath.
"Is this what humans call longing?"
Michaelangela didn't answer.
Not with words.
He stepped forward. One step. Another.
His fingers reached up—gently, carefully—and brushed a strand of white hair from Scarlett's cheek.
Then—
He kissed him.
Not soft. Not unsure.
It was a kiss that held centuries.
A kiss forged in hellfire and lullabies,
in scattered ashes and shattered halos.
It was pain and promise and madness
and everything Michaelangela had never dared say.
Scarlett's breath caught in his throat. His eyes fluttered closed. His body tensed—and then melted into the touch.
When Michaelangela pulled back, he didn't say sorry.
He didn't ask permission.
He simply looked at Scarlett like he was the only thing left in the world worth praying to.
Scarlett touched his own lips.
"…So that was longing," he whispered.
Scarlett's breath hitched as the kiss ended. His eyes widened in shock, heart slamming against his ribs. And for a single, fragile second—his hands hovered mid-air like wings caught between fight and flight.
Then he shoved Michaelangela back.
> "What are you doing?!"
Michaelangela stumbled one step, startled—not by the push, but by the emotion behind it.
Scarlett's voice shook, not with anger, but grief.
> "We… we were never lovers."
> "I watched over you. I protected you. You were just a child."
His words cracked like thunder through silence.
> "You needed comfort, not love. And I— I would've burned heaven and hell to keep you safe, Michaelangela. But what you just did…"
His voice faltered.
> "It's not right."
Michaelangela didn't speak.
His crimson eyes burned—not with fury, but heartbreak. An ancient heartbreak, preserved over centuries. As if he'd waited too long and finally stepped across a line only to realize—
Scarlett hadn't crossed it with him.
> "You remember it differently," Scarlett whispered.
"I remember you trembling in my arms after your first vision. I remember holding your hand when the elders mocked you for being too emotional. You clung to me like I was your shield… You didn't love me. You needed me."
The silence between them trembled like a thread about to snap.
> "I never wanted anything in return."
Michaelangela's jaw clenched.
> "But I did love you."
That stopped Scarlett cold.
His throat tightened. He stared, uncertain. The weight of the past—the burned wings, the lullabies, the blood and divinity—pressed down on his chest.
But all he said was:
> "You're not that boy anymore.
And I… I don't know who I am yet in this world."
Michaelangela turned away, shadows swallowing his sharp silhouette.
And Scarlett stood alone again—aching for a truth he didn't yet have the strength to hold.
Absolutely. Here's the next emotional scene — full of longing, regret, and the tender, aching hope that only centuries of buried love could create.
Chapter 11
Scarlett turned away, trying to calm the storm in his chest.
He expected silence—awkward, final silence. He thought Michaelangela would walk away again, as he always did when faced with a wall of rejection. But then—
There was the sound of knees hitting the floor.
Scarlett turned.
Michaelangela was kneeling before him.
In the dim hallway light, he looked ethereal—still like royalty even with his pride laid bare. The crimson in his eyes had softened to something raw. Something real.
He reached out, slowly, carefully, and took Scarlett's hand in both of his gloved ones.
> "Then I will try," he said, voice barely a whisper.
"If I was only a child to you… if you never saw me as more… then let me start now."
Scarlett's breath hitched.
> "Michael—"
Michaelangela looked up at him, eyes shimmering with unspoken memory and desperation.
> "Let me try to win your heart, my Schatz."
The old name.
Scarlett's knees nearly buckled from the weight of it.
No one had called him that in so long. Not since before the fall. Not since before ashes and rebirth. That word was buried under lifetimes—yet somehow, Michaelangela had remembered it perfectly.
> "You can hate me for the kiss," Michaelangela said softly.
"You can push me away a thousand times. I won't force you. I just—"
"I just want to be close to you again. Even if I have to earn it from the beginning."
Scarlett was silent.
Torn.
Confused.
But the warmth of Michaelangela's hands around his own was gentle—not possessive, not hungry—just… hoping.
And for the first time, Scarlett didn't pull away.
Chapter 12
The next morning arrived as a whisper, not a trumpet. Pale light sifted through the gauze curtains of the dormitory window, and Scarlett lay awake long before it came, staring up at the ceiling as if it might crack open and tell him what to feel.
Michaelangela's voice still echoed in his chest, low and trembling: "Then I will try."
Scarlett had not answered. Not truly. But neither had he fled.
And perhaps that was an answer of its own.
He found his way back to the old practice studio without thinking. The building, technically decommissioned, still breathed with forgotten ambition—gold-leaf trim worn to copper, velvet drapes faded to wine-stained gray. It had been theirs once, back in the days when dance was more than art—when it was invocation, resurrection, rebellion.
Scarlett pushed open the door. It creaked like something wounded.
Ren looked up from the corner, half-sprawled in a metal folding chair, coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other. His eyes widened slightly. "Well, well. Look who hasn't turned into mist."
Scarlett arched a brow, stepping in. "I could still vanish."
"Please don't. I don't have the energy to chase after ghost boys today."
He tossed the clipboard onto a side table with a sigh. "Hey—before we start... there's something weird going on."
Scarlett tilted his head, pulling off his jacket and moving to the barre.
Ren scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh... Michaelangela gave the company back."
Scarlett paused mid-stretch. "What?"
"The original founder—Master Zhu? Got the rights reinstated overnight. All paperwork, all ownership. Like that." He snapped his fingers. "No fanfare, no press. Just a quiet signature and a couriered envelope."
Scarlett turned slowly to face him. "Michaelangela just… gave it back?"
Ren's expression twisted into a skeptical grimace. "That's the thing. I only found out through Zhu himself. No one told me. Not a word. It's like Michaelangela tossed it to him like pocket change."
Scarlett said nothing. He walked toward the center of the room, the floorboards beneath his boots groaning as if they too bore the weight of memory.
He knew exactly what had happened.
Michaelangela wasn't surrendering.
He was performing.
Throwing away a company—an empire—just to prove how little it meant in the face of what he really wanted. It wasn't selflessness. It was theater. Extravagant, excessive, absurdly him.
Scarlett almost laughed.
"He's showing off," he murmured.
"Huh?" Ren looked up.
Scarlett exhaled, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face. "Nothing."
But in the back of his mind, he saw it again—Michaelangela on his knees, gloves pressed to his hand like an oath, eyes like falling stars.
Let me try to win your heart, my Schatz.
That word again. That damned word.
Scarlett turned toward the mirror, gaze fixed. "Let's run the new set. From the top."
Ren blinked, surprised but not about to argue. He reached for the speaker remote. "Alright, Your Highness. You lead."
The music began—low strings, mournful and slow—and Scarlett moved. His body obeyed before his mind did, instincts shaped by centuries of discipline and longing. Every turn, every breath, every tremble in his limbs was no longer just choreography.
It was remembrance.
It was defiance.
And somewhere, perhaps in the tower above the city, Michaelangela watched. Not as a king. Not as a demon.
But as a man still learning how to love.
Chapter 13
The phone rang just past midnight.
Scarlett frowned. The number was unfamiliar—no name, no city code, just a string of numbers like it had crawled out from under the floorboards of time.
He debated letting it ring out.
But something tugged at him.
He answered.
> "May I know who this is?" he asked, voice cool, careful.
A pause. Then—
> "You haven't forgotten my voice already, have you?"
Scarlett went still.
He didn't need more than a syllable to know. That tone—low, honeyed with weariness and wine—belonged to only one man.
"Michaelangela."
> "So you do remember."
Scarlett rose from the bed, pacing to the window with the phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Why are you calling from an unlisted number? Hiding from someone?"
> "Only you."
Before Scarlett could summon a retort, a burst of laughter erupted from the next room.
He turned in time to see Lysander and Noctis peeking around the doorframe, eyes wide with gleeful mischief.
"Is it him?" Noctis mouthed, clutching an imaginary heart.
"Midnight mystery caller?" Lysander whispered, scandalized. "This is better than opera."
Scarlett waved them off with a sharp glare, mouthing go away like a curse.
Michaelangela chuckled softly in his ear. > "Your entourage still loves their theatrics."
"They're not my entourage," Scarlett hissed. "They're cockroaches in eyeliner."
From the hallway: "We heard that!"
Scarlett slammed the door shut with his foot and pinched the bridge of his nose.
> "They think you have a secret lover," Michaelangela said, amused.
"They think everything is a secret lover."
> "And are they wrong?"
Scarlett didn't answer. He hated how easily that man could pull silence from him like thread from old velvet.
Michaelangela's voice softened. > "I would've come in person, but I didn't want to corner you. I thought this might be gentler."
"This isn't gentle. It's invasive."
> "Then hang up."
Scarlett hesitated. The moment stretched thin, silver-edged with memory.
> "I don't want to be a shadow in your life," Michaelangela said quietly. "I want to be something real again."
Scarlett leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.
From outside the door, muffled giggling still echoed.
Noctis: "He's definitely blushing."
Lysander: "If they kiss again I swear to the gods—"
Scarlett sighed. "I'm hanging up before I commit a homicide."
> "One more thing."
Scarlett paused.
> "May I still call you my Schatz?"
That word again. Dagger and lullaby.
Scarlett whispered, "You already did."
> "Then I'll say it again. Until it means something new."
The line went quiet.
Scarlett stood alone in the silence, staring at the rain on the window like it might explain the ache behind his ribs.
In the hallway, Noctis whispered, "Did he just say Schatz? What does that even mean?"
Lysander gasped. "It's a love spell. I knew it."
Scarlett didn't bother answering. He just rested his forehead against the glass and let the quiet hold him.
Chapter 14
The air in the tower had turned too quiet.
Scarlett sat curled on the velvet chaise in the common lounge, arms folded, one boot dangling idly off the edge. He wasn't reading. He wasn't doing anything. Just thinking.
Still thinking.
Still hearing Michaelangela's voice in the back of his mind: May I still call you my Schatz?
He needed a distraction. Unfortunately, fate gave him Lysander.
"Poker night," Lysander declared, bursting through the doorway with a worn deck of cards in his hand and glitter on his cheek. "Get up, ghost boy. You're joining."
Scarlett blinked. "I don't know how to play poker."
"That's why it'll be hilarious," came Noctis's voice, already dragging cushions onto the floor. "Come on. You clearly need something sinful and stupid to pull you out of your spiral."
"I'm not spiraling."
"You're brooding. It's worse."
Scarlett sighed but didn't protest as Lysander flopped onto the carpet like a cat with an agenda. "We're calling Hoshiyo," he added. "He's our fourth."
"Hoshiyo plays cards?" Scarlett asked, genuinely surprised.
"He plays perfectly," Noctis said. "Like a robot. A terrifying, unblinking, possibly-dead-inside robot."
Scarlett frowned. "He doesn't seem the type."
"He's not. That's what makes it terrifying."
Fifteen minutes later, Hoshiyo arrived, exactly on time. He wore a dark gray turtleneck, pale overcoat, and an expression carved from marble. His eyes moved with quiet calculation, and he didn't smile when he entered—he never did.
He placed a tin of preserved fruit slices on the table without a word and sat.
"Hoshiyo," Lysander greeted with a grin. "Glad you made it."
Hoshiyo nodded once. "You need someone to keep score."
"We need someone to crush us mercilessly," Noctis muttered, dealing the first hand.
Scarlett sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching the others move with alarming confidence.
"I don't know the rules," he admitted.
Hoshiyo glanced at him. "You'll learn."
"I don't even know what beats what."
"Observe."
They taught him in turns. Lysander, flamboyant and scattered, explained things with far too many flourishes. Noctis added dramatic warnings about "bluffing wars" and "betrayal rounds." Hoshiyo offered no stories or warnings—only corrections. Quiet, precise, unadorned.
"Three of a kind is stronger than two pair," he said, setting down his cards. "A straight is five in sequence. Suit is irrelevant. Keep your expression neutral. Especially when you win."
Scarlett, used to stage masks and spotlight lies, found the rhythm unsettling. But something about the stillness of Hoshiyo's presence—the contrast to Lysander's antics and Noctis's dramatics—let him focus.
He started slow. Fumbled a few hands.
By round five, he was holding his cards better.
By round seven, he stopped asking questions.
By round nine…
"Wait. He's winning?" Noctis squawked, staring at the pile of buttons, coins, and fruit slices in front of Scarlett.
Lysander groaned. "You said you didn't know how to play!"
"I didn't."
Hoshiyo studied him with the faintest tilt of the head. "You adapted quickly."
Scarlett shrugged, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's just reading people."
"Which he does too well," Lysander huffed.
"This is what happens when a repressed, dramatic immortal plays poker for the first time," Noctis muttered. "He goes full apocalypse."
Scarlett raised an eyebrow. "You're just upset I bluffed you with nothing."
"You had nothing?"
"Not even a pair."
Noctis collapsed backward. "I've been betrayed."
Hoshiyo placed his cards down, face unreadable. "Next round."
"Absolutely not," Lysander said, tossing a pillow at Scarlett. "I'm cutting you off. You're too powerful."
Scarlett caught the pillow, finally letting out a small laugh—light and startled, like it escaped before he could stop it. The weight of Michaelangela's voice, the pull of memories and names like Schatz, faded just slightly beneath candlelight and quiet competition.
And though Hoshiyo never once smiled, Scarlett thought he saw something shift in the stillness of his gaze. Something approving. Or at least… not disapproving.
Small victories.
He'd take them.
Chapter 15
The speakers blasted sharp beats and synth-heavy rhythm through the training hall, a far cry from the waltzes and sonatas the architecture seemed built for. Sunlight gleamed off mirrored walls, catching flashes of silver piercings and sweat-slick movement.
Scarlett stood at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly on his hip, the other lifted in silent correction. His movements were crisp, clean, and deadly precise—the kind of execution only someone with unnatural control could achieve.
"You're late on the drop," he said, eyes on Noctis.
"I'm dramatic on the drop," Noctis corrected, striking the pose anyway.
Scarlett didn't respond. He turned, replayed the track from the top, and flowed into the next sequence like water learning how to hit harder.
Across the room, Lysander was mid-spin, glitter dusted on his collarbone, trying not to collapse into Hoshiyo. Hoshiyo sidestepped silently and resumed the choreography without missing a beat, expression blank, movement flawless.
Scarlett's gaze flicked over him once. He never corrected Hoshiyo. There was nothing to fix.
"Again," Scarlett said.
Lysander groaned, half-sinking to the floor. "Scarlett, this is day four of 'God-Slaying Sync Level Mode.' We are but mortal worms."
"No. You're lazy worms," Scarlett said coolly. "And I'm not slaying gods. I'm teaching basic choreography."
"Basic?" Noctis gasped. "You just made me moonwalk into a body roll while hitting an iso on the off-beat."
"Control your body. Or it controls you."
Lysander rolled onto his back. "You talk like a military general that secretly choreographs for Seventeen."
Scarlett clicked the remote again. The beat dropped. They moved. Sharp. Fast. Not perfect.
But improving.
Then—
a shift.
He didn't hear the door open. He just felt him.
Michaelangela stood outside the mirrored arch, framed by shadow and gold light. He looked deeply out of place amid the sleek speakers and LED panels—but his smile was soft. The kind of smile that had once been reserved for blood-stained crowns and now was used only here.
Scarlett didn't pause the music this time.
He walked over calmly, pulled the door open, and stepped outside without a word.
Lysander whispered loudly, "He's back, and he looks hotter than sin and also possibly like he owns a gun."
"Shh," Noctis hissed, grinning. "This is romantic."
Outside, the hall quieted. Just birdsong and the distant echo of synth bass leaking through the door.
"You came," Scarlett said.
"I won't often," Michaelangela replied gently. "You're busy. I didn't want to... interfere."
"You're not."
Michaelangela tilted his head, watching him. "Still. I won't linger. But I'll call. Every day."
Scarlett didn't answer right away. He just stepped forward, arms slipping around Michaelangela's waist without hesitation.
It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a confession.
It was grounding. Quiet. The kind of embrace one gives someone they're afraid will disappear.
Scarlett looked up, and his expression wasn't love.
It was devotion.
A different kind. The kind you hide in your bones when your soul still remembers wings.
Michaelangela didn't ask for more. He hugged him back, tight and steady, then stepped away.
By the time Scarlett looked again, he was already gone. Lost in the edge of the crowd like a whisper in fog.
Back inside, the music was paused.
Lysander was already at the door with a smug grin. "You got hugged."
"Is this why you made us practice isolation waves for an hour?" Noctis said, flopping into a beanbag. "To distract from your hug cravings?"
Scarlett walked past them. "You're both insufferable."
"You're both blushing," Lysander replied. "It's like a tragic idol love story. Do we get merch?"
Hoshiyo stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, saying nothing. His expression never shifted.
Scarlett didn't glance at him. He clicked the next track into queue.
"I was a performer," he said evenly. "Not a lover."
Then he turned back to the mirror, head high.
"Again. From the top. And this time, Lysander—try not to look like a dancing possum."
"Rude," Lysander gasped. "Accurate. But rude."
The beat dropped again.
And Scarlett danced—sharp, electric, and unreadable.
Chapter 16
The rain fell like whispered threats against the high glass windows—soft, persistent, and utterly unrelenting.
Inside, the room was painted in half-shadows: low amber lights glowed like dying embers in sconces, and red velvet curtains framed the storm like blood caught in motion. A single chandelier above swayed faintly, casting fractured light across the mahogany desk.
Michaelangela sat in his chair, unmoving, the wine glass in his hand still rippling from the last movement he made.
He didn't look at the man kneeling before him. Didn't need to.
He already knew.
The silence in the room was thick. His men stood at the walls like statues—hooded, expressionless. Their loyalty had been paid for in a hundred currencies: blood, debt, fear, reverence. Some had forgotten they were human. Some had never been.
Michaelangela took a slow sip of the red wine. Crimson. Viscous. Perfectly still on the outside—unforgiving underneath.
"You sold the routes," he said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
The man on the floor shook. Not from cold, but from the awareness that this was not a courtroom. There would be no arguments. No verdict. Only a sentence.
"I didn't mean to—"
Michaelangela exhaled, barely audible, and set the wine down on a glass coaster carved like an ancient seal.
"You did mean to. You just didn't mean to get caught."
His voice was soft. Always soft. Like velvet across a blade.
The rain battered harder now, angry at the glass, as if it, too, wanted in.
"Boss—please—"
Michaelangela finally looked at him. And the man froze. Because there were no red eyes, no fangs, no demonic horns—only that beautiful, tired face and eyes that held the kind of silence that cemeteries dreamed of.
"Take him."
Two of the guards moved forward.
"No, no—please, I swear, I didn't tell them everything—I—"
His voice was cut off by the sound of boots dragging against carpet. The velvet muffled the desperation. Made it almost gentle.
Michaelangela didn't rise.
He just picked up the wine again, swirling it idly as the thunder cracked beyond the curtain, the storm outside building like judgment.
The door clicked shut.
And the silence returned.
Only then did Michaelangela let his eyes drift to the side, to the small, delicate pendant on the corner of his desk. A silver feather encased in glass.
Scarlett didn't know about this life. Not really. Not all of it. Michaelangela had kept it that way on purpose.
Because the human world wasn't kind to ancient kings.
Because the boy with wings buried in his bones didn't need to know what the former Demon King still did in the dark.
Not yet.
And if things went well—
Not ever.
He raised the wine to his lips again, listening as the thunder echoed through the city, and the room stayed dim, warm, and drenched in red.
Chapter 17
If Hell had a mall, Lysander would rule it.
"Come onnnn, ghost boy!" he whined, arms already full of glittering mesh tops and aggressively bedazzled sunglasses. "You need new looks. We're fixing your closet today. Think... tragic idol, but deadly."
"I don't need new clothes," Scarlett said, though he was already being pulled down a corridor lined with mannequins in outfits that looked more like battle flags than garments.
"You wear the same four colors!" Noctis added, balancing a precarious tower of black boots in varying degrees of sin. "Which is fine, I guess, if you're mourning yourself, but we're in public now. People have phones."
Scarlett sighed, resigned to fate.
Trailing behind them like a silent shadow was Hoshiyo, dressed in a monochrome high-neck jacket and sunglasses despite being indoors. He held no bags. He didn't speak. He didn't blink. But somehow, despite doing absolutely nothing, he still looked like the leader of an elite underground dance crew or a minimalist god.
They had stopped at three different fashion boutiques, two of which had security politely escort them out once Noctis tried on an entire mannequin display like it was armor. By the fifth store, Lysander had acquired three scarves, one unnecessary feathered coat, and a hat shaped like a rose with teeth.
"Does this scream 'mystery,' or 'witness protection'?" Lysander asked, striking a pose.
"It screams lawsuit," Scarlett muttered, flipping through a rack of dark red jackets.
It didn't help that every few minutes, someone in the mall recognized them.
Not from magic. Not from scandal. But from the viral dance video Lysander had accidentally posted last week—Scarlett teaching K-pop choreography in the training room while Lysander and Noctis attempted (and failed) to keep up.
"They're obsessed with you," Noctis muttered as a gaggle of teenage fans outside the shop windows pressed against the glass like worshippers. "You're the brooding center. The eye of the hot mess storm."
"They keep calling me 'Velvet Death,'" Scarlett said blankly.
"Exactly!" Lysander beamed. "Your aura is, like, if a perfume could kill."
"We should go," Hoshiyo said suddenly.
Everyone turned. It was the first time he'd spoken in over an hour.
"Why?" Lysander asked, mid-pose with a pleather trench coat.
Hoshiyo nodded toward the growing crowd. "Sixteen cameras. Two livestreams. One crying fan."
Sure enough, mall security was beginning to hover.
"Time to vanish," Noctis hissed, grabbing Scarlett by the wrist. "Operation Shadow Exit. Let's go."
What followed was chaos in velvet form.
They bolted from the back of the store—bags flapping, boots clattering, Lysander shouting dramatic instructions like "Protect the goods!" and "Save the receipts!"
Hoshiyo guided them through a service hallway without a word, moving like he'd memorized every emergency exit on the planet. Somehow, he never broke a sweat.
Eventually, they ducked into a neon-lit fast food joint that smelled of oil and regret. Greasy fries, sugared shakes, and synthetic cheese were thrown onto trays like offerings to some modern altar of indulgence.
They collapsed into a corner booth.
Scarlett stared down at his tray—fries, spicy nuggets, and a drink called Cosmic Cola. "…What even is this?"
"Victory food," Lysander said, unwrapping a triple-patty burger with the reverence of a priest. "And don't knock it. This is healing."
Noctis had ketchup on his cheek, eyes glazed in bliss. "I think my arteries are weeping."
Scarlett took a cautious bite—and immediately, against all logic and reason, smiled.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't poetic. It was salt, grease, and sugar all at once. A reminder that for all their pasts—immortal or not—right now, in this messy, glowing corner of the human world, they were just… young.
And somehow, that was enough.
Hoshiyo sat across from them in complete silence, sipping from a cup labeled XL MAXIMUM SHAKE and showing no emotion whatsoever. But Scarlett swore he saw it—the tiniest twitch of approval. Or maybe a sugar coma.
Outside, the storm from the day before had passed.
Inside, laughter rang out, coats were draped over booth seats, and fries were shared like treasure.
Scarlett looked at them all—the chaos, the drama, the ridiculousness of it—and felt something tighten in his chest.
Not love.
But maybe… belonging.
Chapter 18
Camera, Chaos, and Crimson
Zhen had a smile like a contract you didn't read properly. And today, that smile was particularly wide.
"Surprise," he announced, striding into the rehearsal room with the flair of a magician about to saw someone in half. "You four are doing a press interview. Filmed. Public. Glorious."
Scarlett blinked slowly. "A press interview for what?"
"Our brand!" Zhen said, as if it was obvious. "You're practically viral after the K-pop clip. There are sponsorship deals on the table, fans lining up for autographs, and frankly, I need the money. You're all too expensive."
"We're not idols," Noctis protested.
"You are now!" Zhen sang, tossing a packet of interview questions onto the floor. "You're sparkly, you're mysterious, you're photogenic, and you—" he pointed at Scarlett, "—look like a gothic vampire prince, which means everyone's obsessed with you. Milk it."
Lysander lit up like a chandelier. "I'm in."
Noctis groaned. "I hate it here."
Hoshiyo said nothing. Just blinked once, very slowly.
Within an hour, they were seated on a minimalist white couch in front of flashing lights, surrounded by microphones, cue cards, and producers that looked mildly terrified. The camera crew counted down, and the host—a chipper woman in pastel who clearly hadn't slept in 48 hours—beamed.
"Welcome, everyone! Today we have a very special group joining us—the rising stars from House of Riel, who've taken the internet by storm! Please welcome Scarlett, Lysander, Noctis, and Hoshiyo!"
Applause. Camera flash. Hoshiyo blinked once more.
The interview began with absurd energy.
"So, Lysander," the host gushed, "your fans say your laugh cured their depression. How does that make you feel?"
"Powerful," Lysander grinned. "Like I should charge for it."
"Noctis, how do you maintain your dramatic presence?"
"Regret," he replied without pause. "And caffeine."
"Hoshiyo, what's your skincare routine?"
Hoshiyo stared at her. The silence dragged for so long it became metaphysical.
"…Thank you," the host said weakly, moving on.
Finally, her gaze landed on Scarlett.
His posture was perfect. One leg crossed, hands folded in his lap. The dark red blazer he wore gleamed under the lights like spilled wine, and the matching earrings caught the glint of the camera.
"Mister Riel," she said, "one question keeps coming up online."
He tilted his head, just a fraction. "Go on."
"Why do you always wear dark red?"
A beat of silence.
Scarlett smiled—slow, sly, the kind of smile that starts rumors and ends interviews.
"It's a secret," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I'm afraid I can't tell. I'm sorry."
The crowd behind the cameras lost it. People gasped, giggled, screamed, clutched their chests. The internet was already on fire.
Lysander leaned into his mic. "He's always like this. It's terrifying."
But Scarlett just sat there, gaze steady, letting the mystery bloom.
Because inside, the truth was too delicate.
Red. Always red.
It reminded him of Michaelangela's eyes—those impossible crimson rubies, ancient and alive, the kind of gaze that burned itself into memory and never let go.
Scarlett wore that red like a quiet vow.
Not love. Not yet.
But devotion, veiled in velvet and stitched into his skin.
He didn't need to say it.
The world would never know.
But he would.
And that was enough.
Chapter 19
Theories, Threadstorms, and One Sleeping Weapon
By midnight, the internet had combusted.
Fan threads. Fan edits. Fan theories. A full-blown digital cult dedicated to the enigma that was House of Riel had blossomed in less than twelve hours. Hashtags trended globally. Conspiracy boards formed. One user posted a 38-slide PowerPoint titled:
"Why Hoshiyo Might Be an Immortal Cyborg Assassin"
and another wrote an entire novella theorizing that Scarlett was a resurrected blood prince from the 1600s.
Scarlett sat on the couch in their shared apartment, legs tucked under him, staring down at Lysander's phone with a quiet expression that bordered somewhere between vague amusement and secondhand horror.
Noctis was upside down on the rug, feet propped against the wall, scrolling his own feed and groaning. "Why is everyone obsessed with us?"
"Because we're beautiful, mysterious, and emotionally unstable," Lysander replied cheerfully, flopping onto Scarlett's lap with dramatic flourish. "Also, you're a walking tragic poem, and Hoshiyo might be a war crime in human form."
Scarlett raised an eyebrow as Lysander flicked to yet another theory post.
This one was titled:
"Why Scarlett Riel Only Wears Red: Cult Symbolism? Crimson Contract? Long-Lost Vampire Husband??"
Lysander wiggled his eyebrows. "So? Are any of these correct?"
"It's a secret," Scarlett murmured again, his voice laced with the same teasing lilt he'd used in the interview. He was smiling faintly now, barely, like something warm beneath frost.
Noctis threw a pillow at him. "You're the worst."
"I'm consistent."
Lysander sat up just enough to lean in and whisper, "I personally think it's because of that mysterious, elegant man with the ruby red eyes who picks you up sometimes in the black car."
Scarlett blinked.
Then blinked again.
Noctis sat up slowly. "Wait, hold on. What man?"
"You've seen him too?" Lysander grinned.
"I thought I dreamed it," Noctis muttered. "That or Scarlett got himself a sugar daddy."
Scarlett opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then calmly reached for a throw blanket and tossed it over Lysander's face.
"I don't know what you're talking about."(he actually doesn't know hahaha XD!!!!!!)
"You so know," Lysander laughed beneath the blanket.
"Maybe he's a secret fiancé," Noctis said dramatically. "A prince. Or an old flame. Maybe he's actually the one who cursed you with eternal youth and a tragic aura."
"I'm ignoring you both," Scarlett said.
"Then why are you blushing?" Noctis pointed.
Scarlett wasn't blushing. But his ears had definitely turned just the faintest tint darker.
Lysander gasped like a man possessed. "OH MY GOD, IT'S TRUE—"
And in the middle of the noise, chaos, and fan-theory madness—
Hoshiyo had already fallen asleep.
Upright. Back perfectly straight. Head tilted at an angle that would destroy most spines. Completely unconscious. A half-eaten mochi bun in his hand.
Scarlett glanced at him. "He's sleeping with his eyes half open again."
Lysander turned. Screamed. "AH! WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE THAT?!"
"Because he's resting… with malice," Noctis said solemnly.
Scarlett leaned back against the cushions, sighing. The window beyond them showed the glitter of city lights and the faint echo of traffic. Inside, warmth. A couch. Friends. Pillow fights. Fan insanity.
And somewhere out there, the red-eyed man whose gaze he couldn't forget.
The world didn't need to know.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But the red remained.
And so did he.
Chapter 20
The Body is a Cage, Memory is a Curse
The door clicked shut behind him.
Scarlett stepped into his room and let the silence breathe. The lights were off, but the moonlight spilling through the window bathed the space in silver. Everything was still—the neatly made bed, the closed notebook on the desk, the untouched teacup from earlier.
And then… the mirror.
Floor-length. Gilded. Too heavy to move, too beautiful to throw away.
Scarlett stared at the reflection.
Then collapsed.
The breath left his lungs like he'd been punched. His knees hit the floor with a sharp, graceless thud, and his hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the mirror's frame.
What was I doing?
That thought again. Loud. Cutting.
What am I doing in someone else's skin?
The pain surged up like a tide—sudden, cruel, and uninvited.
Not physical. Not exactly. But real in the way fire is real when it touches flesh.
Memories that didn't belong to this world—his world—spilled through his skull like shards of glass: an orchard burning under a violet sky, a choir singing in a tongue older than time, the metallic taste of blood from a blade meant to protect.
And behind it all—
The screaming echo of a name he hadn't spoken aloud in centuries.
His name.
His real name.
The mirror blurred. Not with tears—Scarlett didn't cry—but with pain.
A raw, searing pulse behind his eyes like a hammer cracking porcelain.
He pressed his forehead to the cold floor.
Silver lashes shivered.
Sapphire eyes winced—no tears, just silent fracture.
His hair—paper-white, soft as mothwing and bright as winter light—spilled over his bare shoulders and onto the wood floor like ash from a divine fire long extinguished.
He wasn't supposed to remember this much.
Not yet.
Not here.
The phone rang.
It was almost a mercy.
His hand fumbled for it. He barely registered the screen.
But the voice—
That voice—
"Schatz," Michaelangela said softly, "breathe."
Scarlett said nothing. Just held the phone to his ear like a lifeline.
"I know," Michaelangela whispered, almost like he could feel the pain from across the city. "I know it's happening again."
A pause. A breath of static.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
A sharp sound—like the engine roaring to life, tires peeling out onto wet streets.
People in a mood like that usually yelled. Cursed. Broke things.
Michaelangela?
He only sounded concerned. Calm. Anchored.
"Please," he said again, voice like velvet on a wound. "Wait for me."
And Scarlett—still on the floor, half-himself and half-someone ancient—let his head fall back against the mirror, the glass catching a fractured reflection of the boy he was and the archangel he used to be.
He closed his eyes.
And waited.
Chapter 21
Of Lovers, Frypans, and False Alarms
The front door slammed open with thunder's twin.
Michaelangela burst through the threshold like a bullet wrapped in silk—coat still soaked from the rain, his usually immaculate hair tousled by the wind, eyes burning crimson like the storm itself had asked permission before letting him pass.
And then—
"BURGLAR!"
Lysander's scream tore through the house, followed by the unmistakable crash of a lamp hitting the floor.
A second later, Noctis barrelled down the hallway in mismatched slippers and boxers, wielding a golden clothes hanger like a divine weapon. "I'LL DEFEND US WITH FASHION!"
Hoshiyo stepped into view wordlessly. He didn't scream. He didn't blink. He simply raised a real baseball bat over one shoulder like a silent, beautiful executioner.
Michaelangela froze mid-step. His shoes soaked the marble. His wine-red eyes scanned the chaos.
Noctis narrowed his eyes. "Wait… I know you…"
Lysander gasped, dramatically pointing a finger. "You're—you're Scarlett's secret love affair!"
Michaelangela blinked, unsure whether to explain or bolt.
"I knew you'd come back for him!" Lysander declared, still holding a frying pan like it was Excalibur. "Welcome to the madness!"
Noctis, half-asleep and entirely unhinged, broke into a smile. "He's hot. Let him in."
Hoshiyo and Michaelangela locked eyes.
The air between them chilled. Ancient recognition passed in silence. The bat didn't move. Neither did Michaelangela.
But something unspoken coiled tight in the space between them.
Then—
Footsteps. Slow. Uneven.
Scarlett.
He walked into the hallway barefoot, one hand braced on the wall, his white hair clinging to his face like snow that refused to melt. The pain was still in his eyes—sharp, unpolished—but he moved forward anyway.
The moment he saw Michaelangela, he didn't speak.
He simply stepped forward.
And collapsed into his chest.
Michaelangela caught him instantly, arms moving with practiced grace, as if this had happened before in another life, another time. He lifted him without effort—like something precious, breakable. Like a memory he wasn't willing to lose again.
Lysander screamed.
"AAHH! THE PRINCESS CARRY!"
Michaelangela turned, still holding Scarlett like porcelain, and walked past them without a word. The hallway dimmed behind him as if the house itself was watching in reverent silence.
At the door, he paused.
Turned slightly.
And bowed.
To Lysander, still brandishing a frying pan.
To Noctis, who had now turned his clothes hanger into a fencing sword.
And to Hoshiyo, who hadn't moved an inch.
"Thank you," Michaelangela said softly. A rare thing—his voice gentle, almost reverent.
Then he vanished into the night again, Scarlett in his arms, the door closing like a curtain behind them.
The house was quiet.
For two whole seconds.
Then Lysander screamed again. "HE'S LIKE A PRINCE! A GOTHIC, MAFIA, ANGELIC—WHATEVER-HE-IS PRINCE!"
Noctis grinned, leaning on the wall. "I'd let him kidnap me, too."
Hoshiyo lowered his bat.
And said nothing.
Chapter 22
The Mansion in the Woods
The trees whispered in reverence as the car glided down the old forest path.
Rain still clung to the world in silver threads, but inside the vehicle, there was only the low hum of the engine and Scarlett's shallow, even breathing. He was still unconscious—his head resting gently against Michaelangela's shoulder, silver lashes trembling faintly with the ghosts of dreams.
Michaelangela reached into the backseat, pulled off his long, obsidian coat, and draped it over Scarlett's sleeping form. The size of it nearly swallowed him whole, wrapping him in warmth and the faint, old scent of spice, smoke, and something softly unplaceable.
Michaelangela looked at him.
The curve of his cheek. The faint crease between his brows. The way the coat's velvet collar brushed his jaw.
His fingers hovered—one inch away from Scarlett's face.
A kiss would have landed there.
Would have been perfect.
But he pulled back.
He did not give me permission.
Michaelangela's thoughts echoed hollowly in his skull. And I will not steal what was once freely given.
The car rolled to a stop before the mansion.
No guards. No lights. Just the ancient house nestled deep in the trees, its windows like sleepy eyes, shuttered and silent.
He carried Scarlett up the stone steps in silence, his steps echoing across the marble floors as he entered. No servants stirred. No voices followed. Only the faint ticking of a clock and the scent of storm-soaked wood.
He ascended the stairs with solemn care, each step echoing like ritual.
In the master bedroom—dimly lit, with velvet drapes pulled halfway open and candles flickering in sconces—he gently laid Scarlett down on the bed. The coat stayed with him, still curled around his frame like a second skin.
Michaelangela reached for the edge of the blanket.
And paused.
He stood there, eyes tracing every line of the boy's sleeping face.
Then he turned. Slowly. Silently.
He took one step away.
And—
"Don't leave…"
A voice, low and rough with sleep, caught in the air like a spell.
Michaelangela froze.
Then turned.
Scarlett's eyes were barely open—sapphire shards dulled by exhaustion—but one hand had reached out. Two fingers were curled into the edge of Michaelangela's shirt, soft and slow but sure. He didn't tug, didn't plead.
He simply held him there.
Michaelangela looked down at the pale fingers tangled in the black silk. The smallest tether.
The boy who once held divine fire now clutched a shadow.
"Don't leave…" Scarlett said again, barely more than a whisper.
Michaelangela knelt beside the bed, his hand covering Scarlett's gently—thumb grazing over the knuckles like he was trying to remember something he'd long forgotten.
"I won't," he said, his voice quieter than rain.
He sat there for a long time—hand in hand, midnight in his bones, and velvet curtains drawing the storm closer. Outside, the forest listened. And inside, two souls drifted in and out of dreams, woven together by what was, what is, and what may be again.