The gallery's pristine walls seemed to pulse as chaos ebbed and flowed. Flashing red and blue stained the floor where the message was scrawled in blood: "Not Yours Yet." The scent of fear mingled with jasmine and sweat, while far above, security lights strobed erratically, painting each anxious face a shifting mask. Amal's heart hammered in her ears, every sense stretched to a breaking point between panic and resolve.
In the swirl, Min-jun's voice anchored her, low and unafraid: "Look at me." He crouched at her side, hands steady. "This is just a warning. Whoever did this wants a spectacle—and a reaction. Don't give it to them yet."
All around, allies snapped into action. Ji-yeon Bae directed Mira Patel and Agni Basu to seal side exits. Jisoo Han called for medical help, her voice a calm beacon as others struggled to maintain order. Zara Naseer pressed a handkerchief, scented with rosewater, to Amal's shaking hands, grounding them in ordinary comfort amid extraordinary fear.
From the crowd, Reva Desai drifted forward, her sari swirling like a living ember. "It's not blood from any of us," she murmured to Saira Mirza, who had already begun snapping photos for evidence. "But it carries a promise. We're being watched."
Min-jun could sense it too: a presence, not quite human nor wholly hidden. He discretely gestured to Hana Cha and Elias Moon, whose subtle signals warned those nearby. Viktor Renard, tension coiled in every movement, slipped away with Sun-woo Cha, clearly intent on finding the power cut's source.
As chaos calmed to a frantic hush, the sound of a violin—first a plaintive note, then a warm harmonizing line—rose from Ga-young Seo and Elias. Their music drew the crowd's attention, buying precious moments for Min-jun and Amal to strategize. He pressed her palm, fierce and gentle, "Stay in the lights, don't let them isolate you. I need to draw out whoever set this up."
"But what about you?" Amal's voice cracked on a whisper. Every instinct wanted to chase, to keep him in her sight, but part of her knew she had her own role to play—a muse who would not shatter at the first touch of darkness.
He smiled, the edge of his hunger glittering. "You wanted to see me fight for something real. Watch carefully." He was gone in a blur, shadow already melting into shadow, hunting the cold pulse beneath the masquerade.
Amal stepped forward, collecting herself as the crowd knotted around her. Sacha Viard and Margot Isles huddled whispering, the latter's pen scrawling more feverishly than ever. Lavinia Drae, regal even in crisis, crossed to the crime scene, murmuring to Jinhee Nam and Freya Caro about symbols within the message—perhaps a collector's mark, perhaps a mocking signature.
Prisha Devi, cat now curled and comfortable in Agni Basu's lap, passed Amal a bottle of water and a wink. "Sometimes, the night wants us to be scared," she said softly, "which is exactly why we look after each other."
Around them, the "heroes" and the suspects blurred. Rowan Sinclair and Elise Norwood slipped from guest to guest, eyes focused, questions careful. Tara Malik darted between camera feeds, working to restore their digital eyes. Meanwhile, the more suspicious—Sabine Carfax, Byung-ho Choi, Mireille Aubert, and Yi-hyun Jang—seemed almost too calm, exchanging glances brimming with secrets unspoken.
In the very center of it all, Amal felt herself becoming something the collectors might never have expected—a point of gravity, not a prize. The crowd, calmed by familiar faces and the raw, beautiful music, began to steady.
Somewhere above, on the security catwalk, Min-jun stalked a lone figure masked and quick. The air tasted of copper and ozone, and lightning flickered in the sky beyond the skylights—a storm brewing for more than just weather. He lunged, catching the interloper by the coat, dragging them into view. A gasp rose from the gallery below. Unmasked, it was Sumin Kwon—betrayed by trembling hands and terror-bright eyes. "You weren't supposed to bleed for them," Sumin spat, voice cracking. "But you're already bleeding for her."
Revelations crashed through the crowd. Allies and enemies shifted, new alliances forming in whispers and stares.
Amal, her senses ablaze, locked eyes with Min-jun across the dazzling, haunted space. Their silent promise held—the night had not broken them. If anything, under the crimson gallery lights, they burned brighter than ever.
Outside, thunder rumbled. The world had shifted.
And beneath the painted constellations of their conspirators and admirers, Amal realized with perfect clarity: whatever danger hunted them, she was not waiting to be saved. She was part of the fight, and tonight, every pulse and promise would count.