Hidden Patterns | Kpop Demon Hunters x Reader

[ 00 ] prologue

The city reeks of desperation.

You pass shuttered stalls and alleyways steeped in rot, your feet silent on the cracked stone road. The evening market is thin today. Crowds come and go, depending on the season. As the harshness of winter approaches, and the temperature drops drastically, fewer and fewer leave their homes. Crops dry up and run barren. Nearly everyone, as far as the eye can see, is starving.

Except you.

You've never experienced what hunger feels like. You've never known the agony of having to wonder when your next meal might be. Your body has no need for the sustenance that fuels ordinary people. Because the truth is, you aren't. Ordinary, that is. The faint patterns that sometimes glow underneath your clothing are more than proof of that.

A demon like you is able to walk among humans. You doubt you're the first. Far from it, in fact. Demons will often adopt human forms in order to get closer to their targets and steal their souls. Camouflaging as one of them isn't all that difficult, in the grand scheme of things. Deception makes them weak. Vulnerable. Even more so than usual.

Your eyes flicker continuously, from one spot to the next. You walk because it's what you do. You drift like a shadow, no destination, no name whispered behind you. But then you hear it.

A voice.

Without a doubt, the voice is beautiful. Crystal-clear, melodious—yet it almost sounds like it's aching. There's a rawness to it, and much like everything else in this city, it too is tinged with desperation.

Perhaps that's why it catches your attention. Not because of the suffering it conveys. After all, you're used to that. You've seen too many pitiful sights by now to even keep track of. It's the fact that despite the hardship, the grief, and the bitterness, the person still forces themselves to press on. Their voice fights against the overwhelming urge to give up and accept their miserable fate.

And so, you follow it.

There are three people altogether. A mother, by the looks of things, holding her daughter in her arms as they both shiver from the cold. But neither of them are the ones singing. It's the young man sitting beside them, fingers clenched around his bipa, a worn wooden lute, as he sings aloud.

You stop and stare at him for a while. The sound, like his voice, is hauntingly beautiful. Perhaps the three of them are a family. He looks just about young enough to be the mother's son, and the little girl's older brother.

One quick glance at them is all you need to know that their family is impoverished. Their clothes are cheap and worn-out, and the mother especially is starting to get dangerously thin. She must be giving her own meals away to her children. Her eyes are riddled with dark circles, to the point of being ghoulish.

The young man continues singing, however, nobody besides you even so much as spares him a glance. One of the strings of his lute is frayed. Still, his hands move with the stubbornness and resilience of someone who's learned how to bleed beauty out of broken things.

You can't say that you've ever heard the song before. Maybe it's something he wrote himself. A bowl lies beside him—only two measly coins inside. You wonder how long he's been here.

Your gaze drifts to his face, which complements his voice perfectly. He has sharp, attractive features, but they're marred by sweat, hunger, and an exhaustion that lingers in every facet. Every so often, he squeezes his eyes shut while he sings. You can tell that he's not just performing. He's hoping. Praying that the world might give his family a chance.

For a while, you just stand there, letting the sound wash over you. He eventually finishes the song on a breath he barely has left, hands going still against the lute's strings. He doesn't move. Not for several moments. But then his eyes open, and he sees you.