Work Text:
Celine had never been good with feelings.
Not her own, not anyone else’s. She came from a house where words stuck to the roof of your mouth and you swallowed them down like medicine because silence was how you survived the day. Then came the Starlight Sisters, older girls with steel in their posture and a fight in their throats. They taught her a creed and set it between her ribs like a spine.
We are Hunters. Our faults and fears must never be seen.
Celine learned to hold a microphone with the same control she used for a blade. Learned to keep her breath even as the crowd’s roar broke like surf. The creed worked. She lived. She won. It left her with very few sentences to offer when a child looked up at her and asked for something with her eyes.
So Celine did what she could do. She cooked.
In the 90s, being a pop star meant your body belonged to the camera.
Managers pinched waistlines between thumb and forefinger and called it concern. Makeup artists whispered puffy like a diagnosis. The internet, still a new and excited thing, always seemed to count your perceived flaws and broadcast them to strangers who insisted they loved you. Trainers recommended “detoxes” that were starvation by another name. Diet pills rattled like maracas in purses. Adderall and ice chips counted as a meal.
Breakfast was coffee. Dinner was a handful of lettuce and a promise to do better tomorrow. Diet culture was law and the Starlight Sisters obeyed. Celine obeyed. Jieun obeyed. Miyeong obeyed—except for one night when she didn’t.
Miyeong was early in her pregnancy then—barely showing, only Celine knew. They were backstage, hair half-pinned, the countdown clock glaring red. Miyeong pulled a bag of turtle chips out of her purse, the kind she used to share with Celine in training days. She’d just torn the bag open when their manager swooped in.
His hand struck fast, snatching the chips away. “You’re bloated enough already,” he hissed. “Drink ice water. Think about the camera, not your cravings.”
Celine stayed frozen in her chair, hair spray prickling at her scalp. This was nothing new—the industry owned their bodies, dictated their appetites, rewarded them for shrinking. But this time felt different. Miyeong’s lips pressed together, her hand falling empty to her lap.
Celine wanted to speak, to throw the bag back into Miyeong’s hands, to snarl at the man that hunger was not a sin. Her jaw ached from holding still. She didn’t move. She obeyed, because that’s what they all did. The red light blinked them onto stage, into smiles and sparkle and perfection.
But as she hit her opening pose, Celine made herself a promise—one she carried like a stone in her pocket from that night on. She would do better. For Miyeong, who still had to dance through the cravings and the morning sickness. For the baby, who would need more than diet pills and juice cleanses to grow. She would make sure they ate.
Rumi came into the world with a demon mark on her shoulder and the Honmoon thrumming in her veins. Celine didn’t know how she would ever explain to this child what that dual heritage meant, didn’t know if she even understood it herself. But that was a concern for another time. Right now they had bigger things to worry about, like finding a formula brand that the newborn would take. So far Celine had tried three, and each one Rumi rejected as soon as she latched on to the bottle.
“Here you go,” Celine murmured, holding up a warm bottle with yet another formula mix. She nudged the rubbery tip against the infant’s rooting mouth. “Drink up.”
When Rumi was old enough to ask about her violet whorl of a birthmark, Celine stumbled through conversations she felt wholly unprepared for. She knew she was rough, knew her answers cut. She didn’t know any other way. But she steamed carrots and fried tofu and sliced fruit. She arranged lunch on Rumi’s plate so that the rice balls made a teddy bear and the apple slices looked like a sailboat.
Rumi grew with a healthy child’s appetite. When the girl reached, Celine slid the bowl closer. When the girl asked, Celine said yes. If the world outside would not have mercy, their home would.
At eleven, Rumi came out of a dance class with a thin, hard mouth and eyes as bright as scraped metal. She kept her voice even. “She told me I have to watch what I eat.”
Celine felt it in her joints, a sensation like cold. She stood in the doorway the next class and folded her arms. When the instructor chirped about needing the right body type for the stage, Celine said, “You’re fired.”
The woman blinked three times, like a doll winding down. “Excuse me?”
“We don’t comment on my girl’s body,” Celine said. Her tone was mild. Her words were not. “We make her strong. You’re done.”
Rumi didn’t say much in the car. She looked out the window, breathing slowly, as if trying not to tilt a glass too full of something she didn’t want to spill. Celine drove to a neighborhood place with menus laminated and worn from use. She ordered too much food, refused to apologize for it, and watched the tight ring around Rumi’s mouth loosen between chopsticks and noodles.
Celine didn’t say I love you. She picked the last dumpling up and put it on Rumi’s plate.
Huntrix began at a kitchen table. It wasn’t planned that way. Rumi had brought two girls home from rehearsal like a pair of stray kittens: one with nervous energy and wide eyes, the other sharp-tongued and observant. Celine liked them both immediately, mostly because of how Rumi loved them.
Mira took the first bite and made a sound that lived somewhere between a hum and a gasp. “Holy—” She stopped and glanced at Rumi.
“It’s okay to swear,” Rumi said, earnest. “That’s allowed, in private and just not at Celine."
“Holy crap,” Mira amended, and then, with reverence: “This is so good.”
Zoey took very small bites at first, and then the small bites turned into bigger ones, and then she scraped her bowl clean and both looked embarrassed about it and then didn’t. Celine didn’t comment, because comments could be cages even when you thought they were praise. She simply placed the extra bowl of egg strips in the center of the table like an invitation.
“You’re a good cook,” Zoey said, as if surprised.
“I know,” Celine said.
Rumi giggled. Mira blinked. “She does,” Rumi told them, gently. “She does know.”
Celine didn’t know how to say I am going to keep you alive. She didn’t know how to say This industry will try to devour you with its teeth and its cameras and its tiny impossible dresses and I will put my hands inside its mouth and hold it open until you walk out. She didn’t know how to say any of that, so she said, “There’s more,” and got up and ladled seconds into their bowls
Years later, as Huntrix prepared to make their debut, and contracts with the record label were being hammered out, a company rep approached them with lacquered politeness. “We do monthly fitness assessments,” he said, casual, tapping the Health & Performance clause. “All standard. Healthy habits. Nothing extreme.”
“Define ‘extreme,’” Celine said.
He laughed. “Nothing like the old days!”
“I was the old days.” She did not smile. “Define it.”
“Just accountability,” he said. “Nutrition counseling, weigh-ins, body composition—”
“No,” Celine said.
He blinked like a lizard in sunlight. “Pardon?”
“No body composition, no weigh-ins.” She slid the clause back without looking at it. “You can monitor heart rates during training to prevent overexertion. You can provide balanced meals and snacks. You cannot weigh my girls or measure their fat or pick a number for them to worship.”
“It’s standard,” he tried, with the brave stupidity of men who think a woman will choose polite over blood.
“So were corsets,” Celine said mildly. “We don’t wear those into battle anymore either.”
He puffed his cheeks. “We just want them to look their best on camera.”
“They will,” Celine said, and then—because she had learned, finally, to puncture the balloon before it floated too high—“You are speaking to the legal guardian of one and the manager of all three. If you weigh them, if you instruct any trainer to shame them, if any camera angle is offered as a punishment for a slice of bread, I will personally destroy your career.
He swallowed. “Noted.”
“Good,” Celine said.
At Huntrix’s first festival, the girls were abuzz with excitement. The prep room whiteboard listed call times. The mirror lights warmed to a buzz. Celine had arranged a spread of japchae gleaming, kimbap lined like beads, fried mandu stacked golden, bowls of rice steaming like punctuation.
Zoey peeked out the door and saw another girl group pause in the hall. “Come carb-load with us?” she called.
The other leader laughed, eyes flicking to her manager. “We, um… usually just have a banana.”
Zoey winced. “Sounds awful.”
Mira, with a mandu on her chopsticks, said softly but firmly, “you could have more.” She put the dumpling in her mouth. The other performers looked at each other, then shook their heads and kept walking.
Huntrix ate. Then they took the stage and ate the stage, too. They reveled in their success, in the legions of voices screaming along to their songs, at the shimmer of the Honmoon spreading as far as they could see. After, sweaty and bright-eyed, they came back and ate again.
Traditions begin as accidents and then harden into ritual. The ramyeon started that way.
They had rehearsal, they had a late call, they were hungry. The kitchen had instant ramyeon, because every kitchen does. Celine boiled water and softened the noodles and cracked eggs in, sliced scallions over the bowls, slid a jar of kimchi onto the counter like an offering.
They slurped and giggled and argued about who was loudest (Zoey) and who had objectively the best bowl (Mira insisted her spice level could power a power plant; Rumi preferred mild kimchi with an egg and silk tofu).
They did it again the next time. And the next. It became pre-show ramyeon, as important as vocal warm-ups. A superstition, if you liked, but also a strategy: sodium and carbs and heat and the sense of being full of your own care.
A brand noticed and offered a sponsorship. The paperwork was a kaleidoscope of clauses, but the part that mattered was this: the company shipped crates of their preferred flavors to every venue on the tour.
Rumi staked her claim on a rich umami variety, savoring the deep broth like it was fuel brewed just for her. Mira went straight for the spiciest option, loading her bowl with fancy toppings—extra chili oil, slices of fish cake, a perfectly soft-boiled egg—crafting each serving like an artist building a masterpiece. Zoey, to everyone’s amusement, fell headfirst into the hamburger-flavored ramyeon, grinning like she’d found her long-lost comfort food in noodle form, steam curling around her face as if she’d come home.
Backstage tables became altars with electric kettles. Photos circulated—not of clavicles and jutting bones, not of salads the color of defeat, but of three bowls, three flavors, three sets of chopsticks poised with intent.
If the world wanted to make hunger a trophy, Huntrix made fullness a standard instead.
The bathhouse conversation started in Celine’s corporate office, late in the afternoon when the girls were slouched in visitor chairs, their post-rehearsal chatter filling the quiet corners between the hum of the vents.
Zoey nudged Rumi with her elbow. “Hey. Mira and I are hitting the bathhouse later—come with us?”
Mira perked up immediately. “Yeah. It’ll feel so good after today. Hot water, steam—everything melts out of your muscles.”
Rumi hesitated. “Maybe.”
Zoey groaned, rolling her eyes. “You always say no, Rumi.”
“You’re so modest,” Mira teased gently. “It’s just the bathhouse.”
Rumi gave them a tight smile. “Maybe some other time. You guys go ahead.”
The disappointment was plain on their faces as they gathered their bags. “Fine,” Zoey said, with forced cheer. Mira gave Rumi a last glance before the two of them left together, their laughter fading as the elevator doors closed.
The office went still. Rumi lingered by the window, arms folded tight. “Maybe they’ll understand. I could tell them. About me. About the patterns.” She touched her shoulder where, beneath her shirt, the violet marks waited like coiled secrets.
Celine’s chest hollowed. “No, Rumi. Nothing can change until your patterns are gone.”
Rumi’s jaw clenched. “I know. I just thought—”
“You know better.” The words dropped heavy as stones. She saw the flicker of hurt across Rumi’s face, quick and raw, before the girl turned away.
“Okay,” Rumi said, flat. She picked up her bag and left without another word.
Celine stood motionless at her desk, fingers pressed to the papers she couldn’t read anymore. She didn’t know how to have these conversations. She hated hurting Rumi, though she knew that hiding the demon patterns was the right choice. The only choice.
Still. The pain in Rumi’s voice made Celine’s chest ache. So she took out her phone and texted the three girls. Dinner. Tonight. My place.
When Mira and Zoey returned from the bathhouse later—hair damp, cheeks glowing—they came straight to Celine’s condo. Rumi was already there, curled on the couch with the TV remote but not watching. The three of them glanced at each other, their silence full of things they weren’t saying.
Celine ushered them to the table, already set with soft tofu stew, steamed fish, a mountain of rice, banchan in neat rows of color. The smell of garlic and chili filled the room.
The girls sat down, waiting for her to join.
“You’re not eating with us?” Zoey asked, puzzled.
Celine shook her head. “I still have work. I’ll be in my office.” She straightened a stack of chopsticks, making sure each was aligned. “I just wanted to cook for you.”
There was a beat of surprise, but no one argued. The three of them began to eat. Slowly at first, then with the easy hunger of girls who had learned the table was theirs. Their laughter came late but it came, soft at first, then louder, Mira leaning into Zoey’s shoulder, Rumi shaking her head with a smile she hadn’t worn earlier in the day.
Celine sat in her office with the door cracked open, the glow of her laptop painting her face, and listened. She didn’t need to be at the table. She just needed to know her girls were okay.
Traditions hardened into law as touring expanded. The pre-show ramyeon—once an improvisation—became written into the rider in a neat clause next to bottled water and hand towels. Sponsorship meant pictures and hashtags and branded sleeves, but the substance was unchanged: three bowls, three flavors, three girls sitting together with heat fogging their cheeks.
Celine didn’t travel with them anymore. That wasn’t her role, not now that the girls had Bobby. Instead she kept a paper calendar pinned to the wall by the landline like it was still 1998. She wrote the city names in small block letters and circled show days with her pen, marked them with a doodle of a tiny noodle bowl and music notes.
The hum of the engines was steady, almost soothing, as the HUNTRIX private jet cut through evening clouds. The girls sprawled in their seats, bags and costumes tucked into overhead compartments, the catering table groaning under the weight of everything Celine had insisted on. They had an hour before landing, an hour before their biggest show yet.
Rumi sat forward, arms flung around her girls' shoulders, eyes bright. “Okay,” she said, determined. “This is our biggest show yet.”
Zoey leaned in, just as serious. “The most songs.”
Mira matched their energy. “The most moves.”
Rumi grinned, teeth flashing. “Which means the most carb loading.”
All three raised their fists and shouted together: “FOR THE FANS!”
The flight attendant stared at them with a stiff smile as she poured coffee into a potted plant. Plates clattered. Bread rolls vanished. Chicken disappeared off bones.
“I need ten thousand calories to get through the choreo,” Rumi declared around a mouthful.
“A thousand percent,” Mira agreed, already reaching for another dumpling. “A gajillion percent.”
Rumi squinted at her. “Mira, that’s not even a real number.”
“It is for our fans,” Mira countered, solemn as scripture.
Rumi picked up a kimbap roll, inhaled dramatically, and nearly swooned. “Ahhhhh!”
Zoey ripped open a bag of chips with a grin sharp as a promise and shoveled the snacks into her mouth.
“Our fans deserve the best.” Rumi stuffed the whole kimbap into her mouth at once. She swallowed, slapped her palms on the table, and announced, “Okay, time for our pre-game ramyeon!”
The three girls lifted their paper cups and clinked them together. “Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” they chorused.