Rudra's jaw set hard as his breath clouded the glass in front of him. The scarlet light in his eyes narrowed, intent not on the rainbow glimmer of the dragon's scales but on the dark, primeval depth of its eyes.

Each of its scales along its length quivered with unnatural loveliness—broad bands of turquoise, gold, violet, and silver that seemed to move of their own will as if each one held a piece of sky captured in stone. To anyone else, it was unresistable, hypnotic, a living weave consumed by thought. But Rudra braced himself against it, focusing instead on those huge black eyes outlined with molten amber.

The bus lurched brutally as the creature's gigantic form scraped the bridge. Glass shattered in fine spiderwebs across the windows, passengers screaming. A man clawed at the emergency door; another covered his child's eyes. The trance-like pulse within the scales pulled at their brains—some of the passengers were already swaying, speaking half-conceived prayers, under its influence.

"You Noticed something" Rudra said to Bhairava "The eyes aren't the problem; the scales of that thing is doing the hypnotism."

Rudra's jaw clamped hard, breath hissing between his teeth. He leaned back on one shoulder, his eyes fixed on the serpent's huge golden eyes, vertical pupils, molten as smelted ore. His gut revolted at the enormity of them, but he struggled to stare beyond the glinting scales.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Bhairava. “Gotta stare the bastard in the eyes and not blink at the disco-ball hide. Can’t trust danger sense to bail me out again.”

The bus creaked under the dragon's weight as a section of its long body rubbed against the guardrails. The bridge rocked. One of the children whimpered. Rudra rolled his shoulders back, the scarlet gleam in his irises burning brighter as if the fire within him burned hotter the longer he didn't turn away.

The bus erupted into chaos, passengers screaming, pointing, and ducking, but Rudra didn’t move an inch. He stood rigid, eyes fixed on the serpent-dragon, the crimson fire in his gaze matching the heat of the card’s flames that had summoned this moment.

“YOU ARE A HUNTE—” someone yelled, but Rudra cut them off sharply.

“Shut up and look at his eyes,” he said, voice low and commanding, almost carrying over the cacophony of panic.

The bus shook as the dragon’s massive head pressed closer to the windshield, nostrils flaring, scales glittering like molten metal. People panicked, waving their hands, yelling for him to move, to do something. But Rudra remained still, almost statuesque, his body taut, radiating an almost unbearable intensity.

The kid who had called him Brown Power Ranger felt a chill run down his spine, staring at the boy whose calm defiance seemed to warp the air around him. Something clicked in his mind, an understanding he couldn’t yet voice.

Then, with a sharp zip, Rudra vanished. Glass exploded outward as he lunged through the windshield, shards flying in every direction. He landed with precision, stepping on the jagged glass of his own lounge while on air without hesitation, each movement fluid, predatory.

In a single movement, he dove into the dragon's open jaws, engulfed by the blackness in its cavernous teeth. Within, flame and scale rubbed against him like a living furnace. Rudra moved with intent, arms reaching out, legs driving in, and then—he emerged through the beast's back in a crimson flash, scales shattering around him.

Carried in the palm of his hand as he touched down on the dragon's back was a black revolver, inscribed with runes and imbued with a soft crimson aura that harmonized with his own eyes. The beast hissed, writhing in mid-air, but Rudra didn't bat an eyelid. He brought the gun up, crimson flames dancing at its sides, and for the first time ever, the passengers understood—they were seeing a predator hunt a predator, a monster among monsters.

The bus jolted abruptly as the driver's faculties snapped back, eyes staring in pure panic at the bedlam outside. The road disappeared beneath the sheer weight of the dragon's crashed body, and with a shrieking crunch of tires, he stamped the brakes in terror. The bus fishtailed, skidding wildly, and in a ghastly moment, it shot into the air.

Rudra's scarlet eyes followed each minute detail, seconds slowing into an eon as the bus whizzed past his head. Time warped at his command. He probed his awareness in a ten-meter circle, slowing the world, stretching the plummet into forever. Passengers and bits of glass suspended mid-air, screams distorted into a wailing whine of fear.

His instincts were screaming—someone was approaching.

"Jalhaess-eo… kkomaya," he whispered to himself, voice rough, eyes squinting.

("Good job…Kid.")

Within the bus, gliding in impossible slow motion, the child's wide eyes locked with Rudra's as he saw a figure move towards him—a presence intentional, unflappable, impossibly precise. Rudra's head canted slightly, tracking the figure's course even as the bus was suspended in chaos.

"Kim Han Jhoonghyuk," he muttered to himself, recognition threading into the tightness, the name a warning of coming confrontation. The world around them continued to be taut, each heartbeat resonating as a drum, every plummeting shard suspended, waiting for the inevitable collision.

“Jalhaess-eo… kkomaya,” a voice whispered, filtered through the warped seconds.

("Good job… Kid.")

The boy inside the bus caught a glimpse of him, wide-eyed and stunned, as the name cut through the slowed chaos:

“Kim Han Jhoonghyuk.”

Rudra’s focus snapped tight, muscles coiling like springs ready to unleash. Time was his weapon, but this new arrival carried a weight of his own—a presence he had been waiting for.

“Modu beoseuleul jab-ajuseyo.”
(Everyone hold onto the bus.)

Han Jhoonghyuk’s voice was calm but carried authority, eyes locking with Rudra’s. The nod he gave was subtle but firm, signaling Rudra to react. With a deep inhale, Rudra reactivated his temporal control, slowing the world once more.

In that frozen stretch of seconds, Han Jhoonghyuk moved with fluid precision. The bus, immense and heavy, hurtled through the air—yet he caught it, his hands wrapping around its frame with impossible strength. Instead of remaining stationary, he leapt backward, carrying the bus in his hands, moving to manage its deadly momentum.

“He is doing that to deal with the momentum,” Rudra noted aloud, nodding in understanding. He had faced similar physics when his own time powers stretched reality to save lives.

{"Such a sudden stop would have hurt them, considering the bus is tons heavy and moving at such speed."} Bhairava’s voice murmured in his head.

Step by step, Han Jhoonghyuk allowed the momentum to bleed away. The bus’s motion slowed, dragging seconds into eternity, until finally he placed it gently on the ground. Every passenger was alive, shaken, but intact. He let go, standing tall beside the grounded vehicle, aura calm but commanding, like someone who could bend the world without breaking a sweat.

Rudra’s gaze lingered on Han Jhoonghyuk as the tension of the street hung around them. The man didn’t move like someone trying to impress—every motion was deliberate, measured, almost surgical. His dark hair fell in subtle, precise disarray, catching the neon reflections like strands of shadow, and his lean frame carried a quiet readiness, the kind of body that could spring into action without a hint of wasted effort.

The black jacket hugged his torso perfectly, not tight, not loose, as if custom-made for every shift of muscle beneath. The charcoal shirt underneath followed the same principle—functional, minimal, stripped of anything decorative, while the dark trousers ended in polished boots marked by small, earned scuffs. Nothing about him screamed style; everything about him whispered discipline. Even the hands that had just cradled a moving bus seemed natural, controlled, impossibly calm.

Rudra noted these things without thinking, almost instinctively, as if cataloging a tool he might need one day. There was an aura around Han Jhoonghyuk—calm, precise, and unshakable, like the eye of a storm. When their gazes met, there was no arrogance, only quiet authority that didn’t demand recognition but commanded it nonetheless.

“I have gotten your file,” Han Jhoonghyuk said, voice even. “Impressive. But considering you are more a returner than a newbie hunter…”

“Tch,” Rudra winced, a small smirk hiding the tension. “Did Captain Pluto tell you that too?”

“Everyone in Handpump knew a bit about you,” Han replied. “Considering who your master really is… tell me, has your flower inherited their will yet?”

Rudra’s eyes flicked downward. “No, I guess. Couldn’t bring myself… anyways,” he said, stepping closer. “My name’s Rudra. Just Rudra. For the next three months, I’ll be in your care. English isn’t my first language, but the only Korean word I know is probably… kimchi, so I prefer we talk in—wait, I think I know konnicha too.”

“That’s not a Korean word,” Han said, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Who cares? Y’all look the same,” Rudra replied casually, unaware of the vein popping in Han’s temple.

“Leudura,” Han attempted, accent clear in the mispronunciation.

“It’s Rudra… try it—Ruuuudddraaa,” Rudra corrected.

“Reuduuurraaa,” Han tried again.

“Damnit… just call me Red. That’s my nickname,” Rudra muttered, waving it off like the conversation itself was barely worth the effort.

“Why are you called Red, anyway?” Han asked, voice flat, unimpressed.

Tch, Rudra clicked his tongue, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"You are not telling him the truth, are ya?" Bhairava whispered, dryly. "Make an excuse."

“Red’s… uh… Red’s my favorite Pokémon game, yes, so I named myself Red,” Rudra said, shrugging casually as if the explanation required no further scrutiny.

Han raised an unimpressed brow, but didn’t push further. Rudra’s lie was simple, convenient, and harmless enough—he didn’t need to reveal that his real favorites were Platinum and Emerald. He let the quiet tension hang between them, watching Han’s measured gaze, knowing he’d successfully sidestepped the truth without missing a beat.

"Smooth," Bhairava muttered in Rudra’s head, a hint of begrudging approval threading through his voice.

Kim looked at him. “I need to ask you something.”

“No, I don’t believe in caste system,” Rudra cut in immediately, lifting his hands as if he’d been through this script too many times. “Geez, like four people already asked me what my caste is back on the flight..” He shook his head with a sigh. “And I know you’re wondering why my accent doesn’t sound like the typical South Asian accent. Truth is—not everyone back home sounds like that. Plus…” he tapped his throat, “…I kinda cheated. I’ve got full control over my tongue and voice box because of the petal ‘larping’ in my flower.”

Kim froze mid-step. “…I was asking if you met the princi—wait. You can mimic any accent?”

Rudra’s mouth curled into a lopsided grin, his crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that usually spelled trouble. “Any.”

Kim’s lips parted. “Damn. You must come in handy…” He paused, then raised a brow. “do an English accent.”

Rudra didn’t miss a beat. He straightened, pressed his hands together solemnly, and intoned: “Assalamu alaikum, ismee Rudra. Alhamdulillah.”

Kim froze. “…What?”

Rudra winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. The syllabus kinda updated on that island.”

"If your save Europe 4chan thread is over," a voice came — feminine, drifting through the skyline. Rudra looked up at the rising sun that suddenly seemed to hesitate on the horizon.

A figure stood there. Feminine. Too still. Too silent.

"I was wondering why the sun suddenly slowed down," Kim muttered, wasting no time as he lunged, rapier forming in his hand. But before he reached her—something dragged him down. He looked—flesh. A slab of lizard meat clinging to his legs.

The dragon corpse. Splitting apart. Clinging to Han. Wrapping him whole. Until Han vanished, buried alive inside a swelling, suffocating mass of meat.

"The passengers!" Bhairava’s voice thundered inside Rudra’s skull. He spun back toward the bus—but his vision blurred. A sting. Something sliding through his head.

Then he saw it—his own eyeball. On the ground. Staring upward.

Through that fallen eye, he caught a glimpse of a shadow above him. Unclear. Human? Monster?

"What?" the figure said, crushing his tongue beneath her heel. "A cat got your tongue?"

Rudra’s vision convulsed. Everything above his nose imploded. Bone and blood burst. His last sight—the child, framed through his severed eye—fading into black.

[BAD ENDING]