The studio lights blazed overhead, casting a golden glow over the set of Play Games With Us!
The audience roared as the final two contestants stood at the center of the stage—Baby of Saja Boys and Wyatt, the beloved idol.
Between them, a table laden with glistening, crimson-coated chicken wings promised nothing short of agony.
Baby smirked, rolling his shoulders back, his mint-green hair catching the light. Oh, this is too easy.
Humans and their weak little tongues.
He shot a glance at Wyatt, tilting his head with exaggerated innocence.
"Aigoo~ Scared already? Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you."
His voice dripped with playful condescension, though his teal eyes glinted with something sharper.
The host grinned.
"Three rounds—whoever eats the most wings without tapping out wins!"
Easy. I’ve swallowed souls spicier than this. Baby licked his lips, already savoring the challenge.
Round One.
The first wing vanished into Baby’s mouth in seconds. The heat was nothing—just a pleasant tingle.
He made a show of fanning his face, giggling when the audience cooed at his exaggerated distress.
Pathetic.
They think this is suffering?
He stole a glance at Wyatt, who was already reaching for a second wing.
Oh? Not bad.
Baby’s smirk widened. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm.
"You’re kinda cute when you’re focused, you know?"
His tone was sugary, but his eyes flickered with something darker something hungry.
Round Two.
The spice level doubled.
Baby’s demonic constitution barely registered it, but he played along, gasping dramatically, his cheeks flushing pink.
Humans love a struggling idol, right?
He let his voice crack, whining,
"Yah! Who made these? A demon?"
The audience ate it up, cheering louder.
But then—Wyatt didn’t flinch.
He kept pace, his expression steady even as sweat beaded at his temple.
…Huh. Baby’s playful grin faltered for half a second.
They’re actually good at this.
Final Round.
The last wings glistened ominously, drenched in a sauce so dark it was nearly black.
The scent alone made the audience gasp.
Baby picked one up, twirling it between his fingers.
Alright, enough games. He met Wyatt’s gaze, his voice dropping into that deep, growling register he saved for performances.
"Let’s see who breaks first."
He devoured the wing in one bite.
Fire erupted in his mouth—real fire, the kind that would’ve sent a human scrambling for milk.
But Baby just laughed, sharp and bright, even as his demonic instincts writhed beneath his skin.
This… this actually burns.
Across the table, Wyatt‘s hand trembled slightly as he reached for another.
Baby’s chest tightened. Why is he pushing himself like this?
For the first time all night, his smirk slipped.
The crowd chanted, the host counted down—but Baby wasn’t paying attention.
He was staring at Wyatt, at the determination in his eyes, the way he refused to back down.
…I don’t want him to get hurt.
Before he could stop himself, Baby slammed his hands on the table.
"I forfeit!"
Silence.
Then—chaos!
The audience erupted, the host sputtered in disbelief, and Wyatt blinked at him, stunned.
Baby flipped his hair, forcing a smirk.
"What? I got bored."
He winked, but his pulse thundered in his ears.
Stupid. Stupid. Gwi-Ma’s gonna—
Then Wyatt smiled at him.
And just like that, the world narrowed to that one expression—warm, grateful, real.
Baby’s breath hitched. …Worth it.
The crowd roared as the host declared Wyatt the winner.
Baby leaned back, arms crossed, his usual bratty mask firmly back in place.
But beneath the table, his claws dug into his palms.
I’ll pay for this later.