Ellie
The first wave hit at 10:47 AM on a Tuesday, which is a truly terrible time for a cosmic joke.
I was in the middle of saving a company, you see. My job is to be the calm in the middle of a big, terrifying storm. I was standing in a boardroom that smelled like money and anxiety, pointing a laser pen at a chart full of scary red lines. I was wearing my best "I am a formidable woman" blazer, and my voice was steady as I explained how we were going to win. "Our primary defense," I said, sounding very clever even to myself, "is a strong offense. We control the story before they even think to write it."
Then, he ordered a drink.
And suddenly, my mouth was full of alcohol.
Not real alcohol, of course. It was the ghost of alcohol, the cloying, sugary-sweet taste of a cheap lychee martini from a bar that plays music too loud. This was immediately followed by the auditory equivalent of a headache—a deep, thumping bass that felt like a robot was trying to escape my skull. And layered on top of it all, the main event: I suddenly had a feeling. A shallow, breezy, "oh, she has a nice ass" kind of attraction aimed at a woman who probably thought 'deep conversation' meant discussing the color of her nails.
I gripped the edge of the polished table, my knuckles turning a shade of white that matched my shirt. Mr. Tan, the big boss whose company was on the line, paused his frantic note-taking. "Ms. Vance? Are you quite alright? You look a bit… pale."
I gave him my best smile. The one I have practiced in the mirror for ten years. It was a masterpiece of composure, a perfect blend of "I am in control" and "I am definitely not tasting a stranger's drink in my mouth right now."
"Perfectly fine, Mr. Tan," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "Just had a rather aggressive idea. If you'll turn to slide 27, you'll see our pre-emptive media strategy."
Aggressive was one word for it. Another was 'unwanted.' Another was 'a complete and utter nightmare.' Because while I was dissecting my stockholders' sentiment, my soulmate was dissecting the finer points of a one-night stand. And thanks to a universe with a truly sick sense of humor, I had a front-row seat to his every single, cringeworthy moment.
Let me be clear. I don't see him. I don't know his name, what he looks like, or where he lives. He's just… a radio station I can't turn off. A station that only plays bad decisions and club music. For as long as I can remember, I've been getting these… broadcasts. It's like being a psychic, but only for one person, and only for the most dramatic moments of their life.
My mom calls it Resonance. It's this thing, this gene some people have. When you meet your soulmate, you're supposed to feel a gentle, happy "Hum." Like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day. It's supposed to be nice. It's supposed to be romantic. Like the plot of every other K-drama.
My dad, who does not have the gene, thinks it's all nonsense. A marketing scam to sell overpriced dating apps and "soulmate" jewelry. He'd say what I'm feeling is just indigestion.
I wish it was indigestion. Indigestion I can handle with a tablet and a grumble. This? This is a full-body invasion.
I found out about this… this thing when I was fifteen. It was during a family dinner. My Auntie was telling everyone, for the hundredth time, how she met her husband. "It was the Hum!" she said, her eyes all sparkly. "A warm, happy feeling in my heart. I just knew."
My mom sighed happily. "Me too. Even though your father is a Null."
Ah, the Nulls. This is the important part.
The world is split into two groups. The Resonants and the Nulls.
The Resonant are the lucky ones, about 18% of global population. They have a special gene. When they meet their soulmate, they feel a connection: A "Hum." It's like a soft, warm blanket. They feel happy when their soulmate is happy. They feel a little worried when their soulmate is in trouble. It's all very gentle and romantic.
The Nulls are the rest of the people. The 82%. My dad is a Null. To them, the Hum is just a story. A fairytale. They see the movies, the ads for soulmate dating apps, and they just laugh. They think it's very good marketing. Like selling bubble tea for twice the price because it has magic pearls.
The night of that dinner, eleven years ago, I went to my mom. "Mom," I whispered. "I don't feel a Hum. I feel something entirely more berserk."
I told her everything. The times I'd suddenly feel super happy for no reason. The time I felt so sad I cried during a math test. The time I had a sudden, strange craving for spicy hotpot in the middle of the night. And how I sometimes tasted food I'd never eaten in my life.
My mom tried her best to tell me nothing was wrong. "Oh, Ellie, maybe your connection is just very strong! It happens in teens. It will calm down soon, into a Hum as you grow older."
But it never did. It got louder. And weirder.
My dad, the practical Null, sat me down one day. "Ellie," he said, very seriously. "You are a smart girl. Maybe you are just… very sensitive. Maybe you watch too many dramas. You should try to wake up at 4 am, exercise, and not use your phone so much. It's all because of your lifestyle."
He of course, is still in denial at his daughter being a Resonant.
For a while during my teens, I tried to believe him as well. But then, when I turned 18, the feelings started to have flashes of a main character – a man, around my age, with an emotional life which was a big, big mess.
I never told anyone the complete truth. How could I? The Resonant people already have their club. They have their nice, warm Hum. What did I have? A live broadcast of a stranger's feelings. A 24/7 reality show in my head, but without the good parts. If I told someone that I didn't just feel a Hum, I felt the taste of his alcohol down my throat every time he drank, or his waves of pleasure every time he slept with someone new, I would be the weird one among the weird ones. The girl with the creepy connection.
So I built a wall. A very, very thick wall in my mind. And I became a crisis manager, because I was already managing a crisis inside my head every single day.
And over the years, I got to know him. My soulmate.
I did not like what I saw.
I got the highlights reel from hell. I don't know who he is, but I know he once spent a week on a yacht, and I got a fake sunburn and a three-day emotional hangover from his smugness. I know he went to a film festival in Cannes, and I tasted champagne that costs more than my rent. I know he went backpacking through Thailand, and to this day, I can't eat Pad Thai without feeling a deep sense of regret and a fear of hostels.
He is, to put it mildly, a player. A handsome, charming, walking red flag. And I am stuck with him. He's the other half of my soul, and my soul apparently has terrible taste.
Over the years, I've become an expert at hiding it. I've built walls in my mind so thick they could stop a tank. I am sensible, I am loyal, and I crave a quiet life with a cat and some houseplants that won't die. He is chaos. He is a revolving door of fleeting connections and hollow pleasures. The more I feel of his life, the more I want nothing to do with him.
"Ms. Vance?"
I blinked, pulling myself back to the boardroom. All eyes were on me. The fake alcohol-induced headache was finally receding, replaced by the dull, thumping bass of that terrible club music. He was moving on. To another bar, probably. One with sticky floors and overpriced cocktails.
I straightened my formidable blazer, clicking to the next slide. "My apologies, gentlemen. As I was saying, we make them look weak. We control the story."
As I spoke, a new wave hit me. It wasn't the shallow, "ooh, pretty lady" feeling anymore. It was sharper. More focused. It was intrigue. He'd seen someone. Someone who wasn't the lady from before. This new feeling was… different. It was a spark of genuine curiosity, a flicker of interest that was more than just physical. It was the feeling you get when you see a book with a really interesting cover and you just have to know what's inside.
I faltered for a half-second, a barely perceptible stutter that no one else in the room noticed. But I felt it. This was new. This was not part of the usual pattern. The usual pattern was a whirlwind of lust, followed by awkwardness, followed by a swift and silent exit to some hotel.
This was a hook.
I finished the presentation, fielded their questions with practiced ease, and sealed the deal. As I packed my laptop into my briefcase, Mr. Tan clapped me on the shoulder. "Brilliant, Vance. Absolutely brilliant. You've saved our company again."
I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Just doing my job."
But my mind was miles away, or rather, his mind was. The intrigue was still there, a low-level buzz of fascination that was entirely new. It wasn't a warm, comforting buzz. It was sharp, electric, and deeply unnerving.
Walking out of the skyscraper and into the noisy city bustle, I felt a fake shiver, the cool night air on skin that wasn't mine. He was leaving the club, stepping outside. He was with someone new. The intrigue was growing, blossoming into something more.
I stopped on the sidewalk, the noise of the city fading into a dull roar. For the first time in a decade, the broadcast from my soulmate wasn't just an annoyance. It was a mystery. And I, Elowen Vance, a woman who built her life on solving mysteries, was absolutely terrified.
This feeling he was having… was he falling in love?
He was a beautiful, charismatic disaster, and I wanted nothing to do with him. Which was a problem, because he was, apparently, mine. And for the first time, it felt like he was finally about to become a real, tangible, world-ending problem.
Aiyo. This was going to be a disaster.