The name landed like a stone dropped into still water silent, but the ripples spread through the cafe's warm, buzzing air.
"Hey Smithen... you still haven't forgotten him?"
Smithen's fingers stilled on his glass. He didn't look up. His own reflection wobbled on the liquid's surface—a distorted ghost. A face never quite solid.
"...Forgotten who?" he asked, though a knot had already tightened in his chest.
His friend leaned in, grinning. "That celebrity you're obsessed with. The one known for his brutal behaviour."
Another friend chimed in, voice dripping with theatrical awe. "The great, work-obsessed mafia king... Viran."
The name settled heavy as a velvet curtain. Smithen's fingers pressed against the cold glass. A tremor ran through them. A smile ghosted across his lips—soft, distant, so intensely private he'd forgotten they were there.
"Why don't you try liking someone normal?" his friend sighed. "You haven't even seen him in real life. You just follow his news, his photos... like a silent stalker."
Laughter erupted. Smithen didn't react.
"He's not just anyone," another added. "That man practically runs things behind the scenes. Some say even the governor listens to him."
"And no scandals. Not even a whisper."
"Either he's impossibly clean... or so powerful nothing leaks."
"Or," a smirk twisted a face, "his playboy life is just hidden really well."
Smithen's head snapped up. His gaze turned glacial.
"He is not a playboy."
Quiet. Final. A door slamming shut.
For a brittle moment, no one spoke.
"Smitheeeen..." one groaned. "He's out of your league. People like us don't even get to see him up close."
"Do you even know if he likes men or women? Do you think those top actresses and billionaire heiresses would just step aside for you?"
The question wasn't cruel, but it was unflinching. "Do you think... he would even notice you?"
Smithen lowered his gaze. "...Yeah," he said softly. "I don't think I have a chance."
But then he smiled. Not embarrassed. Not joking. Utterly, terrifyingly certain.
"But you know... there's something called destiny. If something connects us from before... from another life... then maybe we'll meet again."
He looked up. His eyes burned with a quiet, steady flame.
"I've never seen him in real life. But I love him."
Silence. Then laughter again—nervous, releasing tension. Smithen simply picked up his glass and took a slow sip. As if their words were nothing. As if he already knew something they didn't.
By the time he reached home, night had deepened into velvet black. The house stood quiet—clean lines, elegant restraint. Hollow.
His father had died when he was four. His elder brother, Arin, filled that void. Strict, dependable. His mother was a world-renowned astrologer, always distant, always busy.
"Smithen." Arin's voice cut through. "I'm home, Arin—yes, I'll change, put my clothes for washing, and take a bath before dinner."
Arin chuckled. "You've memorized it now."
Smithen groaned. "We have so many helpers. Why do I have to do all this myself?"
"Discipline."
He rolled his eyes and walked away.
Hours slid by. 12:15 AM. Smithen was deep in sleep.
Then—BANG. The door burst open.
"Smithen!"
He jolted upright, heart hammering. "What is it...?"
Arin and his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. Unusually, unnervingly serious.
"You're getting married tomorrow," they said together. "At 10 AM. Mabthi Auditorium."
Smithen blinked. "...What?"
A deep frown carved into his face. "To who...?"
A pause. Heavy enough to change the axis of a world.
"...Viran."
Silence roared in his ears.
"You are getting married... to Viran."
Sleep vanished. Confusion shattered. Reality collapsed. Smithen sat up straight, eyes suddenly electric.
"Is this... a joke?"
No one laughed.
"No," his mother answered.
And then—he laughed. Not disbelief. Not fear. Overwhelming joy.
"You're not lying, right?"
"We never joke about your life."
He threw off the covers, jumped off the bed, bare feet slapping the floor. He wrapped his arms around them both in a hug so tight it nearly stole his breath.
"This is real...?"
Neither answered. But their arms came up to encircle him.
That night, Smithen didn't sleep. Not even a second.
He stood before the mirror, tilting his head, ruffling his hair, smoothing it down. "Is this okay? Will he like this?"
Not once—not even a single time—did he stop to ask: Why him?
The question never formed. It was drowned out by a dream about to become flesh.
Far, far away, in a place untouched by ordinary lives, a vast dark room held a single figure.
A man stood before a wall of windows; city lights a river of fire below him. Stillness incarnates. A statue carved from shadow and ice. His eyes—dark, ancient, terribly starved—closed slowly.
A faint whisper escaped his lips.
"...Tomorrow."
Something inside him stirred. Sharper than emotion. Deeper than love. A hunger century in the making.
The curse had started its play.
And Smithen had no idea that the man he loved was never meant to love him back.