It was just after two in the morning in Seattle. Rain fell in stubborn, silver threads against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kian's penthouse apartment, but he couldn't hear it. The outside world, with all its chaos and humidity, was merely a silent, moving painting. His real world was confined to three things: the glow of the three monitors surrounding him, the rhythmic clack of his mechanical keyboard, and the scent of the bitter black coffee that had gone cold beside him an hour ago.
Everything was in its place. Everything had a purpose. His apartment was a study in sterile minimalism; gray furniture, clean surfaces, and not a single personal item to suggest a human lived here, but rather a machine operating at peak efficiency. This was his comfort zone, his system, a place where no random variable was permitted to intrude.
Kian was in a flow state, that near-meditative trance where hours disappeared and complex lines of code transformed into digital worlds. He was designing the behavior of a new boss in his upcoming game, a digital beast that moved with cold logic and predictable attack patterns… if you were smart enough to read them. Just like Kian himself.
Clink.
The sound of a new email broke through his concentration. He ignored it at first. Nothing important ever arrived at this hour. But the notification remained on his side screen, a small white window screaming for attention in his dark periphery. It was from a law firm.
Kian sighed in annoyance, pulling his fingers away from the keyboard. He moved the mouse slowly toward the notification, his dark eyes narrowing. The sender: "Goodman & Associates." The subject:
"Urgent Correspondence Regarding the Estate of the Late Alistair Mercer."
His grandfather.
Kian rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was more drama from that eccentric old man, even from beyond the grave. He opened the email, expecting some tedious paperwork or perhaps another one of his grandfather's unpaid bills.
But what he read made his fingers freeze over the mouse.
The language was formal and convoluted, but its essence was as clear as a shocking bolt of lightning. His grandfather, Alistair, had left him everything: his fortune, his properties, and most importantly… the independent game studio, "Nexus Forge," that Kian had dreamed of owning for years. The dream was right there, offered up to him in a digital document.
But. There was one "clause."
One small, absurd, impossible condition.
To receive the inheritance, Kian Mercer had to get married.
Not only that. The marriage had to take place within thirty days of reading this email. And it had to last for one full year.
Kian stared at the screen, reading the sentence again. Then a third time. The silence in his apartment was no longer comfortable; it was suddenly suffocating, pressing down on his chest. A single mouse click had just shattered his perfect system.
"Marry?" he whispered into the silent void, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. "That senile old man…"
He shoved his chair away from the desk violently and stood up. He began to pace, his fingers raking through his messy black hair. His analytical mind, which could solve the most complex programming bugs, was completely short-circuiting. This wasn't a bug in the code he could fix; this was a virus in the operating system of his life.
He snatched his phone and stabbed at the lawyer's number without thinking. After four rings, a sleepy, professional voice answered. "Goodman speaking."
"Kian Mercer," Kian said sharply. "I assume you're awake?"
A faint sigh from the other end. "Mr. Mercer. I was expecting your call. Yes, I've read my email."
"Is this a joke? One of my grandfather's sick, posthumous pranks?"
"I'm afraid not," Goodman replied with a weary calm. "The will is legal and ironclad. We tried to persuade Mr. Alistair to reconsider this particular clause, but he was insistent. He said… and I quote… 'The boy needs someone to pull him away from his damn screens and teach him how to live'."
Kian felt the blood rush to his face. Even in death, his grandfather was meddling. "I can't get married. That's ridiculous."
"Then, according to the will, the studio and the remainder of the estate will go to a charitable foundation for the protection of sea urchins in southern Tasmania."
Kian was silent. Sea urchins. Of course. That sounded exactly like something his grandfather would do.
"What are my options?" Kian asked, his voice laced with a desperation he had never felt before.
"You get married, Mr. Mercer. The will didn't specify the type of marriage or the identity of the partner. It mentioned no love or affection. It only mentioned a 'legal marriage contract'."
Kian ended the call without a goodbye. He threw his phone onto the couch and sat down, his head in his hands. The dream was right there, shimmering in front of him, but it was chained to a condition he had no idea how to meet.
Miles away, in a completely different ecosystem of life, Leo Vance was sitting on the floor of his small, cluttered bedroom. His mess wasn't one of neglect, but of creation. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls, pens and brushes were scattered about, and a soft purple light emanated from an LED strip coiled around his bedframe. The room smelled of turpentine, chalk dust, and the chicken-flavored ramen he had just finished from a plastic cup.
Leo was scrolling through his phone, his long blond hair falling into his face as he concentrated. The constant ping of notifications wasn't from fans on his channel, but from his banking app.
Alert: Low Balance.
Notice: Rent is now overdue.
Text from Landlord: Leo, can we talk?
He sighed and threw his head back against his mattress. He was beautiful, he knew that. He was talented, he believed that. But beautiful and talented didn't pay the bills. His art scholarship covered a fraction of his costs, and his streaming income was volatile. He had been living on the financial edge for months.
He opened a student job app, scrolling through the usual depressing list: barista, library assistant, food delivery… nothing that paid enough to cover his late rent.
Just as he was about to give up and surrender to sleep, a strange ad in the "Gigs & Specialized Work" section caught his eye. The title was both simple and suspicious.
"Wanted: Partner for Contractual Marriage."
Leo raised his eyebrows. It had to be a joke. Or an elaborate scam. He clicked on it out of morbid curiosity.
The details were sparse and frighteningly direct:
"Seeking an individual to enter into a marriage contract for a term of one (1) year. No romantic or physical involvement is required. Private housing and all living expenses will be provided. A significant compensation package will be paid upon successful completion of the contract. Utmost discretion is essential. Serious inquiries only."
There was no name, just an encrypted email address belonging to a law firm.
Leo laughed out loud. "Oh my God, who falls for this?" he said to himself. It sounded like the beginning of a horror movie. He closed the ad, but the words lingered in his mind.
…all living expenses will be provided.
…a significant compensation package.
He looked around his room, at the debt reminders on his phone, at the empty ramen cup. His life wasn't a horror movie, but it was certainly a stressful drama. What was worse? Risking a reply to a crazy ad, or getting evicted and becoming homeless?
He bit his bottom lip, weighing the options. Desperation was a powerful motivator. Maybe… maybe it was worth just sending an email. Just an inquiry. What was the worst that could happen?
With slightly trembling fingers, he reopened the ad. He took a deep breath and began to type a short message, wondering if he was signing up for a job… or selling his soul.
"To whom it may concern, regarding the marriage contract advertisement, I would like to inquire about further details…"
He hit "Send" before he could change his mind. The phone fell from his hand onto the soft rug, his heart hammering against his ribs.
In two different parts of the same city, two desperate young men had just thrown a stone into the placid waters of their lives. They had no idea how massive the ripples would be.