The name landed like a stone dropped into still water—silent, but the ripples spread through the café's warm, buzzing air, unsettling everything.
"Hey Smithen… you still haven't forgotten him?"
The voice came casually, almost teasing, slicing through the low murmur of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine. Smithen's fingers, which had been lazily tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass, stilled. He didn't look up. Not yet. Instead, he watched the ice cubes clink and swirl in his drink, catching the golden overhead light, fracturing it. His own reflection wobbled on the liquid's surface—a distorted ghost of himself, breaking apart and pulling together with every tiny movement. It felt fitting, somehow. A face that was never quite solid.
"…Forgotten who?" he asked, the words drawn out, deliberate, though a knot had already tightened in his chest. He knew. Of course he knew. There was only one name that ever made his friends lean in with that particular smirk, that mixture of amusement and exasperation.
His friend leaned forward, elbows on the sticky wooden table, grin widening. "That celebrity you're obsessed with. The one known for his brutal behaviour." The word brutal hung in the air, tantalizing and dangerous, like the scent of smoke before a fire is seen.
Without missing a beat, another friend chimed in, voice dripping with theatrical awe. "The great, work-obsessed mafia king… Viran."
There it was. The name settled over their table, heavy as a velvet curtain dropping on a final act. Unavoidable. Smithen's fingers pressed against the cold glass, a faint tremor running through them. A smile ghosted across his lips—soft, distant, so intensely private it was as if he'd momentarily forgotten they were there. No one noticed the way his grip tightened, knuckles paling almost imperceptibly. The glass was a lifeline, and it was all he could do not to shatter it.
"Smithen…" His friend sighed, the sound full of affectionate exhaustion, slumping back in his chair until it creaked. "Why don't you try liking someone else? Someone normal?" He waved a hand vaguely, as if trying to swat away the sheer absurdity of the situation. "You haven't even seen him in real life. You just follow his news, his photos, his appearances… like some kind of silent stalker."
Laughter erupted around the table, light and sharp, but it washed over Smithen like a wave over a stone. He didn't react. His eyes, a shade of brown that could look remarkably cold when he wanted them to, remained fixed on the melting ice.
"He's not just anyone," another friend added, leaning in with the conspiratorial air of someone sharing state secrets. "He's Viran. That man practically runs things behind the scenes. Some people say even the governor listens to him." The café's ambient noise seemed to dip, the weight of the statement pulling a brief silence.
"And have you noticed?" someone else interjected, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "No scandals. Not even a whisper." A shiver ran down the spine of the group. In a world where every celebrity's misstep was fodder, Viran was a ghost.
"That's what's suspicious," another scoffed, popping a fry into his mouth. "Either he's impossibly clean… or he's so powerful nothing leaks."
"Or," a smirk twisted a face across the table, "his playboy life is just hidden really well."
The air shifted. It was a physical thing. Smithen's head snapped up, and the gaze that cut through the speaker wasn't just sharp—it was glacial, a sudden winter in the warm café. "He is not a playboy." His voice was quiet, so quiet, yet it landed with the finality of a door slamming shut. Unshakable. For a stretched, brittle moment, no one spoke. The clatter of a cup behind the counter sounded like an explosion.
Then—"Smitheeeen…" one of them groaned dramatically, hands thrown up in theatrical surrender, shattering the tension. "What are we supposed to do with you?"
"He's out of your league—no, forget league, he's from another world. People like us don't even get to see someone like him up close." The words were meant to be a gentle reality check, but they landed like tiny barbs.
Another, more blunt, drove the point home. "Do you even know if he likes men or women?" A pause. "Do you think those top actresses and billionaire heiresses lining up for him would just step aside for you?" The question wasn't cruel, but it was unflinching. "Or do you think… he would even notice you?"
That time… Smithen didn't respond immediately. The noise around him faded, the café dissolving into a blur of muted colors and distant shapes. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the careless words—all of it became a distant hum, like a radio tuned to a dead channel. He lowered his gaze, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. "…Yeah," he said softly, the word barely a breath. "I don't think I have a chance." For a second, his voice almost sounded normal. Almost. The defeat was a thin veil, and behind it something else, something unnameable, flickered.
Then he smiled. Not embarrassed. Not joking. But utterly, terrifyingly certain. "But you know… there's something called destiny." His friends exchanged looks that were a perfect cocktail of concern and disbelief. "If something connects us from before… from another life…" he continued quietly, as if sharing a secret the universe had whispered only to him, "then maybe we'll meet again." He looked up, and this time, there was no hesitation in his eyes. They burned with a quiet, steady flame that was far more unnerving than any outburst. "I've never seen him in real life," he said. "But I love him."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Then, as if a spell had broken, "He's completely lost it," one friend whispered loudly to another, eyes wide. "Should we start looking for a mental hospital now or later?" "Imagine if that mafia guy suddenly gets married—this one will go insane." The laughter erupted again, a nervous, bubbling release of tension. Smithen didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. He simply picked up his glass, the ice clinking a soft, lonely melody, and took a slow sip. As if their words were nothing more than the buzzing of flies. As if… he already knew something they didn't.
The evening bled into the usual rhythm—casual conversations about lectures, mock arguments over due assignments, the comfortable predictability of their lives. They left the café one by one, stepping out into the cool night air, their existences simple and untouched by the gravity that seemed to pull at Smithen's world. But his wasn't simple. It never had been.
By the time he reached home, the night had deepened into a velvet black, pricked by cold stars. The house stood quiet, a sprawling structure of clean lines and elegant restraint, but to him, it always felt hollow. It never truly felt like home. His father had died when he was four—a stroke, sudden and merciless, during a family trip. There was no memory of a face, only the shape of an absence that had molded the family into something strong but lopsided. His elder brother, Arin, ten years his senior, had filled that void. Strict, dependable, more guardian than sibling, with a presence that was both comforting and commanding. And his mother… a world-renowned astrologer whose words could sway the destinies of businessmen and politicians, yet seemed eternally out of reach for her own son. Always busy, always distant, even now, as the world shifted online, she was more occupied than ever, her voice a constant murmur from her study, weaving predictions for powerful people. Smithen had never even asked how vast her influence was. Honesty, he had never cared enough.
"Smithen." Arin's voice cut through the stillness, steady and expectant.
He turned lazily, exhaustion starting to weigh on his limbs. "I'm home, Arin," he preempted, the words a tired script. "And yes—I'll change, put my clothes for washing, and take a bath before dinner."
Arin raised an eyebrow, then a low chuckle broke the stoic facade. "You've memorized it now, haven't you?"
Smithen groaned dramatically, the sound echoing slightly in the pristine hallway. "We have so many helpers. Why do I have to do all this myself?"
"Discipline," Arin said simply, the word a familiar, unshakeable wall.
Smithen rolled his eyes and walked away, the quiet of the house swallowing him whole. Hours slid by, the digital clock on his nightstand marking the slow crawl into the next day. 12:15 AM. Smithen was already deep in sleep, his body a still form under the rumpled covers. And like every night, the dream came. Darkness. Not the comfortable dark of a bedroom, but a vast, ancient hall, cold and empty, the air thick with the scent of old stone and something faintly metallic. Then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Approaching—
BANG. The door burst open with a force that slammed against the wall.
"Smithen!"
"Smithen!"
His name was a battering ram against the fog of sleep. He jolted upright, heart hammering, a groan tearing from his throat. "What is it…?" he muttered, voice thick and uncooperative. "Why are you here at this time?" He rubbed his eyes aggressively, and his already chaotic bedhead exploded into a bird's nest of dark strands. "I have a seminar in two days… I need sleep. Don't start anything now…"
Arin and his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway, the harsh hall light cutting sharp angles around them. For once—they looked serious. Unusually, unnervingly serious. And when they spoke together, it was clear, sharp, unavoidable. A singular arrow of sound.
"You're getting married tomorrow."
Smithen blinked, the words completely failing to compute. "…What?" His brain was still swimming through the dark waters of the dream, grasping for reality.
"At 10 AM," Arin continued, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Mabthi Auditorium. Both families will be present."
A deep frown carved lines into Smithen's sleep-soft face. "To who…?" The question was a fragile, bewildered thing.
There was a pause. A very small one. But it was a pause heavy enough to change the entire axis of a world. "…Viran."
Silence. It roared in Smithen's ears.
"What… did you say?" His voice was a whisper, raw and uncomprehending.
This time, they said it together. Slowly. Clearly. As if pronouncing a sentence that would seal his fate forever. "You are getting married… to Viran."
Something snapped. It wasn't a sound, but a seismic shift inside him. Sleep vanished, burned away in an instant. Confusion shattered into a million glittering shards. And reality—the careful, lonely reality he had built and endured—collapsed. Smithen sat up straight, his wide eyes suddenly clear, suddenly electric with a wild, impossible energy. "Is this… a joke?" His voice trembled, teetering on the edge of something shattering.
No one laughed. Their faces were unreadable parchment. "No," his mother answered, the word a simple, world-ending truth.
For a moment, he just stared at them, his breath caught in his throat. And then—he laughed. It wasn't a laugh of disbelief or fear, but something far more potent, something that welled up from a place so deep it was practically sacred. Overwhelming joy. "You're not lying, right?" he asked, almost breathless, his eyes searching theirs desperately.
"We never joke about your life," his mother replied, her calm a stark contrast to the storm breaking inside him.
And that was enough. He threw off the covers and jumped off the bed. Literally. His bare feet slapped the floor as he rushed forward, wrapping his arms around them both in a hug so tight, so full of a lifetime of quiet longing, that it nearly stole his breath. "This is real…?" he whispered into the space between them.
Neither answered. But they didn't deny it either. Their arms, after a moment, came up to encircle him, a silent affirmation.
That night, Smithen didn't sleep. Not even for a second. He stood in front of the mirror, a nocturnal vigil of vanity and desperate hope. Again and again, he studied his reflection, tilting his head, ruffling his hair, smoothing it down, trying on expressions like a man trying to find the right mask for the most important meeting of his existence. "Is this okay…? Should I change my hairstyle? Should I dye my hair? Will he like this?" The questions spun through his mind, a frantic, joyful carousel. Not once—not even a single time—did he stop to ask: Why him? Why would someone like Viran, a man of shadow and power, choose a student whose life was so small? The question never formed. It was drowned out by the blinding, all-consuming light of a dream about to become flesh.
Outside, the night deepened, the moon a silent witness to the silent, hopeful chaos unfolding in an elegant house. Unseen. Unnoticed. 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, the city lights a river of fire below him. He was stillness incarnate, a statue carved from shadow and ice. His eyes—dark, ancient, and so terribly starved—closed slowly. He seemed to be listening to something only he could hear, a frequency that hummed with an approaching inevitability. A faint whisper escaped his lips, a breath that fogged the cold glass. "…Tomorrow."
Something inside him stirred. It wasn't emotion, not the soft, messy thing humans called love or hope. It was sharper, deeper, far more dangerous. The silence in the room pressed in, heavy with anticipation, thick with a hunger that had been centuries in the making.