Love is just an illusion.

There’s no perfect soul to find in this world. Everyone is lacking in some way. Even the person you love will have something you hate—but the real question is: how do you live with that?

“Cupid Corp?” Nasir muttered, already bored out of his mind. He heard that commercial since arriving there!

So, Brighton reciting the ad wasn’t making any sense. How had he messed up the mission? What did he do to deserve all this?

Being dragged back to headquarters—by force, no less—in the middle of an assignment he was supposed to lead, Nasir slumped into his chair, sulking.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Brighton fumed, pacing across the room. His glare could’ve set paperwork on fire. He could already imagine the mountain of forms waiting to bury him.

“Then make me understand!” Nasir snapped, throwing up his hands helplessly.

This is why old men retire.

“I second that, Nasir,” the director finally chimed in, her voice calm but sharp. “Brighton, why exactly do you want him benched after his very first field mission?”

“And why was I there to begin with?” Nasir shot back. “You’re the one who told me to oversee it!”

“I can’t work with someone who thinks protocol is everything!” Brighton barked, his frustration spilling into every word.

“Careful what you say to a director,” she warned, before turning her gaze to Nasir. “Case code?”

“017538-FA,” Nasir said, guilt rising in his throat. He had managed to anger the most composed agent in Cupid Corp history—after just one mission. How? Beats him.

The director skimmed through the file, scrolling across a screen cluttered with blinking heart icons and unread requests. “I don’t see the issue here, Brighton. It looks straightforward. Go out, mingle, identify the targets, shoot the arrows. Classic matchmaking. Easy.”

“Director,” Brighton said through clenched teeth, hands on his hips, “please read the target profiles first.”

She muttered under her breath as she clicked. “Target one: a serial killer, currently on death row. Target two…” Her eyes froze. “…a nun.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Everyone had different paths after that chance encounter.

It wasn’t meant to last.

“Oh God,” the director whispered, her face ashen, heart racing. What had they done? The future suddenly felt fragile.

“You see how bad that is?” Brighton shouted, gesturing wildly.

The director slowly turned to Nasir. “Did you read these profiles before the mission?”

“I did, ma’am,” he admitted, dread coiling in his stomach. He still didn’t see how this was his fault.

“And you still fired?” Her voice was incredulous. “Who was first?”

“…The nun.”

“Oh my God.” The director buried her face in her hands. Retirement never sounded sweeter.

“Have you spoken to Fate Department about this?” she asked at last, scraping up what little strength she had left.

“Of course not!” Brighton yelped, his anger faltering into fear. “Not after the incest incident last time! They hate me over there.”

“We’re doomed,” the director groaned.

“What’s going on?” Nasir asked, still not reading the room.

“You, my friend, just changed history,” the director explained, showing the live mission status: both targets were already pining for each other.

“That man was supposed to die yearning for love, not actually find it,” she sighed.

“But I didn’t shoot the guy,” Nasir protested. It was the truth, but pointless now—the nun was already corrupted.

“You didn’t have to,” the director said flatly. She shuffled over to the corner and dragged out the dusty fax machine no one had touched since the 90s. “The man was desperate enough to love air if it kissed his skin.”

“Then why was the case even on my desk?” Nasir demanded.

“Because every love prayer comes to us!” Brighton snapped.

“But we don’t change fates!”

“I thought our job was not to judge God, but to follow orders,” Nasir said stubbornly, jaw tightening.

Brighton stared at him, dumbfounded. “How did you even become an agent?”

“I didn’t. I just woke up on my desk—and you’re my supervisor!” Nasir shot back.

Brighton looked like he might explode. The director, pale as death, sent the file to Fate Department with a snap, forcing the room back into silence.

“Nasir,” she said tiredly, “you need classes on how we actually do our jobs. And Brighton? You were supposed to mentor him, not torment him.”

Brighton rubbed his temples. “…So what now? Do we set him free… or let the nun become a killer?”

The director didn’t know how to answer. But she knew someone who could.

She pressed her lips before mumbling, 

“Let’s ask him, then.”

It only took one day with a newbie for Cupid Corp to collapse into chaos.

Phones rang off the hook, footsteps thundered in the halls, agents rushing about, all drenched in sweat, panting like overworked dogs. It was pure mayhem in the agency.

“What’s happening?” Nasir asked, stumbling into Brighton’s office. His senior agent was buried under a mountain of paperwork, with loose files scattered like fallen leaves across the floor.

“Fate Department is happening,” Brighton groaned without looking up. “This is why we don’t mess with those people.”

Nasir crouched and picked up one of the stray documents. He froze.

This wasn’t their job.

“Why are you writing destinies?” he asked. “Isn’t that what Fate is supposed to handle?”

Brighton slammed his pen down. “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid.” He went back to crunching numbers—ages, death dates, possibilities.

“Or maybe you guys just forgot your jobs along the way,” Nasir shot back.

Brighton finally looked at him. Nasir was sharp, no doubt—intelligent, stubborn, with a strong sense of justice. The kind of kid who wanted to fix everything. Which, of course, meant he wasn’t going to last long here.

“Do you remember your past life?” Brighton asked suddenly, rubbing his temple.

“No,” Nasir admitted. “But I read the guidelines on my desk.”

“Well, welcome to the club!” Brighton said with mock cheer. “Nobody here remembers who they were or why they’re here.”

Nasir frowned. “So?”

“We don’t make the rules. And apparently one of those rules is fixing destinies we deliberately wreck.” Brighton leaned back with a weary sigh.

Nasir felt bile rising in his throat. “So what? We ignore millions of hearts waiting for us just so we can babysit one mission?”

“They’ve got rules. We’ve got guidelines,” Brighton muttered, his patience thinning.

“And in our guidelines, there’s no mention of fate or destiny!” Nasir snapped. He was right, but Brighton had no answer for him—no one ever did.

“I don’t know, kid. Just let me finish before we clock out,” Brighton said finally, forcing a tired smile.

Nasir sat down across from him, deflated but still burning inside. “So what’s the verdict? Is the killer getting out?”

Brighton actually smiled for the first time that day. “No. He’s going to die with the nun in the end. But not painfully—not alone. Neither of them will.”

Relief washed over Nasir. “Good. I’m glad. Guess I didn’t mess everything up.” He hesitated. “Can I help?”

Brighton’s instincts flared. “No!”

Nasir’s face fell. “Am I ever going to lead a mission again?”

“Maybe in the next century,” Brighton said with a shrug, already buzzing the intercom.

“I’m done on my end,” he told the voice on the other side. “Faxing the documents now.”

“Thank you, Brighton,” replied the director. “Any suggestions for the dinner party?”

Brighton’s eyes flicked to Nasir, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Let me ask the man of the hour. Craving anything?”

Caught off guard, Nasir stammered, “Uh… barbecue?” His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“You heard him,” Brighton said with his usual swagger. “Downstairs in an hour?”

“You bet,” the director replied, closing the line.

Nasir leaned back, dazed by the whole exchange. Maybe—just maybe—he could learn to love it here.

If Nasir thought the party was being thrown for him, he realized his mistake the second alcohol hit the table. The agency just needed an excuse to let their hair down—it was never really about him.

“...So Sheryl was like: ‘Boy, that’s not how you shoot!’” Monica mimicked Brighton’s last partner while pointing at him. Brighton only shook his head, making the others laugh at the memory.

“I wasn’t that bad,” Brighton defended, pouring himself another glass.

He was already tipsy, and the memories they were trying to resurface weren’t sober motivation.

“No, you weren’t,” Mark said thoughtfully. “That’s why it was so pitiful when she left you.”

“She didn’t leave, Mark,” Erick reminded, feeling sad for Brighton. He could see how much Brighton was struggling to brush the topic off. “She just disappeared with no goodbye.”

“Did something happen?” Nasir asked, feeling sorry for the guy.

“Like God needs a reason to do anything to us!” Brighton spat the words as if they were venom.

“People used to call them ‘the dream team,’” Christe said, air-quoting the phrase.

“And they truly were,” Powell added. “I could have sworn that they were dating!”

“Which isn’t the case, since Brighton is still here and his partner’s gone,” Monica said helpfully.

Rubbing imaginary salt to Brighton's open wounds.

“Why are we even talking about me?” Brighton frowned. How had the conversation turned dark so quickly?

“I asked if you’d ever made any mistakes since coming here,” Nasir reminded him—the only sober one in the mix.

“Well, Brighton is good at his job,” the director cut in, her voice warm with pride. Brighton flushed. “But he’s too—”

“Wound up for his own good?” Mika jumped in eagerly. Not every day you got to roast your idol, so she took the chance while she had it.

“Proper?” Powell chimed, only to get smacked on the back of the head by Erick.

“Definitely a goody two-shoes,” Erick added.

“No—careful,” Grace corrected with a nod. “He’s just too careful.”

“Or maybe I’m just good at my job,” Brighton chuckled. “Something you all should try sometime.”

“What an ass,” Christe muttered, rolling her eyes at the director—who was, oddly enough, studying Nasir instead of Brighton.

“You’re not drinking with us?” the director asked suddenly, turning her gaze to Nasir. He stiffened.

“I don’t think I’d like the feeling,” he admitted awkwardly.

“And how would you know that?” she pressed, making everyone glance at the squirming newcomer.

“It’s just… the way I feel?” Nasir replied, uncertain.

“I admire you, Nasir,” the director smiled faintly. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I have a feeling you’ll teach us a lot along the way.” She stood, stretching.

“Good night. And—check your inbox. I sent you the emergency link for your targets,” the director said as she left the scene like the main character she was.

“Our next targets?” Nasir asked, turning to Brighton, who just grinned like a fool in love before shaking his head.

“The killer… and the nun,” Brighton said, wobbling as he stood. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Why?” Nasir blinked, completely lost. He thought the case was closed when they mailed the new destinies to the Fate department.

“Because love is tricky, Nasir,” Mika sighed, helping Brighton back into his seat. “It makes people blind—but not stupid.”

“There’s always backlash to a bad match,” Grace added softly, pitying Nasir. First mission, and it was already a babysitting project. Brutal.

“I’m really gonna throw up,” Brighton announced—then promptly did, killing the party mood for good.

But good for them, Erick knew where Brighton lived, so opening a portal wasn’t hard.

“You’ll be sharing a house with your partner,” Erick muttered to Nasir as he opened a glowing portal, motioning for Nasir and the staggering Brighton to step through.

“Thank you,” mumbled Nasir gratefully as he helped Brighton to the portal—before Erick held him back.

“Take care of him,” Erick said awkwardly. “He’s still grieving.”

And that piqued Nasir’s curiosity.

Why did Sheryl disappear?

And to where?