CHAPTER TWO: POINTING FINGERS

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.

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