"Hey Smithen… you still haven't forgotten him?"
The voice came casually, almost teasing, cutting through the noise of the café.
Smithen didn't look up immediately.
He stirred his drink slowly, watching the ice swirl, his reflection breaking and reforming with every movement.
"…Forgotten who?" he asked, though he already knew.
His friend leaned forward with a grin.
"That celebrity you're obsessed with. The one known for his brutal behavior."
Another friend chimed in without hesitation,
"The great, work-obsessed mafia king… Viran."
The name settled in the air.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Smithen's fingers paused against the glass.
A faint smile appeared on his lips—soft, distant… almost private.
No one noticed how his grip tightened slightly.
"Smithen…" his friend sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Why don't you try liking someone else? Someone normal?"
He gestured vaguely.
"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 broke around the table.
But Smithen didn't react.
"He's not just anyone," another friend added. "He's Viran. That man practically runs things behind the scenes. Some people say even the governor listens to him."
"And have you noticed?" someone else leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "No scandals. Not even a whisper."
"That's what's suspicious," another scoffed. "Either he's impossibly clean… or he's so powerful nothing leaks."
"Or," someone smirked, "his playboy life is just hidden really well."
The air shifted.
Smithen's head snapped up.
His gaze—sharp, cold—cut straight through the speaker.
"He is not a playboy."
His voice was quiet.
But firm.
Unshakable.
For a moment, no one spoke.
And then—
"Smitheeeen…" one of them groaned dramatically, breaking 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."
Another added, more bluntly,
"Do you even know if he likes men or women?"
"Do you think those top actresses and billionaire heiresses lining up for him would just step aside for you?"
"Or do you think… he would even notice you?"
That time… Smithen didn't respond immediately.
The noise around him faded.
The laughter.
The clinking glasses.
The careless words.
All of it felt distant.
He lowered his gaze slightly.
"…Yeah," he said softly. "I don't think I have a chance."
For a second, his voice almost sounded normal.
Almost.
Then he smiled.
Not embarrassed.
Not joking.
But certain.
"But you know… there's something called destiny."
His friends exchanged looks.
"If something connects us from before… from another life…" he continued quietly, "then maybe we'll meet again."
He looked up.
And this time, there was no hesitation in his eyes.
"I've never seen him in real life," he said.
"But I love him."
Silence.
Then—
"He's completely lost it," one friend whispered loudly to another.
"Should we start looking for a mental hospital now or later?"
"Imagine if that mafia guy suddenly gets married—this one will go insane."
Laughter erupted again.
Smithen didn't argue.
Didn't defend himself.
He simply picked up his glass and took a slow sip.
As if their words didn't matter.
As if… he already knew something they didn't.
The evening ended like any other.
Casual conversations.
Complaints about lectures.
Mock arguments over assignments.
They left the café one by one, their lives simple, predictable… untouched.
But Smithen's wasn't.
By the time he reached home, the night had deepened.
The house stood quiet, elegant but not overly extravagant.
He stepped inside, slipping off his shoes absentmindedly.
This house…
It never truly felt like home.
His father had died when he was four.
A stroke, sudden and merciless, during a family trip.
He didn't even remember his face.
Only the absence.
His elder brother, Arin, had filled that void.
Ten years older.
Strict, but dependable.
More of a guardian than a sibling.
And his mother…
A world-renowned astrologer.
A woman whose words could influence the fate of businessmen, politicians… powerful people.
But not her own son.
She was always busy.
Always distant.
Even now, after the world had shifted online, she was more occupied than ever—calls, predictions, consultations.
He didn't even know how big her influence truly was.
And honestly…
He had never cared enough to ask.
"Smithen."
A voice called out.
He turned lazily.
"I'm home, Arin," he replied before his brother could speak.
"And yes—I'll change, put my clothes for washing, and take a bath before dinner."
Arin raised an eyebrow.
Then laughed.
"You've memorized it now, haven't you?"
Smithen groaned.
"We have so many helpers. Why do I have to do all this myself?"
"Discipline," Arin said simply.
Smithen rolled his eyes and walked away.
Hours passed.
The house fell silent.
12:15 AM.
Smithen was already deep in sleep.
And like every night…
He was dreaming.
Darkness.
A vast hall.
Cold.
Empty.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Approaching.
A presence.
Heavy.
Overwhelming.
Dangerous.
Before he could see the face—
BANG.
The door burst open.
"Smithen!"
"Smithen!"
He jolted awake, groaning.
"What is it…?" he muttered, voice thick with sleep. "Why are you here at this time?"
He rubbed his eyes aggressively, his already messy hair turning into complete chaos.
"I have a seminar in two days… I need sleep. Don't start anything now…"
Arin and his mother stood at the doorway.
For once—
They looked serious.
Unusually serious.
They spoke together.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
"You're getting married tomorrow."
Smithen blinked.
"…What?"
"At 10 AM," Arin continued. "Mabthi Auditorium. Both families will be present."
Smithen frowned, still half-asleep.
"To who…?"
There was a pause.
A very small one.
But heavy enough to change everything.
"…Viran."
Silence.
"What… did you say?"
This time, they said it together.
Slowly.
Clearly.
As if sealing his fate.
"You are getting married… to Viran."
Something snapped.
Sleep vanished.
Confusion shattered.
Reality—
Collapsed.
Smithen sat up straight.
His eyes widened.
"Is this… a joke?"
No one laughed.
"You're serious?" His voice trembled.
"Yes."
For a moment, he just stared at them.
And then—
He laughed.
Not disbelief.
Not fear.
But something closer to… overwhelming joy.
"You're not lying, right?" he asked, almost breathless.
"We never joke about your life," his mother replied calmly.
And that was enough.
He jumped off the bed.
Literally.
Rushed forward.
And hugged them both tightly.
"This is real…?" he whispered.
Neither of them answered.
But they didn't deny it either.
That night—
Smithen didn't sleep.
Not even for a second.
He stood in front of the mirror.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Checking his face.
His hair.
His clothes.
His expressions.
"Is this okay…?"
"Should I change my hairstyle?"
"Should I dye my hair?"
"Will he like this?"
Not once—
Not even once—
Did he ask:
Why him?
Why would someone like Viran… choose him?
Outside, the night deepened.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Far away—
In a place untouched by ordinary lives—
A man stood in silence.
Watching.
Waiting.
His eyes—dark, ancient, and starved—closed slowly.
As if sensing something.
Or someone.
A faint whisper escaped his lips.
"…Tomorrow."
Something inside him stirred.
Not emotion.
Not curiosity.
But something far more dangerous.