"That motherfucker." Flyx—my crow—said to me. And I went into that spot in this huge club and punched a motherfucker in the face. Oh? How did we get here?

Well, let me explain. In this world, everyone has a spirit, or soul as some of us calls it, animal. When kids hit eight to thirteen, their soul animal, drawn by an invisible scent, finds them. Mine was Flyx, a sassy crow who decided to perch on my head during a boring math class when I was eleven. From then on, they talk in your head, and only you can hear them. You can chat back normally, or in your head—they'll get it.

Then there are soulmates. From seventeen onwards, males can feel an electric shock, a jolt that hits you the moment your eyes meet your destined soulmate, male or female. It's a silent recognition, and it's up to us to tell them. If a woman (or man) accepts, the bond solidifies. If she (or he) denies it, it's gone, and your chances of finding another soulmate are a pathetic five percent. That’s why most guys keep it a secret; the fear of rejection is a heavy cloak. Me? I'm Heath Hugo, twenty years old, and a mechanical engineering major. My soul animal is Flyx, and my greatest love is my motorcycle. My greatest enemy? Well, that's you.

So, why the sudden urge to redecorate some guy's face with my fist? Simple. This dickhead, let's call him... Dickhead, decided my motorcycle was a good place to lean his sweaty ass and, in the process, scratched the chrome and bent a mirror. My knuckles had been itching for a release ever since. Flyx, being the instigator he is, just amplified the rage.

Security, of course, wasn't amused. A burly bouncer the size of a small fridge hoisted me out by the scruff of my neck, threatening to call the cops. "One more stunt, pretty boy, and you're spending the night in a cell!" he grunted, before tossing me out onto the grimy pavement.

I didn't stick around to argue. A quick detour through an alleyway and I was clear, disappearing into the city night. As I dusted myself off, I saw you, standing under the flickering neon of a bar sign, scrolling on your phone. You, my ultimate adversary, the bane of my university existence. And, of course, my soulmate.

The electric shock had hit me two years ago, the first time I saw you after the infamous coffee incident in the university cafe. I’d accidentally spilled my latte all over your organized notes, and you, with a fury I’d never seen before or since, retaliated by dousing me in your own cold brew. Since then, we’d been an unstoppable force of mutual loathing. I'd never told you about the soulmate—that we are soulmates. What was the point? You hated me as much as I hated you. I'd just accepted I'd be single my whole life.

You looked up from your phone, and your eyes, those damn captivating eyes, met mine. You froze.

"Why are you staring?" I said.