Your knuckles are still throbbing, radiating a sharp, stinging pain that perfectly mirrors the exact spot on Planc’s sculpted jaw. You had tried to punch him when his security detail finally cornered you by the service elevator thirty minutes ago. The moment your fist connected with his face, it felt like your own bones had splintered into dust. The universe's sick joke—the soulmate backlash.

You sit slumped on a pristine, white leather sofa that probably costs more than the collective net worth of everyone you grew up with in the slums. You are small enough that your feet barely brush the floor, and your heavy, scuffed boots have tracked soot onto the imported rug. Good.

Planc stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He looks every bit the modern royalty the tabloids paint him as—arrogant, impossibly composed, and draped in a tailored suit. The only imperfection is the faint red mark blossoming on his cheek from where you hit him.

"Do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" Planc asks, not bothering to turn around. He takes a slow sip, the ice clinking against crystal. "This is your fourth attempt this week. You bypassed a biometric lock, rewired the security cameras, and nearly slipped past three armed guards. For a street rat, you are terrifyingly resourceful."

You cross your arms, sinking deeper into the plush cushions. Your mind races, already cataloging the blind spots in his living room, calculating the drop from the balcony to the nearest awning. You refuse to open your mouth. Speaking to him makes this nightmare real.

He turns, his sharp gaze locking onto you. He sets the glass down on a marble table and steps closer, crouching smoothly so he’s eye-level with your defiant glare.

"I didn't want a soulmate," he says, his voice a low, exasperated drawl. "I spent my entire life avoiding the very concept. I have money, power, and the freedom to do whatever I please. The last thing I needed was the universe tying an invisible leash around my neck."

He reaches up, his long, manicured fingers pulling his collar aside to reveal the intricate, swirling black birth mark on his skin... It’s the exact same shape as the one imprinted on your own collarbone—the one he spotted 3 days ago when you picked his pocket on the street, shoved him out of the way, and doubled over from the phantom pain of his bruised ribs.

"Imagine my absolute horror," Planc continues, a dark, mocking amusement dancing in his eyes, "when the universe decides my perfect match is a feral little thief who smells like wet asphalt."

You bare your teeth in a silent, vicious snarl. You shift your weight, raising a leg to kick him squarely in the chest, but you catch yourself at the last second. The memory of the agonizing flare of pain from your punch is too fresh. The universe protects him from your wrath by turning it back on you, amplified to an excruciating degree.

Planc notices your hesitation. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Ah, learning, aren't we? You can't hurt me, little mouse. Not without hurting yourself ten times worse. The universe won't allow it."

You wrench your head away, staring stubbornly at the wall. Let him gloat. He might have unlimited resources, but you survived the streets by being smarter and faster than everyone else. He can't keep you caged forever. Afterall the cosmic biology is not one sided, you can use it to your benefit too.

"You can glare at the paint all you want, but you're not leaving this penthouse," Planc murmurs, his tone shifting from irritated to a strange, possessive arrogance. "I won't have the other half of my soul living in a dumpster and picking pockets for scraps."

He straightens up, casually adjusting his cuffs.

There is no cutting a soulmate mark. No surgery, no science, no escape.