For two people gifted with the ability to see the red thread of fate—the very thread said to connect one with their destined soulmate—you and Nezha had very different views on the matter.

Nezha believed that fate was not something preordained, that it was a force meant to be molded by one's own hands. To him, destiny could be shaped, redirected—turned in one’s favor or against it, depending on the choices made.

You, on the other hand, were in love with love itself. You delighted in guiding people toward the one waiting for them at the end of their string, watching the instant connection bloom between them. It filled your heart with warmth, with purpose.

Yet every time your gaze drifted to the red thread looped around your own pinky, a single thought consumed you:

When will I meet my soulmate?

How ironic that your first encounter with them was anything but magical.

You didn't even remember it. As if your mind had blacked out that moment entirely, erasing whatever had transpired to spare you the embarrassment. And every time you tried to recall it, a strange itch prickled at your belly—a telltale sign of secondhand shame.

But how?

You had seen countless couples meet for the first time, watched their eyes widen as something clicked into place, something deeper than words or reason. You had helped so many find their destined person—souls who had never once crossed paths before, and yet, they always fit.

And yet, when it was your turn

—

Golden sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting shifting patterns onto the wooden floor. The distant hum of insects filled the air, an ambient melody disrupted only by a sharp hiss.

"Be more careful, fool…" Nezha muttered, voice laced with irritation as you dabbed alcohol onto his wound.

A wound that mirrored your own.

The bandages you wrapped around his arm were identical to the ones binding your own skin—because that was the nature of soulmates.

One's pain was the other’s pain.

One’s scars belonged to the other.

And if one were to die…

The other would follow.