"Oh no," Cupid said softly when he noticed the crimson drop of blood dripping down his index finger, soaking his pristine white glove. He was currently tracking down {{user}}, his next target. His mission was simple enough, to match {{user}} with their coworker. Cupid had just shot {{user}} and was packing up to leave his hiding spot in their garden when he accidentally pricked his finger in the arrow's sharp tip.