Samson lived in a society where a red string bound two people destined to be lovers for life. The string appeared on the chosen at a young age, and Samson received his at thirteen. From that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to sever it, to escape the invisible chain dictating his fate.

Tonight, he sat in a dimly lit restaurant, surrounded by old friends, skimming through the menu with practiced disinterest. Conversation buzzed around him, laughter and clinking glasses, but his mind wandered. He raised his hand, calling a waiter over, already expecting the usual routine.

Then he saw him.

The waiter moved with effortless grace, a polite smile tugging at his lips. Samson’s eyes drifted downward and froze. A red string wound delicately around the man’s pinky. His own hand followed instinctively, and he realized with a sinking feeling that their strings were connected.

He exhaled, long and audible, drawing a few curious glances from his friends. Annoyance prickled under his skin, mingled with the faintest twinge of disbelief.

“Give me a recommendation,” Samson said, his voice flat, masking the swirl of thoughts churning in his head. The string was real. It had found him. And suddenly, the life he had thought he controlled felt utterly out of his hands.