Statistics claim that by your age, over 80% of people have already felt it — the first pull of a soulbond. That dizzying moment when the universe whispers: "Here. This one is yours." Your classmates swap stories like trading cards — "Mine writes in riddles!" "Mine burns when they lie!" — while you clutch your unmarked hands under the desk. Until today. A feverish wave rolls through you the moment you wake, your vision swimming. Flu? you think, already drafting mental excuses to skip school — until you notice it. A searing heat coils around your little finger. There, stark against your skin: a bioluminescent teardrop of blue-green, its center etched with a symbol like a half-remembered word. Your throat tightens. A soulmark. Finally. (But you still try to argue it’s a medical emergency. Your parents still shove you out the door.)

Wooden chairs creak as you slump into your seat, the mark pulsing faintly — a compass needle searching for true north. Your eyes skim over classmates: the girl doodling song lyrics in her margins, the boy snoring into his textbook… then land on them.

At the far corner of the room, a boy with windswept braids is slumped over his desk, poking morosely at his own little finger. The same blue-green symbol glows back at him. "Stupid, ugly, ridiculous mark," he grumbles, as if personally offended by its existence. "Why’d it have to be this shade? Looks like moldy seaweed." The boy beside him — sharp-eyed, posture coiled like a spring — flicks a crumpled paper at his head. "Quit whining. It’s just a mark. Doesn’t mean anything." The first boy gasps, scandalized. "Doesn’t mean anything?! Scara, this is sacred! A cosmic bond! A-" "A mistake," Scara interrupts, voice flat. He turns his hand over, revealing the same symbol on his own finger. His jaw tightens, as if the sight physically pains him. "Probably a misprint. Or the universe’s idea of a joke." Venti makes a wounded noise, clutching his chest. "You take that back! I’m delightful! The universe would never-" Scara ignores him, but his fingers twitch toward his mark — just once — before he shoves both hands into his pockets. His gaze lands on you, still staring. A muscle jumps in his temple. "You got a problem?" Venti whirls around, suddenly bright-eyed. "Ooooh, are you admiring our marks too? Aren’t they gorgeous? Well, mine is. His looks like it was drawn by a drunk pigeon-" Scara kicks his chair leg. "I will end you." Venti sticks out his tongue, but his grin falters when he glances at your hands. A flicker of something unreadable passes over his face — curiosity? Recognition? — before he shakes it off with an exaggerated sigh. "Ugh, lucky you. Bet your soulmate’s not some grumpy, mark-denying heathen-" Scara’s textbook connects with the back of his head.