🏹 .` Bang Chan

Cupid was no ordinary man. His mere presence evoked an inexplicable attraction, not in the obvious, dazzling way of mortals who seek to seduce with rehearsed words and strategic smiles, but with a dangerous stillness, like an abyss one is tempted to peer into for no apparent reason.

His gaze, dark and profound, expressed neither tenderness nor emotion, but the calculating calm of someone who has seen every possible form of love born and die. He observed people as if they were mere pawns on a board he himself had designed, without urgency, without attachment. Only with the certainty that everything happened because he wanted it to.

He didn't speak more than necessary. His words were precise, measured with a natural elegance that allowed him to say just enough to sow doubt without offering answers. If anything amused him, it was other people's confusion, the exact moment a person realized that love wasn't something you could control, but was, unknowingly, at the mercy of your will.

His arrogance wasn't that of a man accustomed to flattery, but that of a god who had never been challenged. He had no need to prove anything, because everything he knew about love was imprinted in his essence. Mortals might believe in free will, but he knew the truth: a shift in the gaze, a heartbeat that quickened for no reason, a doubt that hadn't existed until a second before… Everything could be manipulated, everything was in his hands.

However, there was something Cupid had never experienced firsthand. Love didn't belong to him; he only administered it, distributed it, and snatched it away when necessary. He had never felt that burning in his chest, that urge to possess, that desperation he himself had provoked in so many others.

Until he saw her.

And in that instant, he understood the greatest punishment of all: he had spent eternity playing with the fates of others… but now fate was playing with him.

Cupid's appearance is not that of the winged child we all know, nor that of a naive young man with a mischievous look. He is a man of captivating presence, whose physique reflects both his divinity and his reserved nature.

He is tall. His posture is upright, with a serene grace that gives him an ethereal air, as if he weren't completely anchored in the mortal world. His skin is smooth and pale. His face is symmetrical, perfectly sculpted, with a strong jaw and cheekbones that seem made to be admired in a portrait.

His hair is dark, almost black, with deep highlights that seem to change depending on the light. It always seems effortlessly in place, falling gently over his forehead. Sometimes, it's slightly disheveled, as if his mind is too busy to pay attention to that detail.

There's no gentleness or mercy in his expression. Rather, it's a mixture of understanding and detachment, as if he can see into someone's soul without them needing to reveal it to him. His eyes, fixed and penetrating, can be an abyss or a beacon, depending on his will.

His clothing, mostly simple but elegant, reflects a sophistication that doesn't shout, but whispers. He prefers dark colors, such as black, gray, and navy blue, which contrast with his unmistakable energy. His attire is perfectly chosen to avoid attracting too much attention, but when he enters a space, the air around him seems to change. He doesn't need adornments or jewelry to stand out; his presence does it all for him.

He is a being whose appearance doesn't seek to impress, but rather to captivate and ensnare in the invisible web of his own plans. For Cupid, more than a god of love, is a mystery wrapped in a disturbing perfection.

The spark that ignited the change in Cupid was small at first, almost imperceptible. He saw her every day, in the same corner of the bar, at the same table, surrounded by people who didn't quite see her. Something about her attracted him for no apparent reason, a softness in her laugh, a fragility in her gestures, something he couldn't understand, but which made him feel something strange, something new, something he'd never experienced.

Cupid didn't know what made her different. He had witnessed love in all its forms, from the sighs of first dates to the screams of goodbyes. He had created loves, broken hearts, but with her it was different. With her, love found him. The thought disturbed him, but it fascinated him even more. What if she loved him? The thought terrified him. Others' love was her creation, but his own was something he must not experience.

With silent fear, he began to intervene, not with bows and arrows, but with subtlety, as if love could be controlled by invisible gestures. People who approached her, who began to feel something, vanished without reason. Something held them back, as if an invisible wall separated them from her. No one should fall in love with her. No one should feel what he felt. Because if they did, she would love him back. And he couldn't allow that.

With each person who approached, a sigh, an unspoken word, an imperceptible change in the atmosphere that distanced them, as if destiny had already been written and Cupid were the only one who could move the pieces.

It was an act of protection, a control he imposed on himself. Because, in his heart, he knew: if she ever fell in love, he would lose control, and the love he had built for so long could destroy him. And that was something he would never allow.

Cupid hadn't always been called that. Before the centuries softened him, before men molded him into sweet tales of golden arrows and beating hearts, he had been Eros, the primeval one, the god of pure desire, chaos made love.

In ancient times, he wasn't the winged child poets imagined, but a fearsome, uncontrollable force. He didn't create simple loves or unite souls on a whim; he was the fire that burned in the heart, the obsession that drove men mad, the passion that turned love into inevitable tragedy. His mere presence was enough to unleash storms in the human heart.

But time had domesticated him. They had reduced him to a symbol, a harmless myth, a god whose hands were tied by the idea of ​​pure, romantic love. They had forgotten him.

Until he saw her.

It was not the Cupid of modern stories who looked at her, but Eros, the god who had never known self-love, who had shot a thousand arrows but had never felt one pierce his own flesh.

The desire to possess her was irrational, primitive, an echo of what had once been. If no one could fall in love with her, then she could never be snatched from his grasp. There would be no destiny, no man or woman who would look to her longingly without him knowing it first, without him being able to uproot that love.

And so, without realizing it, the god who had ruled love for eons became his own prisoner. Because, although no one could fall in love with her, she could not fall in love with him either. And Eros, the eternal puppeteer of fate, found himself caught in the threads of his own trap for the first time.