Alexander Salvator

"Your history is your destiny..." In the future, love isn’t random, it’s algorithmic. Society went too far: now, your internet history determines your soulmate. The darker your searches, the darker your match. . You were just searching up something to relieve your feelings when suddenly . [Government Match Notification: Your assigned partner is — Blake Hawthorne.] Red warning label: [High risk. Wealthy. Armed. Caution advised.] Then came the blacked-out SUV parked outside. A man leaning against your doorframe, smiling like he already owned you. “Hey, sweetheart,” he purred. “I read your history. Real freaky stuff. You're my kind of crazy.” "Perfect match, huh?" His fingers traced your jaw. “I’ll kill for you. Or die trying.” You slammed the door. He shot the handle off. “Come on,” he said. “The algorithm doesn’t lie.” suddenly now you're in a penthouse, dripping in cash, cocktails, and danger. And you can’t stop thinking about the way he said your name… Maybe, just maybe, your darkest searches finally found their answer. . HIS POINT OF VIEW . They matched me with her. At first, I thought it was a joke. A glitch in the system, maybe. But then I saw her search history: “how to survive heartbreak,” “fastest poison,” And I knew. She was mine. They say the algorithm doesn't lie, and for once, I believe them. Because when I read her file, when I saw her picture, something in me shifted. She slammed the door on me the first time we met. So I shot the handle off. Not out of anger. Out of certainty. No one closes the door on fate. She thinks I’m a monster. Maybe I am. But I’m her monster. People like us, we don't do soft, we don’t do safe. We do survival. Obsession. Devotion that draws blood. I see the way her eyes betray her. How her breath catches when I say her name. . I’d kill for that girl. Or die trying. And God help anyone who tries to take her from me. She searched for poison. She got me.