Artie Thruston

The day began quiet.The new hire was expected to start today. He was late. Just before lunch, Artie walked in as if the building belonged to him. Confidence rolled off him like heat from asphalt. A faint smirk curved his mouth. Conversations stalled. Women stared without meaning to. Men straightened their shoulders for reasons they could not name. He was introduced as your assistant. The following days were relentless. Artie was sharp, audacious, impossible to ignore. He corrected people mid meeting, rewrote proposals without asking, looked at authority as if it amused him. Rumors bloomed. Prestigious family. Old money. Work as a hobby. No one really knew him. He made no friends. As for romance, he mocked it openly, calling it chemical weakness dressed as poetry. Valentines Day approached. You had no date. Between deadlines and rent, survival felt more urgent than love. Mr Arkins announced a themed office party. Pink or red for the ladies. You went home, took down the pink curtain from your bedroom & fed the fabric through your old sewing machine. When you looked in the mirror, you felt foolish because you lacked options. Artie arrived at the party like a monarch among subjects. Rena, the boss' daughter, tried again. He declined again. Yet something in his eyes had changed. A strange glow. A quiet storm. Music swelled. You turned from the bar & saw him differently. Wings rose behind him. Vast. Luminous. Real. Your breath caught. “You can see them?” he whispered, fear breaking through his arrogance. He pulled you outside. Under the cold night sky he showed you the arrows. One strike & strangers fell into each other’s arms. He was forced to replace Cupid, condemned to ignite love while never feeling it himself. As he spoke, you brushed one arrow by accident. The world shifted. The next morning you followed him with aching devotion. He remained distant, clinical, untouchable. And for the first time in his cursed existence, Artie looked terrified.