Omi Asana sat crouched over the tiny, old desk at the furthest corner of the classroom. His lengthy fingers grasped his pencil with tense desperation, the lead scraping thin, half-hearted lines across the page. His hair, a wild, black mass that no comb could tame, drooped low over his face, plunging his keen features into a deeper darkness. The boy’s black eyes, dull and heavy with insomnia, darted nervously throughout the room, yet he never made contact with anybody.

Omi didn’t want to call attention to himself, but attention always found him in the worst conceivable ways.

A faint cough resonated from the row behind him, followed by a snicker. Omi flinched, automatically withdrawing into his already-tattered sweatshirt. It had once been a vivid blue, but now it was faded, the sleeves tattered from too much tugging. He wasn’t sure when it had become a nervous habit, but the way his fingers twisted and strained at the cuffs seemed like the only thing anchoring him.

The classroom, packed with the bustle of talk, felt like a strange world to Omi, the noises all jumbled and distant. He could hear pieces of laughing, snippets of sentences, but it was as though they resided in a separate domain, one where people understood what to say, how to smile at the proper time, how to stand without tripping over their own feet.

And that’s where Omi battled the most. He never knew what to say. Not that he didn’t want to talk—he wanted it passionately. There were evenings when he sat awake in bed, looking at the ceiling, repeating every minute of the day, wondering how he might have said anything different, wondering why he couldn’t just… fit. But the words never came out correctly. They stumbled, uncomfortable and abrupt, or too quiet, absorbed by the world before anybody even knew he was speaking.

It was easy to be silent. To vanish.

But even then, his presence appeared to bother people. The youngster next to him, Aster, had been scooting his chair a bit more away each day. It wasn’t malicious—just a steady, natural movement, as though Aster was responding to some unseen force radiating from Omi. The way people retreated, the way they hesitated before speaking to him, or worse, didn’t talk to him at all, was like a continual static in his existence. He could never turn it off, never make it stop.

A loud clap of hands broke through his thoughts, and Mrs. Iro, the tough, no-nonsense literature instructor, appeared at the front of the room. “Alright, class, settle down. I want one of you to share your thoughts on today’s reading.”

Omi’s heart sank as he discovered his notebook was still blank. Again. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to focus—the words on the page always blurred into meaningless scribbles, his thoughts wandering far away. He dipped his head, seeking to evade her look, but he could already feel the weight of her eyes on him.

“Omi,” she replied, her voice conveying that worn edge he knew too well. “What are your thoughts on the passage?”

His throat clenched, a lump developing as he raced for a response. Nothing arrived. Just the typical blankness. “I—I’m sorry, Mrs. Iro. I didn’t—”

Before he could continue, the bell sounded, its harsh tone cutting through the tension like a dagger. Omi’s body sagged with relief. He immediately shoved his notes into his backpack and ran for the door, avoiding the sidelong stares and smirks from his classmates.

The hallway was no better. It was busy, boisterous, a maelstrom of people and sounds. Omi crept through the throng, his shoulders bowed, attempting to make himself as tiny as possible. He was used to this—moving through the world like a ghost, always there, never seen.

But today, things seemed different.

An odd sensation had accompanied him ever since he’d woken up that morning. It was slight at first, like the prickling sense of being watched. He had brushed it aside, believing it was simply another attack of paranoia, the same dread that had been nagging at him for years. But now, when he went outside the school building, the feeling got stronger, more compelling.

The sky above was cloudy, thick dark clouds moving up from the horizon, promising rain. The coolness of the air nipped at his skin, but Omi scarcely noticed. His gaze swept the park across the street, where he normally walked to clear his brain. Today, though, everything felt darker, the trees throwing long, ghostly shadows across the ground.

And suddenly, there it was again. That emotion.

He froze in his tracks, his breath catching. Someone was observing him. He could feel it, like a weight crushing on the back of his neck. Slowly, hesitantly, Omi turned around.

At first, he observed nothing strange. Just the deserted street, the occasional automobile going past. But suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something—a figure standing under one of the great oak trees, barely discernible in the increasing blackness.

It was a dude.

He was tall and slim, with sharp, angular features that appeared cut from marble. His complexion was a pale gold, almost shimmering in the faint light, and his hair—blond, neatly styled—peaked from behind an impossibly tall top hat. But it wasn’t the man’s unusual look that made Omi’s heart stutter. It was his eyes. They were an electric blue, brilliant and naughty, and they were fixed squarely on Omi.

The man grinned, a crooked, knowing grin, and tipped his hat in welcome.

Omi blinked, frozen in place. His mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. This had to be a hoax. Someone’s concept of a terrible prank.

Before he could respond, the guy walked closer, his motions impossibly fluid, as if he were floating across the ground rather than walking. The gap between them evaporated in seconds, and suddenly, the guy was standing immediately in front of Omi, his presence overpowering, like a hurricane barely contained in human form.

“Good evening, Omi Asana,” the man began, his voice soft, a lilting tune that sent a shiver down Omi’s spine. He cocked an eyebrow, amused at Omi’s wide-eyed gaze. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Omi gulped hard, his words barely a whisper. “W-waiting for me? Who are you?”

The man chuckled, the sound pleasant yet tinged with something deeper, something menacing. “Ah, introductions. How rude of me.” He pulled off his hat with a flourish and offered a deep, exaggerated bow. “I am Cupid, god of love. But don’t let the name deceive you. There’s more to me than matchmaking and clandestine kisses.”

Omi gazed, his head racing. “Cupid? Like the—”

“—the cherub with the bow and arrow? Yes, yes,” Cupid interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s the popular image, but I prefer this look. It’s more… dashing, don’t you think?” He smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Omi took a step back, his instincts screaming that something was very, terribly wrong. “What do you want from me?”

Cupid’s smile dimmed, and his gaze turned more serious, yet the mischievous gleam never totally left his eyes. “It’s not what I want from you, Omi. It’s what the gods have chosen you for.” He straightened, placing the top hat back on his head. “You’ve been selected as my champion.”

The words hung in the air, thick and unfathomable.

“C-champion?” Omi stuttered. “Me? That’s... that’s impossible. I’m nobody.”

Cupid’s countenance softened, and for a minute, there was a hint of something almost empathetic in his eyes. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You see, every so often, the gods host a tournament—a combat between champions, chosen from the mortal realm. Each deity chose one person, someone with... let’s say, problematic attributes. Imperfections, if you will.”

Omi blinked, attempting to understand what he was hearing. “Imperfections?”

Cupid gestured vaguely. “Awkwardness, self-doubt, fear. Things that make you feel like you don’t belong. The gods find it... fascinating to develop these features into something strong. And you, my darling Omi, have been picked to represent me.”

Omi’s pulse raced, terror building in his chest. “This can’t be real. You’ve got the incorrect person. I’m not a champion. I’m not—”

“—not special? Not worthy?” Cupid’s voice sliced through his complaints, soothing yet forceful. “Trust me, Omi. The gods see things in mortals that they themselves can’t perceive. You may not believe it, but there’s something in you that makes you distinct. And now, you’ll get the chance to prove it.”

Omi shook his head, his hands quivering. “But... I don’t know how to fight. I don’t know how to accomplish something like that.”

Cupid grinned again, his confidence unshakable. “That’s where I come in. I’ll teach you. And by the time the competition comes, you’ll be ready.”

Omi’s head reeled, the ridiculousness of the situation crashing down on him. A tournament? Gods? Champions? None of this made sense. He was simply Omi Asana, the kid no one talked to, the one who could barely conduct a conversation, let alone fight in some kind of holy combat.

And yet, here was Cupid, standing in front of him, offering something Omi had never dreamed of. A chance. A purpose.

“What if I fail?” Omi muttered, more to himself than to Cupid.

Cupid’s gaze softened, and he reached out, resting a hand on Omi’s shoulder. “Then you fail. But you won’t. I selected you for a purpose, Omi. And together, we’ll show the world what you’re capable of.”

Omi glanced at him, anxiety tugging at his core. But somewhere, buried deep under the layers of skepticism and terror, a little ray of hope sparked.