In the beginning, before hearts beat to the rhythm of screens and skyscrapers scraped the heavens, there were gods.
They ruled not with laws, but with forces—untamed, burning, divine.
Love, War, Fate, and Death walked among men, bearing the weight of eternity.
Among them, born of desire and chaos, was Eros. The original Cupid. Not the cherub of Renaissance paintings, but a fierce god with eyes like burning embers, arrows that ignited lust or doomed mortals to unrequited fire. Love was his realm, but he was no gentle matchmaker. His golden arrows once soared with purpose, kindling devotion in queens and thieves alike, sowing chaos and poetry across empires, oceans, and ages.

But centuries passed. Civilizations rose. Gods faded into myth. Humanity forgot to fear them. As the world spun faster—louder, colder, consumed by noise—men traded passion for convenience. Sonnet became swipe. Vow became voice memo. Emotion was filtered, packaged, dismissed.
The gods have long forgotten faded from mortal minds—and from power.

Even Love, the oldest force was grew... disposable.
Yet gods do not die. They adapt.

And Eros, sensing his power wane, laid down his bow—but not his legacy. From the embers of his essence came the Cupids: immortal children of love, spirits of devotion, guardians of connection. Some had vanished, others fallen to despair. But only one remained.

Angela Eros, his daughter.
Last of the true-blooded Cupids. Bearer of a broken bow and a fading name.

For generations, she had watched humanity drift further from the sacred.
...........

The Archangel descended into the windless space between realms.
“Angela Eros,” he intoned, voice carved from centuries of breaking hearts. He stood tall, robes shimmering with forgotten constellations, wings folded like verses of unwritten lore. Silence held the chamber, save for the echo of her steps on marble cold as lost faith.
She bowed, golden hair spilling like sunlight. “I am ready.”

His gaze, honed on dying galaxies and shattered souls, held hers. “Faith is dying. Love is a currency no longer spent. You, daughter of Eros, will restore what is lost. Find love in the loveless. Heal hearts that no longer beat with warmth. And above all—” His voice deepened, heavy with finality.
“Bring love to the one who has abandoned it utterly. Fail, and you will fade.”
Something within Angela stirred. Not fear. Gravity.

“Your task is simple in word, impossible in deed,” he continued, the constellations on his robes dimming.

“Bring love to the forsaken heart. Fail, and you fade.”
Angela met his ancient eyes with her own resolve blazing counterpoint.

“I will not fail.”

For the first time in centuries, the Archangel smiled. Not with hope. But with sorrow.
“You are our last arrow, Angela.”

The chamber dissolved into stardust.
Angela Eros fell—through clouds and memory, through shattered hymns and neon dreams—plummeting toward the world of men.

Toward traffic, texts, and trauma.
Toward skyscrapers and cynicism.
Toward a man who had long ago sealed his heart in ice…

…and who might, at last, teach the one what love truly means.