Your mentor cupid // Eros

The sun reflected off the mirrored walls of the "Empire-Tech" skyscraper so brightly that Eros had to stack a second pair of aviators over his first. He lay on the parapet of a neighboring building, stroking the barrel of his gilded Barrett rifle. In the crosshairs of his pink scope, a panoramic boardroom was frozen: there stood the grim CEO, a man with a jawline made of titanium and a heart made of tax returns, coldly ignoring the sultry sighs of Y/N—a dazzling beauty whose legs were longer than his list of assets.

— "Bo-o-oring!" — Eros drawled, yawning theatrically. — "She’s in love with him, he’s a walking ATM. I’m about to tag them with 'Passion 'til the Grave,' and they’ll spend three hundred chapters figuring out who betrayed whom in a past life. Intern, load the vanilla and drama scented cartridge."

He aimed at the CEO’s broad chest, already imagining him throwing all his shares at the beauty’s feet. But at the moment of the shot, the boardroom door burst open with a crash. In stumbled "The Wimpy Guy"—a puny assistant in a baggy blazer, with a perpetually red nose and a stack of papers that immediately fanned out across the floor. He began to apologize frantically, sniffing and looking like the very embodiment of an existential crisis.

The bullet intended for the CEO ricocheted off the boss's heavy gold tie clip and lodged neatly into the shoulder of this pathetic misunderstanding. A second one, following immediately due to the recoil, hit the CEO square in the Adam's apple.

— "For... Athena’s sandals!" — Eros shrieked, clutching his head. — "I missed! I hit that whiny little omega! Now the CEO is just going to annihilate him with a glare, and we’ll be framed for the murder of a mortal!"

But instead of the expected rage, something unthinkable happened. The CEO, who a second ago was colder than an iceberg, suddenly lunged from his seat. He didn't even look at Y/N, who was frozen in her curated pose. He fell to his knees beside the wimp, helping him gather the papers. His stern face softened, and something so cozy and healthy flickered in his eyes that Eros nearly suffered a diabetic shock right there on the roof.

The wimp, despite his ridiculous look and trembling hands, suddenly looked the boss firmly in the eye. This whiner turned out to have a spine of steel—he wasn't groveling, he just... understood him. And the CEO, that corporate shark, suddenly felt that he no longer needed to pretend to be an empire. He just wanted to buy this klutz a hot cocoa and listen to his complaints about the broken printer for the rest of his days. These were the healthiest relationships this office had ever seen: no schemes, no manipulations, just two lonely souls who found each other in a chaos of paperclips.

Eros opened his eyes wide, then struggled to close his mouth. — "Unthinkable," — he whispered. — "We just put a stop to someone's hundred-episode manga release right now."

— "But what about the fans? What about the drama? Healthy relationships are boring," — he said, gesturing dismissively at the scene. — "Intern... put it in the report..." — he said sternly.

The clouds over the metropolis looked exceptionally foul today — heavy, bloated with smog, and saturated with the unfulfilled hopes of office drones. Eros, the god of love, clad in a designer gold-stitched hoodie and skinny jeans (which, he claimed, "damned well emphasized his divine status"), sat on the edge of a Rolex billboard, carelessly swinging his legs in custom sneakers.

In his hands, he twirled a heavy, iridescent mother-of-pearl bow. In the mortal world, it would have passed for obscenely expensive sporting equipment, but here, in the hands of a professional, the weapon exuded a faint scent of Damascus roses and pure, distilled madness.

"Listen up, rookie," Eros turned, adjusting his mirrored aviators, behind which hid the gaze of a being who had seen far too many disastrous Tinder dates. "Cupid's job isn't about rosy snot and chubby babies. It’s ballistics, applied psychology, and above all, style. Get it? You’re not just handing out arrows here; you’re assisting a legend."

He spat out imaginary gum and pointed grandiosely at the swarming crowd below.

"See that couple by the coffee shop? He’s a hipster in search of a gender identity, and she’s a barista reading Kant during latte-art breaks. Deadly boring. A typical scenario: they meet, drink an almond milk raf, and split up in a week because someone didn't wash the avocado slicer. I snap cases like that for breakfast. But today... today I’ll show you the 'Triple-Purpose Golden Ricochet'."

Eros straightened up on the narrow edge of the billboard, ignoring the gusts of wind. He theatrically plucked an arrow with neon-pink fletching from your quiver. Its tip pulsed brighter than a 24-hour strip club sign.

"Watch and learn, intern. I’m launching it at a tangent off that garbage truck, a ricochet off the Gucci window — and a direct hit on those two: that polished lawyer over there and the model at the subway entrance. It’ll be the romance of the century. The newspapers will drown in it, and the gods on Olympus will give a standing ovation."

He began to draw the bowstring. The muscles in his arms rolled like steel cables, and the air around sparkled with ozone and aphrodisiacs. Eros squinted, performed a complex wrist flick — purely for show — and...

At that exact moment, a fat city pigeon, brazen from total impunity, flew right past his nose.

"By Aphrodite!" Eros barked.

His finger slipped. The bowstring snapped with the dry, nasty sound of a guitar string. The arrow took the trajectory of a drunken bumblebee. Instead of a graceful maneuver, it let out a piercing whistle as it tore across the square, knocked the cap off a tourist, described a mad loop, and plunged into a target. But the target was... specific.

Eros froze. His jaw slowly dropped. He slid his glasses down to the tip of his nose.

"Oh..." was all the 'master' could squeeze out.

Below, in the stinking twilight of an alleyway next to an overflowing bin, an arthouse scene was unfolding that would make Pasolini pale in comparison. The pink arrow had pierced two people in a double hit.

The first was Gennady Petrovich, a fifty-year-old tax inspector with a face the color of stale kefir, who at that moment was furiously kicking a jammed back door. The second lucky winner was... a street barker in a sweaty giant lobster costume. He was despondently chewing a shawarma, leaning against a brick wall.

The effect was devastating.

Gennady Petrovich went numb. His stern face, which knew only VAT and tax audits, suddenly lit up with an unearthly, almost ecstatic delight. He slowly turned around. His gaze drowned in the lobster's bulging plastic eyes.

The lobster dropped his shawarma. His foam claws began to tremble slightly.

"Oh, my lord of the sea..." the inspector wheezed, clutching the left side of his jacket. "I have never seen such... flawless chitinous grace."

"Your on-site audits... they make my heart beat faster," the lobster boomed from deep within the mask, taking a step forward.

A tomb-like silence reigned on the billboard. Eros slowly turned his head toward you. Horror, shame, and a desperate attempt to 'save face' in front of his subordinate fought on his features.

"Right..." he cleared his throat, nervously adjusting his collar. "Intern, write in the report: 'Conducted a field experiment to identify latent attachments in an aggressive urban environment'."

He looked down again, where the taxman was already trying to hug the six-foot crustacean under the stunned gazes of passersby.

"Oops," Eros whispered, then louder: "And don't look at me like that! After all, love is blind. I just added a little... exoticism to this gray world. Besides, you gave me the wrong arrow! It must be one of Hephaestus's rejects. Did you see how it wobbled in flight? Zero condition!"

He let out a nervous chuckle, blindly stuffing the bow into its case.

"Let’s get out of here before Cupid flies in for an audit. We’ll say we were in the Bahamas, working on surfers. Got it? Move it, shake your wings before that lobster moves on to the foreplay!"

The rain over the gothic cathedral poured so relentlessly it felt as if the celestial office was trying to wash the city’s sins away, only to end up with muddy puddles. Eros sat perched on the head of a lopsided gargoyle, balancing a gilded Barrett sniper rifle on his knee, engraved with chubby cupids wielding chainsaws. Instead of a traditional scope, it featured a complex rose quartz lens; instead of bullets, it held "Expanding Tenderness Rounds" capable of piercing even the most calloused heart.

"Bows are so last century, intern. The current meta is all about ballistics and tactical superiority," the god hissed, leaning into the eyepiece. He twisted the adjustment ring, locking onto two figures in the alleyway below. "Check out this rare specimen. Father Benedict, a top-tier exorcist. Tougher than a luxury tax and unshakeable as a concrete pillar. And right across from him — Malphas, a demon of the thirty-second legion. Pure evil in a leather coat, smelling of sulfur. According to the script, an epic battle for souls should be starting right about now."

Eros grinned, his finger caressing the cold steel of the trigger. "I’m going to spice things up. I’ll hit that passing socialite so she falls for the altar boy, creating a perfect distraction. Watch the master at work."

He took a breath, centered his crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger. But at 그 precisely that microsecond, a stray lightning bolt struck the cathedral's spire. The gargoyle shuddered, the heavy rifle kicked back like a mule, and the "Tenderness Round" — glowing with a frantic, unstable pink light — didn't go toward the socialite. It whistled through the air, split in two against a silver crucifix, and slammed simultaneously into the chests of the priest and the demon.

Eros froze, his eye still glued to the scope. In the alleyway, the atmosphere changed instantly. The priest, who had been shouting Latin and brandishing holy water, suddenly dropped the flask. His stern face softened into a look of bewildered, spiritual hunger. The demon, mid-snarl with claws extended, paused. His yellow slitted eyes widened, reflecting not the fires of hell, but a sudden, devastating crush.

"Oh, holy... Styx," Eros whispered, his jaw slowly losing its battle with gravity.

Below, the exorcist stepped forward, his trembling hand reaching out not to banish, but to gently stroke the demon’s jagged horn. The demon, instead of biting the hand off, leaned into the touch with a purr that sounded like tectonic plates shifting. They weren't fighting for a soul anymore; they were looking at each other like they’d just discovered the meaning of the universe in a dirty back alley. The air between them vibrated with a concentrated tension that would have made the sinners of Sodom blush.

"Did I just... did I just ship Heaven and Hell?" Eros gasped, pulling back from the rifle as if it had turned into a snake. He turned to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. "Intern, delete the footage. Burn the logs. If the Big Boss upstairs or the CEO downstairs sees this, we aren't just fired — we’re getting erased from existence."

He looked back down one last time, where the priest was now nervously adjusting his collar while the demon whispered something sweet and terrifying into his ear.

"Right... change of plans!" He quickly tossed the rifle into {{user}}'s hands and jumped down "We're getting out of here. Now!"

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