Perfect Match

My fiancé and I were a 90% genetic match. The problem was, Ramond Marsden was a rebel without a cause.
At our engagement party, in front of everyone we knew, he toasted me with a smirk. I'd marry any woman I actually desired before I'd ever chain myself to an animal who loses control and does nothing but grovel at my feet.
Later, as I was writhing on the floor, my mind shattering from another Psionic Overload, a call came through from the Central Registry.
"Miss Vance? A new candidate, Mr. Ewing, has just been registered with a 100% Genetic Compatibility Index. Are you interested in transferring your match?"

1
In this enlightened age of freedom, Ramond Marsden was a genetic Luddite.
He’d rather mainline Stabilizers than spend a single second near me when his own Overloads hit.
A simple touch of his hand—that's all it would take to soothe the storm in our minds. But he refused.
Of course, Ramond was a Marsden. His family could afford to burn money on Stabilizers. I couldn't.
A single vial of the lowest D-Class Stabilizer cost 2,500 credits. Even with the state subsidy, it was 1,000. My salary was 10,000 a month. By the time I was twenty-three, my Overloads had escalated from once a month to three or four times. The cost was crushing me.
I had no choice but to enter the Genetic Matching Program. For ordinary people like me, it was the only path.
A D-Class Overload felt like someone was taking a hacksaw to the inside of your skull. The pain was unbearable. A high-compatibility partner was a godsend, a one-in-a-million lottery ticket.
So when the system matched me with someone not only wealthy and handsome but also a high-index match, I thought I’d won the jackpot. It felt like a dream.
It turned out to be a nightmare. Ramond despised me on sight.
He made his position crystal clear at our first meeting in a sterile, overpriced cafe. His hands, gloved in soft leather, rested on the table. "If my family wasn't so damn paranoid about my condition," he'd said, his voice tight with irritation, "I would never have consented to this barbaric process."
His family, however, was adamant. They moved me into his penthouse apartment. To my surprise, Ramond agreed to that part.
Given his initial hostility, I made myself as small as possible, a ghost in his opulent life.
He was the one who crossed the line first.
One night, he came home and collapsed, his body convulsing from a sudden Overload. Without a partner's touch to regulate him, his condition had degraded. He'd jumped from a C-Class to a B-Class.

2
I came home from work to find him on the floor. The moment I knelt beside him, he lunged, pulling me down with him.
"Help me," he rasped, his voice raw with a desperation I'd never heard before. He buried his face against my neck, his skin burning against mine. The brief contact was electric, a jolt of pure, primal relief.
It lasted only until his assistant arrived with a B-Class Stabilizer.
I expected the proud, arrogant Ramond to be mortified by his lapse in control. Instead, he started seeking me out more. He slowly let his guard down, engaging me in conversation. He’d bring me small gifts—gourmet meals, books, things that wouldn’t make me feel indebted—and I started to see a different side of him.
He developed a habit of sitting at the kitchen island while I cooked, talking about anything and everything.
"Did you know," he said one evening, his voice tinged with a strange nostalgia, "that in the Old World, people didn't follow genetic imperatives? They just… fell in love. Emotion was enough. Genes didn't chain them together."
Before the age of eighteen, Psionic Overloads are dormant. In that window of blissful ignorance, it’s easy to fall for anyone.
A bitter smile twisted his lips. "My parents were like that. A love match. They defied everyone to be together. Then, when I was sixteen, my father found a mistress. A woman with a 74% GCI. When my mother found out, she couldn't live with it. She ended her life."
That's when I understood. Wealthy scions like Ramond, when matched with commoners, often kept them as something on the side. A living, breathing Stabilizer. Their real lives, their marriages, were reserved for alliances with families of equal standing. Some even had multiple matched partners.
He looked so lost in that moment. I stood there, holding a tray, unsure of what to say. "No wonder you hate being near me."
His eyes met mine, and for a second, he seemed to see me, truly see me. Then the moment broke, and he flashed a brilliant smile. "Let's not talk about that depressing stuff. What's for dinner? It smells incredible."
From that day on, we became dinner companions. We talked for hours. To honor his beliefs, to prove our connection was more than just genetic, I never once asked him for comfort. Every time an Overload hit, I quietly excused myself and used a Stabilizer.
After six months, my own condition worsened. My Overloads escalated to C-Class. Four D-Class vials couldn’t touch the pain of a C-Class event. A single C-Class Stabilizer cost twenty-five thousand credits. Even with the subsidy, it was my entire monthly salary.
In my most naive, love-struck year, I took on every freelance job I could find to make ends meet. I never asked him for help. I wanted to protect his principles.

3
Perhaps he saw my sacrifice. He proposed.
That night, I cried until I couldn't breathe. He slid a diamond onto my finger. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy?"
"This happiness," I sobbed, "it feels like I fought a war for it."
We didn't even embrace, but in that moment, I felt our souls were touching.
That perfect happiness lasted less than twenty-four hours.
The next evening, he threw a massive party to celebrate. I slipped away to the restroom, and when I came back, he was gone. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach as I saw the predatory glances other women were giving him. I searched the entire crowded penthouse before finally finding him in the back garden, talking with his friend, Marcus Thorne.
I was about to call out his name when I heard him laugh. "I told her my mother was dead. She actually bought it."
Marcus lit a cigarette, the tip glowing in the twilight. "What happens when she finds out it's all a lie and bolts?"
"Let her," Ramond scoffed. "I never liked her anyway. She's the one who can't leave me now. She hasn't had a proper soothing in months. Her savings are gone, she can't afford C-Class Stabilizers, and she's probably drowning in debt. After investing so much, you think she'd just walk away?"
He laughed again, a cruel, cutting sound. "I never would have broken my own rule if she hadn't come home that night. The thought of having touched her makes my skin crawl. But since she's so pathetically devoted, I'll keep her around. It's not like I can't afford it."
Marcus chuckled. "Women from the lower sectors are all the same. So desperate. They think a high GCI means we'll fall madly in love with them."
"My mother's plan was brilliant, though," Ramond said, the grin returning to his voice. "I tell her my mom died, and she actually feels sorry for me."
Marcus snorted with laughter and added his own twisted advice. "While she's broke, convince her to quit her job. Then buy her a car or a condo in her name. Just make the down payment. You dole out the monthly installments. If you cut her off, she defaults. She'll be so terrified of losing everything, she'll do whatever you say."
The world tilted, the manicured hedges of the garden blurring into a nauseating green smear.
It was all a trap. A meticulously crafted cage. He had used himself as bait, luring me in with kindness, feeding me a philosophy he never truly believed in, all to domesticate me. To turn me into another one of his possessions.
The weight of it all—the debt, the pain, the crushing betrayal—crashed down on me. My Psionic Overload didn't just escalate. It exploded.
A B-Class Overload seized my body, turning my muscles to stone. The thud of my fall caught their attention.
Ramond strolled over, a vision of casual cruelty. When he saw me on the ground, he doubled over with laughter. "Oops. I guess you heard that."
The pain was a living thing, a creature of pure agony devouring me from the inside out. I curled into a ball, unable to scream. My hand, acting on pure instinct, reached for him.
He crouched down, propping his chin on his hand, a smile playing on his lips. "Helen, the way you beg… you look just like a stray dog."
Through the haze of pain, I noticed his hands. They were still sheathed in those damned gloves. I had never even seen the color of his skin.
When the hatred peaked, a wild thought surfaced: endure it. Survive this, and maybe you can break free from the genetic curse altogether.
How ironic. The thought was a weapon he himself had given me.
As the pain reached its crescendo, something inside me broke. And then, there was peace.
I remembered a terrible toothache from my childhood. How did I solve it? That’s right. Terrified of the pain, I'd ripped the loose tooth out myself. And in a fit of rage, I'd pulled out the one next to it, too, even though it wasn't ready.
Ramond was my rotten tooth.
But this wasn't like losing a baby tooth. If I gave him up, the chances of finding another high-index match were slim to none. A drop from 90% wasn't a guarantee of 89%. It could be 50%, 30%, or nothing at all.

4
After an eternity, a raw, guttural scream tore from my throat.
The party guests gathered around, a circle of curious, morbid faces. Someone started taking pictures.
Ramond wrapped an arm around a stunning woman in a red dress. He raised his voice for all to hear. "I'd marry any woman I actually desired before I'd ever chain myself to an animal who loses control and does nothing but grovel at my feet."
For a moment, the world went silent. The clicks of the cameras, Ramond's mocking laughter, it all faded into a dull roar. The starlight that once seemed to hold so much promise for me dimmed to ash.
Marcus nudged my hand with the toe of his expensive shoe. "Hey. They say when the love dies, the genetic pull weakens. How's that working out for you?"
A sudden downpour began, the fat drops splattering against the stone patio. The rumble of thunder drowned out my choked sobs. The spectators scattered, seeking shelter.
I slammed my head against the ground, again and again, trying to knock the pain out. My wrist-comm, detecting my critical state, automatically answered an incoming call.
"Miss Vance? A new candidate, Mr. Ewing, has just been registered with a 100% Genetic Compatibility Index. Are you interested in transferring your match?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. A holographic display flickered to life above my wrist-comm: CRITICAL ALERT: USER INCAPACITATED. AI ASSISTANT ‘HELEN’ WILL EXECUTE OPTIMAL DECISION.
I heard my own voice, perfectly synthesized, speak from the device. "Yes. Transfer."
The AI swiftly signed the digital transfer request and dialed the new match. "Hello, is this Mr. Ewing? I am Helen Vance's integrated AI assistant. She is experiencing a critical Psionic Overload and is incapacitated. As per the Genetic Matching Mandate, you are obligated to provide soothing assistance to your matched partner."
Unlike Ramond, this man's voice was calm, a deep and steady baritone that seemed to absorb the chaos around me.
"Miss Vance," he said, and the words were a lifeline in the storm. "I'm on my way."

5
Wave after wave of agony crashed over me. A strange thought surfaced, a desperate urge to expel the tormenting energy from my mind. It was a fantasy I'd had a thousand times during my Overloads, and it had never worked.
But this time was different.
I was floating. I looked down and saw my own body, lying still and pale on the wet stone, looking for all the world like a corpse. Above me, the sky was a bruised purple, and the rain passed right through my ethereal form. The garden lights, once blinding, were now soft and muted. Each raindrop in their glow was a thread of liquid silver.
In the distance, under the eaves of the patio, the party guests whispered amongst themselves.
Marcus ground out his cigarette under his heel. "You think she's dead?"
"If she is, she is," Ramond said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Plenty of people die from Overloads. We have no legal bond. I'm not responsible for her. She should have carried her Stabilizers."
"You have a soothing obligation," Marcus reminded him.
Ramond's smile was a flash of white in the gloom. "An obligation, yes. But her condition was severe. And I'm a shy man, Marcus. I don't care for public displays of affection. I hesitated for a moment, and well… she died. Who's to say otherwise?"
In that instant, a venomous thought took root in my mind.
I wish he could feel this.
The thought was the command. In the blink of an eye, I was standing beside him. I raised my hand and slapped the back of his head.
"Agh!" He cried out, clutching his skull and stumbling to his knees.
Marcus stared. "Stabilizer!" he yelled at the assistant.
The assistant fumbled with a B-Class vial, rushing it to Ramond's lips. But Ramond didn't drink. He just pitched forward, unconscious.
The assistant's face went white. "Did he… did he just escalate?"
Marcus shot him a furious glare. "Impossible! It takes fifty years for a natural escalation from B-Class to A-Class!"
I looked down at my hands. They shimmered with a faint, iridescent light, like mother-of-pearl. "It actually worked."
Before I could process what was happening, the wail of sirens cut through the night. An ambulance had arrived. Marcus charged into the rain, grabbing the paramedic who was heading for me. "Forget her! We have an A-Class Overload here! He's Ramond Marsden, the heir to the Marsden fortune. Save him first!"
A-Class was the threshold. Any Overload of that magnitude required hospitalization. The paramedic looked torn, glancing back at my still form.
Then I saw him. A man holding a black umbrella, standing silently beside my body. He seemed to sense my gaze and looked up, directly at me.
A slow, gentle smile curved his lips. "Helen," he said, his voice carrying over the storm. "Come here."

6
The tension that had held me together snapped. The world dissolved into blackness.
When I woke, I was in an unfamiliar room. A king-sized bed with a charcoal gray duvet was pushed against a floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, a thunderstorm raged.
As my senses returned, I realized I was lying on top of someone.
I tried to push myself up, my hand landing on a firm, muscular arm. He shifted, his own arm wrapping around my waist to help me sit up. He pressed his cheek to my forehead, testing my temperature. "You're awake. Are you hungry?"
My head was still swimming. His calm efficiency only made me feel more disoriented. When I didn't respond, he casually picked up a long, furry appendage and tucked it into my hands. "If you're still tired, go back to sleep."
I squeezed the tip. It was warm. "What is this?" I mumbled. "Aren't we in a hospital?" Why was there someone in my hospital bed?
"This is my apartment. I'm your matched partner, Kaelen Ewing. The ambulance I called for you got… commandeered. I had no choice but to bring you here and soothe you myself."
As he spoke, his dark, intense eyes never left my face. It took me a moment to piece together the events before I blacked out. "Thank you," I said, my voice hoarse.
He smiled, and his handsome features became utterly devastating. "Of course. I'll be needing your help as well, Miss Vance. I'm a recently retired Psion from the military. I sustained some injuries in the Fringe. My current Overload level is dual S-Class. I require frequent soothing from a partner."
"Dual S-Class? It's a miracle you're alive." I was in awe, but also deeply curious. "Can you read minds?"
"No," he said slowly. "But I do have a very fluffy tail."
My gaze dropped to the object in my hands. It was as thick as my wrist. It was his tail. I couldn't resist giving it another squeeze. The fur was incredibly soft, the sensation deeply comforting. I found myself stroking it, my curiosity piqued. "Are you a cat?"
"Mmm… feline family, panthera genus."
His voice had dropped an octave, a low rumble in his chest. I looked up and saw him watching me, his eyes filled with an undisguised hunger.
I realized then what he was doing. He was patiently, skillfully, reeling me in. Luring me into touching him, providing the physical contact that would soothe his own storm.
Dual S-Class. I couldn't even begin to imagine that kind of pain.
My hand stilled. I felt his tail twitch against my palm, actively seeking my touch. "Does… does being with me help you?"
He blinked, his honesty disarming. "Not enough."
Oddly enough, holding his tail was having the opposite effect on me. My anxiety was melting away, replaced by a strange, buoyant excitement. "We could… get to know each other for a while," I suggested. "Then you can decide if you still want to marry me."
"We're a perfect match. Why would we need to wait?" His gaze was direct, unwavering. "We can get married right now."
"Huh?" I was stunned. "Really?"
Perhaps it was the 100% GCI. Being near him felt like coming home to a place I'd never been. The pain, the betrayal… it all felt like a distant, half-forgotten dream.

7
The memory of Ramond’s calculated cruelty sent a chill through me, and my mood plummeted. “But… I don’t really know you.”
What if Kaelen had someone else? A woman he truly loved? What if I was just destined to be the mistress again, the high-end Stabilizer kept on the side, to be used and then put away?
Kaelen’s arms tightened around me, a comforting, solid presence. “Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
His embrace was a fortress. I felt myself sinking into it, another carefully constructed trap of kindness. The 100% GCI was a siren’s song, intoxicating and dangerous. The scars from Ramond’s betrayal screamed at me to run, but my very genes craved the safety of his arms.
My tormented thoughts were interrupted by a sharp chime. My wrist-comm projected a faint holographic screen. An unknown number.
Marcus Thorne’s voice, smooth and condescending, filled the quiet room. “Where are you? I’m sending a car. Ramond wants to see you.”
Still treating me like a fool. A bitter laugh almost escaped me, but the memory of how I’d fallen for their lies choked it back. “What’s the matter? Worried your trained dog slipped its leash?”
Marcus sighed, a theatrical sound of weary patience. “Come on, Helen, don’t talk about yourself like that. I admit, we were out of line. But you know Ramond. He’s proud. I was just going along with him. It’s not what I really think. Can’t we just talk about this face to face?”
I could practically smell the hypocrisy oozing through the speaker. A hot flush of anger rose in my chest. Just as I was about to unleash a tirade, the tail in my hand twitched. I instinctively gripped it tighter, kneading the soft fur between my fingers. The anger subsided, replaced by a cold, clear calm.
If Marcus was wasting his time on me, it could only mean one thing: Ramond was not doing well.
“You’re asking a lot, Marcus,” I said, mimicking his insincere tone. “As you know, I had a rather severe Overload. And I was left out in the rain.”
“This isn’t the time to dredge up the past, Helen,” he snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin.
His reaction didn't surprise me, but I continued anyway. “If you were just kidding around, why did you leave me lying on the ground in a thunderstorm? Weren't you afraid I might die?”
“Of course not,” he said, the lie smooth as silk. “We would never have let that happen. We called an ambulance right away. And you know you can’t move someone during an Overload. It could have made things worse for you.”

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