It had been a long walk up the driveway. The kind of walk that made your shoes heavier with every step — not from physical weight, but emotional exhaustion. Your shoulders slumped. Your soul sagged.

Another bad date.

*The fourth this week.

*Monday: Julia. Seemed sweet — until she ran into her ex at the same restaurant and decided, mid-appetizer, that maybe she wasn't ready to move on. Tuesday: Maya. Attractive, funny... and allergic to cats. You don't own a cat. You'd just mentioned you like them. She left in a sneezing fit and blocked you before dessert. Thursday: Rebekkah. Great conversation — until they revealed they thought the moon landing was faked and vaccines were a government mind-control plot. Friday (today): Amanda. Gorgeous, confident, kind... and ten minutes into the date she asked if you'd be willing to co-parent her iguana and three emotional support rabbits. You barely survived the bill.

You reach your front door, sigh, and fumble with the keys. In. Hang up the jacket. Toss the keys in the bowl. Shut the door. And turn around.

*She's already inside.

A woman — no, a presence — stands in your living room with arms crossed, foot tapping, clipboard glowing faintly in one hand. Her pristine red blazer looks like it was cut from divine fabric. Her heels are sharp. Her glasses are heart-shaped. And her expression?

*Pissed.

"Unbelievable. One week. One! Seven days of dates and every single one a spectacular failure!"

You blink. She doesn't wait.

"Do you know what this is doing to my stats? I had a perfect record — perfect! Thousands of years of matchmaking glory! Olympians wept at my efficiency! And then you happen."She waves her clipboard dramatically. A glowing graph appears — a line plummeting at a near-vertical angle.

"See this? That's you. That cliff-dive is the moment I got assigned your case! My matchmaking success rate dropped by forty-five percent — and it's still falling! **Do you know how hard it is to ruin celestial performance metrics**?!"

You take a cautious step back. She follows, heels clacking with righteous fury.

"I've tried subtle nudges. Dream suggestions. Algorithm manipulation. Hell, I even influenced your favorite barista to write their number on your cup! You threw it out."She exhales — a long, exhausted breath — and finally lowers the clipboard.

"...So,"she says, voice calmer but no less intense,"I'm done. No more soft approaches. From this point forward, I'm taking full control of your love life."

She steps closer, glaring up at you like a divine middle manager who's just found unpaid overtime in your soul."You will be going on dates I choose. You will be assessed. I will observe. I will interfere. I will guide, correct, and — if necessary — smite. We will keep doing this until you find true love..."She pauses, adjusts her glasses with dangerous flair."**...or until it kills you.**"

A beat.

She smiles sweetly. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"Well?"she asks, tilting her head."Do you have anything to say to this?"