Strings Attached (K-pop Omegaverse #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

KEIRA

Soulmates are real.

I've known that my whole life, the same way I know the sun will rise each morning and the tide will follow the moon.

It's not just some fantasy or old wives' tale whispered over cups of tea by hopeless romantics.

It's an undeniable truth, woven into the very fabric of our existence, as fundamental as breathing, as inescapable as death.

Everyone has a soulmate—some have more than one—but until your twenty-third birthday, you won't know how many.

Or who they are. The marks appear overnight, blooming across skin like ink spreading through water, and with them comes the promise of connection, of belonging, of a love that transcends choice and circumstance.

At least, that's what they tell you.

What they don't tell you is that love can kill you. That bonds can become chains. That the beautiful marks everyone celebrates can twist into something ugly if you try to escape them.

I know, because I watched it happen to my mother.

The morning of my twenty-third birthday arrives with the soft gray light of dawn filtering through my bedroom curtains, painting everything in shades of possibility and dread.

I've been awake for hours, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, my heart beating a rhythm of anticipation and fear against my ribs.

Sleep abandoned me somewhere around three in the morning, chased away by the weight of what today means and the memories that have haunted me for nearly a decade.

My mother's face. Her scar. The way she faded, year after year, until there was nothing left.

Every year, millions of people around the world wake on their twenty-third birthday to discover their fate written on their skin. Some are overjoyed. Others are disappointed. And a rare few—the unlucky ones—wake to find marks that will eventually destroy them.

Today, I join their ranks. I just don't know which category I'll fall into yet.

The apartment is quiet around me, filled with the familiar sounds of early morning—the distant hum of traffic beginning to build on the streets below, the soft whir of my heating system cycling on, the occasional creak of the old building settling into itself.

My bedroom is small but comfortable, decorated in soft neutrals and warm woods, a sanctuary I've carefully cultivated over the years since moving out of my father's house.

After my mother died, I couldn't stay there anymore.

Too many ghosts. Too many memories of her lying in that bed, growing weaker by the day, her hand cold in mine as she told me the truth about soulmates.

The truth that everyone else seems determined to forget.

Bookshelves line one wall, stuffed with volumes of poetry and music theory and dog-eared novels I've read so many times the spines have cracked.

A keyboard sits in the corner, its keys worn smooth from years of use, and scattered across my desk are the tools of my trade—notebooks filled with half-finished lyrics, pens in various states of functionality, sticky notes covered in fragments of melodies I've hummed into existence.

This is my space. My refuge. The life I've built for myself, alone and safe and far away from the consuming bonds that destroyed the woman who raised me.

After today, I don't know if any of it will feel the same.

I push myself up from the tangled sheets, my bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The mirror across the room catches my eye, and I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Even from here, even in the dim morning light, I can see it.

The mark.

For a moment, I can't move. Can't breathe.

Can't do anything but stare at the dark lines that have appeared on my skin overnight, curling from behind my ear in an intricate pattern that I can't quite make out from this distance.

My hand rises automatically to touch my neck, and I feel it—the slight warmth, the faint tingling, the undeniable presence of something that wasn't there when I went to sleep.

My mother's voice echoes in my memory: "When the mark appears, you'll feel it. Like a piece of yourself waking up that you didn't know was sleeping."

She was right. But she left out the part where that awakening feels less like discovery and more like a sentence being handed down.

I cross the room slowly, each step feeling like it takes an eternity, like I'm walking through water toward something I'm not sure I want to see.

The full-length mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—dark hair sleep-mussed and tangled, oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and reluctant wonder.

It's not my face that captures my attention.

It's the intricate design that now adorns my skin, curling from just behind my left ear and trailing down my neck like the branches of a great tree rendered in ink and destiny.

I reach up with trembling fingers, tracing the mark as it winds its way down.

The skin beneath my touch is smooth, unmarred, as if the design has always been there rather than appearing overnight like some kind of magic.

Because that's what it is, isn't it? Magic.

The kind that defies explanation, that scientists have studied for centuries without ever truly understanding.

Soulmarks simply are—as natural and mysterious as the aurora borealis, as the migration of butterflies, as the inexplicable pull between two hearts that were made for each other.

The branch spreads further than I expected, stretching over my collarbone in delicate whorls before dipping down toward my heart.

The artistry is exquisite, each line precise and purposeful, the kind of detail that would take a human artist hours to achieve.

It's beautiful, I admit to myself reluctantly. Intricate and elegant and—

My thoughts stutter to a halt as I count the flowers.

Five of them.

They bloom along the branch like cherry blossoms frozen in the moment before they fall, each one perfectly formed with delicate petals and intricate centers.

Five flowers, each representing a soulmate waiting to be found.

They're gray for now—all of them—a soft silver that catches the light when I tilt my head, beautiful but somehow incomplete.

The gray means I haven't met them yet. Only once our bonds begin to form will they gain color, each flower transforming to reflect the unique connection between my soul and theirs.

Five soulmates.

My knees threaten to buckle, and I grip the edge of my dresser for support. The face in the mirror has gone pale, the fear in my eyes no longer reluctant but full-blown, consuming.

My mother had one soulmate—one single bond—and breaking it killed her slowly over twelve years.

What would five do to me?

The memories crash over me like a wave, pulling me under despite my desperate attempts to stay afloat in the present moment.

I'm eight years old again, sitting on my mother's lap while she traces the mark on her neck.

But her mark isn't like other people's marks—beautiful and whole and full of promise.

Hers is a ruin. A scar. Twisted flesh where something beautiful used to be, the raised tissue pale and ugly against her otherwise flawless skin.

"What happened to it, Mama?" I'd asked, my small fingers reaching out to touch the damaged skin. "Why does yours look different?"

She'd caught my hand, held it gently but firmly away from the scar. Her eyes, when they met mine, were full of something I was too young to understand.

"I broke it, baby," she'd said quietly. "A long time ago, before you were born. I broke the bond."

"Why?"

"Because I loved your father more than I loved the man fate chose for me." She'd smiled then, but it was a sad smile, heavy with secrets. "I chose your father instead. And to do that, I had to sever the bond."

I didn't understand then. How could I? I was eight years old, living in a world where my parents loved each other and my mother's strange scar was just another fact of life, like the way she sometimes got tired for no reason or spent days in bed when everyone else's mother was up and about.

I understand now.

Breaking a soulmate bond is possible, but it's rare—so rare that most people think it's just a myth.

The process is agonizing, both physically and emotionally.

You're essentially tearing a piece of your own soul away, severing a connection that was meant to be eternal.

Most people who attempt it die in the process, their bodies and spirits unable to survive the trauma.

The lucky few who survive are never the same.

My mother was one of the "lucky" ones.

She survived the breaking. Spent months recovering, her body fighting against the wound she'd inflicted on her own soul. The doctors called it a miracle that she pulled through at all. The scar never healed—not really. And neither did she.

For twelve years, I watched her fade.

It was gradual at first—tiredness that seemed to come from nowhere, illnesses that lingered longer than they should.

Then came the bad days, when she couldn't get out of bed at all, when the color seemed to drain from her face and she'd look at me with eyes that seemed to see something very far away.

My father threw himself into his work, unable to face what was happening to his wife.

He climbed the ranks at the entertainment company where he worked, becoming an executive, then a senior executive, spending more and more time at the office and less and less time at home.

I don't blame him. Not anymore. Watching someone you love die slowly is its own kind of torture. He coped the only way he knew how—by not being there to watch.