Poison Of Love

In a forgotten corner of a beautiful, peaceful country, nestled between fields that kissed the skies and rivers that hummed lullabies, lived a family—warm, loving, and whole. They were not wealthy, nor did they seek to be. But they had something rare: they had each other. The village around them was no different. People here spoke softly, lived kindly, and carried hearts that remembered how to love without conditions. There was no shouting in the streets, no harsh words behind closed doors. Strangers became neighbours, neighbours became friends, and friends turned into family. Disputes existed, but forgiveness lived closer. A husband would cherish his wife not out of duty, but love. A wife would support her husband not out of obedience, but choice. Young girls dreamed not of fame but of growing old with someone who truly cared. Boys respected love, not just the thrill of it. Even the children—wild in their innocence—fought like storm clouds and made up like sunshine. Their laughter echoed through the trees. Even the skies over the village seemed to smile, and when storms came, they didn’t destroy; they healed. It wasn’t heaven. But it was close. And it had nothing to do with wealth or modernity. Meanwhile, in a sprawling, glittering city that prided itself on its progress, life was a different story. Here, the buildings were tall and the hearts were hollow. The city had everything—skyscrapers, institutions, cafes, clinics, everything but love. Elders spent their evenings not in storytelling or prayers, but in bitter debates over politics and fractured family feuds. In homes, husbands felt small in the presence of wives who had risen, not because their wives had succeeded, but because love had turned into comparison. Wives, too, pulled away—not because they didn’t care, but because they were tired of being expected to surrender. Teenagers drifted like satellites around each other—entangled in fake relationships built not on affection but manipulation. Boys used girls. Girls used boys. Hearts broke, but no one wept sincerely anymore. Pain had become performance. One evening, a neighbour died. Another neighbour, scrolling through a screen, barely looked up and muttered, “Ahh… let’s eat dinner.” They had everything—degrees, jobs, Wi-Fi, power, cars—but not even an ounce of real love. That village, where even the skies healed people, had barely a fraction of what the city offered in material terms. But it was rich in the only currency that mattered: emotion. One spring morning, a graduating class from the National Institute of Emotional Neuroscience embarked on their final university trip. Their destination was an old rural area spoken of with amused curiosity — a place the locals called the Village of Love. The students, now in their mid-twenties, were experts in mapping brain chemistry, decoding emotional triggers, and reducing love to a flowchart of neurochemical reactions. To them, feelings were nothing but formulas waiting to be solved. As they stepped into the village, they were met with something they had long forgotten — warmth. Real warmth. The air was different here. Slower. Softer. Children ran freely, their feet bare, their laughter real. Elders sat under the trees, not hooked to machines, but speaking — truly speaking. Couples didn’t scroll past each other; they looked into each other’s eyes. The students were stunned. But not all were impressed. Some scoffed. “This land should be used for something productive,” one said. “Skyscrapers would look better than wooden houses,” added another. They stared at the mountains as if waiting for Wi-Fi signals. But Drew — he didn’t laugh. He didn’t talk. He burned. As he wandered through the village square, he saw a young couple sitting side by side on a wooden bench. No gifts, no phones, no scripts — just quiet talk, eyes full of emotion, hearts visibly beating for one another. He saw children playing, elders planting trees, women cooking while humming, and men sharing food in silence. And in that moment, Drew was consumed. Why do they get this? Why should they have what I’ve never tasted? What gives them the right to be so rich in love when I’ve spent years starving for it? For a heartbeat, his mind screamed dark things. Kill them all. But the thought passed like a shadow in sunlight. A colder, cleverer idea took its place. No. Don’t destroy them. Replicate them. I’ll take what they have… and reduce it to a product. A pill. A formula. A tool. I’ll make love cheap. Accessible. Easy. So no one will ever need to feel jealous again. Not even me. Drew’s life had been a graveyard of loss. His parents had died when he was young. He had loved once — deeply — but she left him. Said he was too poor, too ugly. Said his height embarrassed her. Said his glasses made her sick. At university, he was ridiculed, overlooked, humiliated. His heart had no home. But his mind — his mind was dangerous. Drew leaned back in the chair, eyes hollow but burning with a twisted fire. He looked at Vico and spoke coldly. "I'm giving you your first mission. Pull it off, and you’ll earn more than you ever dreamed. I’ve created a formula—don’t ask what's in it, don’t ask what it does. That’s not your job." He slid over a small black vial, glowing faintly under the light. "I want it in the Village of Love. Spread it like wildfire. Bribe them if you have to—teens, elders, I don’t care. Especially the youth. Turn that place upside down. Destroy the unity. Break their emotion. Crush what I could never buy." Vico, calm but curious, asked, “Deadline?” Drew’s jaw tightened. He stared at the clock. "Forty-seven hours. Eight minutes." Vico didn’t blink. “Done.” This was it. The real mission. The reason Drew became a monster. Not for love. Not for money. But to burn down everything he never had.