We live in a world where UKARI—the Japanese government's answer to the demographic crisis—has spread across the entire planet. Future spouses are assigned to us based on our preferences, psychological profiles, and genetics. Sometimes it's just a formal stamp on whoever you're already dating; other times, the system predicts the exact day your random teenage crush will fall apart and assigns you a match right after. That's how scarily accurate its modeling is—or at least, that's what the commercials say.
They got rid of strict age limits, so you might get your notification at sixteen or twenty-two. But on paper, somewhere between the oven and the freezer the temperature is just fine. Sure, you can opt out or challenge the system, but waiting gets expensive, and overall happiness metrics drop with every passing year. Early marriages are the norm now, divorces are practically unheard of (you're more likely to become a widower in a freak accident), and the match pool shrinks by the day. Bottom line: the earlier you start, the better. Besides, your first match is free and guaranteed to be your "optimal partner."
Naturally, I've been waiting for my notification since I turned fourteen—mostly because I'm a lazy ass and can't be bothered to figure out my own love life. Don't get me wrong, I've had crushes before, but it was nothing like the ads. You actually had to walk up to a girl, confess your feelings, and inevitably get rejected. And since I've fallen in love more than once, I figured random romance was a waste of time. It's always the same endless loop, and I hate repeating myself. If I'm giving away my first kiss, I want it to be to the girl I'm going to build a lifelong future with.
Honestly, I'm a little jealous right now. Almost everyone in my class already has a match. The only ones left out are me and Lena. People won't stop trying to set us up, which is annoying as hell. Honestly, it's super rare for a couple to come from the same school anyway. On top of that, Lena and I aren't even each other's type. It's not that it's impossible between us—it just definitely doesn't feel like a UKARI-approved match.
And then, right after PE class, my phone finally buzzed.
UKARI (2)
Weird. A duplicate message.
(1) In accordance with the National Program for Family Support and Harmonious Social Development, you have been assigned your spouse: Christina. Click the link to register your consent.
(2) In accordance with the National Program for Family Support and Harmonious Social Development, you have been assigned your spouse: Christina. Click the link to register your consent.
Okay, if a text duplicates, you're supposed to tap the latest one so you don't use an expired link. Maybe my network provider glitched, and this was supposed to have been delivered last week? I'll have to complain to my parents later.
I clicked the link and was immediately taken to Christina's profile. She was actually really pretty: chestnut hair, blue eyes... and they even listed her measurements, which was slightly awkward. Then again, I hoped my own anatomical details made her just as uncomfortable—assuming she bothered to check.
According to her bio, she had great grades and played the flute. Weird. I've never really been into music. But whatever, UKARI is supposed to know what it's doing. I'll take her.
I confirmed my consent, my age, and agreed to the Terms of Service—which, naturally, I didn't bother reading for the second time. You can always back out later anyway. Not that I plan to. Theoretically speaking, this is the absolute best starting hand I could be dealt. The only annoying part was that I couldn't start chatting with her right away; instead, I had to open a calendar and select my availability for our first date.
I just pressed my finger down and highlighted every single slot. Confirm.
An instant notification from UKARI popped up:
Your first date with your assigned fiancée, Christina, is scheduled for tomorrow at 4:00 PM. Please select your preferred location:
a) Groom's residence
b) Bride's residence
c) Registry office
d) Reserved private venue
I picked the registry office.
I was practically buzzing with excitement. I couldn't focus on a single thing for the rest of my classes. Hell, I was already falling for her photo—getting a head start, so to speak. I didn't want to waste any time.
A moment later, a location adjustment request came through: Bride's residence. If I declined, her system would automatically default to my original choice, the registry office. I clicked accept. Her place it is.
"Mom! Mom!" I bragged the second I crossed the threshold of my house. "I got assigned a wife!"
"Fiancée," Mom corrected immediately from the hallway. "You can't even get married for another six months."
"Whatever, same difference. I'm not changing my mind anyway."
"You know, there was this one boy who—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know the story," I interrupted. "He accidentally married an old lady because he was too lazy to go on dates. But they send you photos with the profile now."
"Glitches happen."
"Right, then I should probably go buy a lottery ticket," I smirked, tossing my backpack aside and pulling out my phone to show her Christina.
"Do you even like her?" Mom asked, voicing her own deep-seated trauma. Her biggest fear back in the day had been that Dad would turn out great in every way except his looks—since she had ranked appearance dead last among her preferences.
"I do now," I grinned, flashing the screen.
"Are you sure that picture isn't Photoshopped?"
"Doesn't matter," I said, heading toward my room. "Worst-case scenario, I'll just turn off the lights. In the dark, a face is just a spark."
"Don't talk like that!" Mom said, appalled. "You'll scare the poor girl away with an attitude like that. You're supposed to tell girls they look even better in real life than in photos."
"Mom," I yelled back from my room while changing out of my school clothes. "UKARI updates constantly. It even factors in my bad attitude. Do you still think it's recording our conversations for the Freemasons?"
"Fine," Mom said, stopping by my open doorway. "When's the first date?"
"Tomorrow at four," I replied, pulling on a worn-out t-shirt.
"I can't make it tomorrow," Mom said, frowning. "Make it the weekend."
"I already agreed to go to her place."
"Reschedule it."
"Can't," I lied seamlessly.
Mom immediately got pouty. She was offended that I didn't want to bring her along for the official "meet-the-in-laws" inspection. She had been preparing for this moment for years—she'd even bought a special suit for it. Sure, she'd already worn it to a few work parties, but it still looked practically new.
When my dad got home later, he grumbled too, threatening that next time he wouldn't care about my opinion on family vacations and would just take Mom wherever the two of them wanted to go.
I tried to explain to them that this was just an initial business-style meet-up, and we'd introduce the parents later. Besides, it wasn't like her whole family would be home at 4:00 PM anyway. The only reason my mom was off work today was because she'd just wrapped up some big project. Normal adults are at work at four on a weekday.
In the end, I promised them a proper, formal dinner later—on my dime.