One year ago.
On the third day after the 100% match result came out, Ivy received the marriage application.
A thick stack, heavy and substantial.
The delivery robot politely reminded her that its mechanical arm had loosened a few screws under the weight of the documents and needed timely repairs.
At first, Ivy thought it was a set of advanced mathematics textbooks sent by her school.
Upon opening it, she was stunned.
This marriage application had been drafted and finalized unilaterally by her partner, Mr. Hector.
Due to the special nature of his identity, what should have been a simple one-page application had turned into a thick book. Ivy skimmed through a few pages and quickly signed her name on the last page.
In her eyes, this marriage, based on the Marriage Intention Survey, was like a breeding experiment in a scientific pig farm.
They were the lab rats in this experiment.
Well.
Such thoughts couldn’t be shared with outsiders, especially with this "partner" who had seemingly dropped from the sky. Hector worked for the government, holding a significant position in the military, and nowadays, the world’s population was closely tied to his work.
Who knew if Hector himself had played a role in pushing forward these measures to promote population growth?
What Ivy couldn’t understand was why she was his 100% match.
She did consider herself exceptional, but given Hector’s old-fashioned and rigid personality, his requirements probably went far beyond just "exceptional."
Regardless, matching with her was undoubtedly a stroke of luck for him.
Ivy: "Unbelievable."
Ivy: "That didn’t look like a marriage application at all—it was more like his personal resume!"
Ivy: "Can you imagine? It even included his entire life history, from childhood to adulthood."
Ivy: "There was even a certificate from a kindergarten long-distance running competition."
Ivy: "Is this guy applying for a job or something?"
Ivy: "Oh my god."
Ivy: "You won’t believe what I found—there was even personal information about his friends in there."
Ivy: "I felt like I was reading the first half of Mr. Hector’s life."
Ivy: "Is he a robot or something?"
Her friend Lily was equally shocked after reading her long string of messages.
Lily: "Calm down."
Lily: "Current laws don’t allow relationships between humans and androids, clones, or robots."
Lily: "But most people who reach his level are ruthless individuals…"
Lily: "Are you really going to marry him?"
Ivy: "TVT"
Ivy: "Yes."
Yes.
She had no other choice.
She had already decided to trade marriage for the freedom to choose her career. Backing out now would seem inappropriate.
Lily was full of sympathy: "I wish you the best."
Lily: "I sincerely hope you and this mysterious ‘quasi-robot’ gentleman can have pleasant conversations."
Pleasant conversations?
She couldn’t imagine having anything in common with someone who still insisted on writing letters with a fountain pen.
Luckily, Hector was a workaholic, currently on a classified mission. Given the circumstances, it was likely that they would spend more time apart than together, so she wouldn’t be too constrained by this marriage.
But there was one thing Ivy hadn’t anticipated.
She didn’t see Hector until the wedding day.
Mr. Hector was busier than Ivy had imagined.
Engaged in military affairs, he was chasing down rogue robots on the day of the wedding, missing even the vows. He only managed to rush in during the banquet when the guests were raising their glasses in celebration.
By then, Ivy was already drunk.
Although she had prepared herself to treat this marriage as a job, it was still a significant event.
Her partner’s absence during most of the ceremony left Ivy feeling disheartened.
What made it worse was that both of her ex-boyfriends were also present at the wedding.
If she didn’t know their character, Ivy would have thought they were there to laugh at her.
Over the past few decades, the government had been striving to eliminate class disparities, but achieving complete equality remained elusive. Everyone had hoped that the AI revolution would bring about new productivity, but the rapid development of technology had instead exacerbated the imbalance in resource distribution.
Ivy and her peers were fortunate to live in the relatively stable Zone One, but even there, true "equality for all" was unattainable.
Take Hector, for example.
Not to mention his parents held high-ranking positions, working for secretive government departments; his own resume was impressive enough to make Ivy’s father, who had once firmly opposed government-arranged marriages, change his tune and ask, "Are you really sure you don’t want to reconsider?"
This marriage, based on information matching and lacking emotional foundation, with such a disparity in status, was not widely supported by the public.
The notion that it "felt like breeding" wasn’t unique to Ivy.
A portion of the population strongly opposed these information-based surveys, believing the government was illegally collecting their personal data and infringing on their human rights. Whether their sexual orientation was heterosexual, homosexual, or even non-human—ranging from tables, chairs, shoes, trees, to animals (the legality of which was still under debate)—
Their partners could never be included in the Marriage Intention Survey, which they saw as a form of discrimination.
As the first successfully matched couple, the pressure on this marriage was immense.
The bride-to-be, Ivy, felt a slight sense of anxiety.
Due to differing aesthetic standards, many subjective preferences couldn’t be strictly enforced. For example, writing "I want a handsome man" on the Marriage Intention Survey didn’t guarantee success.
As everyone knew, if you threw a shoe into a men’s restroom, nine out of ten men would consider themselves very handsome, and the last one would think he was drop-dead gorgeous.
She had no idea what this matched man looked like—she hadn’t dared to look at his photo. What if she found him utterly unappealing?
Then there were the detailed measurements about his physique, some of which were data Ivy had intended to use for customizing a companion robot. Some numbers were precise down to the millimeter.
It was worth noting that some of those numbers were a bit excessive.
When she was customizing the companion robot, her friend Lily had sent her a warning.
"Don’t base it on those erotic novels; if you follow those, you might need anesthesia just to make it fit."
Before Ivy could make any adjustments, she was asked to fill out the survey. The form had a word limit, so she copied and pasted the initial draft of her companion robot customization document.
From there, things spiraled out of control.
Lily had asked Ivy in shock what she had filled out to match with someone like Hector.
Ivy had wanted to reply despairingly that she had filled out something requiring anesthesia.
But her remaining rationality made her respond more restrainedly.
"I made a sincere wish to God."
At the wedding banquet, her ex-boyfriends also came to toast her. The older one politely said some formal words, smiling as he wished her a happy marriage and thoughtfully reminded her to drink less, as it wasn’t good for her brain.
The younger one, closer to her age, couldn’t hold back. He gripped his glass so tightly that his knuckles cracked. Through gritted teeth, he said sarcastically, "You’ve finally gotten what you wanted, huh."
Ivy automatically interpreted this as "finally making it into the exploration team."
She responded with a cheerful smile.
He didn’t seem too pleased.
Fortunately, Ivy had always been emotionally detached—or perhaps, cold-hearted.
Not just her ex-boyfriend of the same age, but some teachers and friends also described her this way, saying they rarely saw intense or deep emotions from her. It was as if she had shut those feelings out.
The only one who gave a different opinion was the older ex-boyfriend, who had gently stroked her hair and said she simply didn’t want to experience love that could be lost.
He was an excellent doctor with a strong scholarly aura, mellow like a fine aged wine, but not the right fit for Ivy.
In any case, after awkwardly drinking the toasts from her ex-boyfriends, Ivy was already slightly tipsy.
It was at this moment that Hector finally arrived at the wedding banquet, effortlessly spotting her in the crowd.
Ivy couldn’t remember how he had taken her to the resting area. Their parents had prepared a residence for the newlyweds—a clean, spacious house with excellent soundproofing—but she kept shaking her head, insisting on going home.
Hector drove her back.
Upon entering her home, he explained the situation to her parents.
Ivy stumbled back to her room first, collapsing onto the bed and lying flat, motionless.
From the bed, Ivy heard Hector saying his goodbyes, only to be stopped by her parents.
Her father spoke hesitantly, "...After all, you two are already married. This is your wedding night... Besides, feelings need time to grow..."
Hector's voice was low and devoid of emotion, like the deep resonance of a freshly crafted spruce bass violin: "I understand."
Ivy wasn't sure what her father meant by "grow feelings."
Given that they were her biological parents, it probably didn't mean forcing her into bed.
Footsteps approached, and she heard him close the door. The bed dipped slightly beside her as he sat down, keeping a respectful distance.
Ivy turned her head to look but couldn't see his face. Instead, she saw his hands—large, with long fingers and prominent bones. A long scar ran across the back of his right hand, resembling the graze of a high-speed bullet.
With today's advanced medical technology, such a scar could be removed in less than a month. Yet, he had chosen to keep it.
Either he held a grudge or simply didn't care about appearances.
Those hands, marked by a fierce scar, were restrained. They didn't immediately reach out to touch her face, nor did they attempt to undo her clothes or pull out anything to defile her.
Ivy considered herself lucky. She hadn't been matched with a desperate scoundrel.
He undid the cufflinks of his sleeves, rolling up the black shirt to reveal a well-defined forearm, muscular and strong, yet surprisingly well-groomed—neat and clean, free from any hint of wild, unkempt roughness.
He even smelled clean, like cold, polished metal.
The man leaned closer. "You look thirsty," he said, a statement delivered with the confidence of someone accustomed to giving orders.
Ivy remained silent.
Taking her silence as consent, he poured a glass of water. He didn't urge her to drink, simply placing it on the table.
Then he began to undress.
It was only then that Ivy noticed he was wearing a military-style black shirt.
Her perfectly matched partner had a tall, broad-shouldered frame with a lean waist. A dark, silver-buckled military belt cinched his torso tightly. Slowly, Ivy realized he must have come straight from a mission, not even having time to change, only hastily throwing on a matching suit jacket for the wedding.
She caught a faint whiff of gunpowder and the subtle burnt scent of laser burns.
But there was something more pressing at the moment.
This was their wedding night.
Typically, it was a time for the couple to connect more intimately.
Especially for them, it felt like the beginning of a romance novel where love blossoms after marriage.
Ivy spoke her first words to him: "Do you want to sleep with me?"
Hector, who had been unbuttoning his shirt, paused and looked at her, surprised.
After a brief moment of thought, he nodded expressionlessly.
"Sure," he said, "if that's what you need."
