Ibiza's pulsating nightlife was Christopher's perfect disguise. During the summer, its renowned electronic dance music scene thrummed with life, a vibrant chaos of flashing lights and bass so deep it vibrated in your bones. It was the ideal cover, a place where anything, and anyone, could be masked by the sheer energy of the crowd.
Christopher stood behind a massive, ultramodern DJ setup, its glowing LED lights and sleek dials was his domain. The crowd pulsed, a single organism swaying in sync with the beat, eagerly awaiting the next wave of sound to wash over them. Inside the booth, his equipment gleamed: two turntables, a mixer, his headphones, and a laptop with carefully curated tracks lined up for the night. This was not just about technical skill. This was where his divine influence merged with his profound love for music.
He leaned in, one hand adjusting his headphones, the other scrolling through a playlist. He was searching for the perfect reggaeton track, something heavy on the dembow beat. That infectious, danceable rhythm that was the genre's signature. His focus was absolute, but a flicker of something else, an excitement only he understood, danced in his eyes. His fingers hovered over the trackpad, waiting for the precise moment when the crowd's energy would perfectly align with the rhythm in his headphones.
The deep, rolling dembow beat kicked in, steady and hypnotic. Its bass-heavy rhythm instantly ignited the dancefloor. Characterized by a syncopated kick and snare pattern, the dembow formed the primal backbone of every reggaeton track. The music pulsed through Christopher as if his own heartbeat was intrinsically linked to the rhythm. The percussive elements—claves, snares, and electronic hi-hats—formed a hard-hitting, cyclical rhythm that swept the crowd into its wake. Layered synths and Latin melodies soared above it all, creating that perfect fusion of Puerto Rican sound and modern club energy.
With one hand on the fader, Christopher masterfully transitioned between tracks. As the current song began its subtle fade, he expertly built anticipation, introducing a new, low-frequency beat underneath it. The crowd did not consciously realize it, but they were already subconsciously moving to the rhythm of the next track.
Christopher loved to blend variations of reggaeton, infusing classic dembow rhythms with elements of EDM, Afrobeat, and trap. He seamlessly wove the old with the new, carefully adjusting the tempo to ensure a continuous, flowing energy that never allowed the dancefloor to dip.
He turned the filter knob, gradually stripping away the high frequencies of the outgoing track. A collective ripple of anticipation went through the crowd, a brief moment of palpable tension. Then, with a sharp twist of the crossfader, the new track burst through the speakers with full intensity, instantly bringing the energy back to a peak. The crowd roared, and Christopher could not help but smile. He knew exactly which buttons to press—both literally and figuratively—to keep them enthralled.
Using the mixer’s controls, he manipulated the beat, enhancing the performance with stuttering effects, quick reverb hits, and smooth EQ transitions that highlighted crucial beats and vocals. Occasionally, he would loop a catchy section of a song, extending the crowd's favourite moments. He would build tension, playing with the beat, before dropping back into the chorus and unleashing an explosion of movement on the dancefloor.
He lifted his hand from the deck, encouraging the crowd to clap in time with the beat, their hands rising and falling as if guided by invisible strings. The dembow rhythm took over once more, and Christopher leaned into the flow, letting the music speak for itself.
Beyond just playing music, Christopher watched the crowd. He instinctively sensed the ebb and flow of their energy, knowing precisely when to slow things down and when to push for another peak. This was where his divine intuition truly came into play. The slight tilt of someone’s head, the sway of their hips, a fleeting glance between two strangers. He saw it all.
It was not just about the music; it was about connection. He could feel love sparking between two people even before they recognized it themselves. In these moments, he subtly adjusted the music to heighten that sense of euphoria, amplifying the emotional ties forming on the dancefloor.
Christopher was not just a DJ. He was a performer. Between mixing tracks, he raised his hands to hype up the crowd, his charisma radiating throughout the venue. “Let’s go, Ibiza!” he shouted, his voice becoming part of the energy, his words flowing seamlessly into the rhythm of the music. With every beat, he felt the subtle shifts in emotion, the magnetic pull of hearts.
As the music swelled, he grabbed the mic again, leaning in to shout, “Who’s ready to feel the love tonight?” The crowd screamed back, and for a moment, Christopher allowed himself to bask in the rush, the profound connection with them. It was intoxicating, but fleeting—just like everything else in his life.
To them, he was simply Chris, the island's hottest DJ but beneath the perfect smile and smooth charm lay a far more ancient truth. He was Cupid, god of love and desire, forever bound to orchestrate connections for others while knowing he could never experience it himself.
His divine intuition honed in on a spark between two strangers who had just locked eyes across the room. In a matter of moments, a connection would ignite, and there would be another pairing he had facilitated, unseen.
He lived for this. The thrill of aligning hearts, of guiding love to bloom where it might otherwise falter. It was all he had known for centuries, but it was also his curse.
As the track reached its crescendo, Christopher allowed his eyes to drift toward the far corner of the club, where two people sat apart, stealing glances, their hearts on the cusp of something more. He felt the familiar tug of duty pulling him in their direction. With a soft exhale, he adjusted the sound, blending tones that heightened the mood, subtly pushing the pair closer together without them even realizing it. He felt the connection snap into place. Another match. Another love story set in motion.
And yet, as the energy surged through him, the emptiness inside grew deeper. He stepped back from the booth, letting his assistant take over, and retreated to the rooftop lounge. It was his escape from the constant reminder that the love he brought to others could never be his.
The moon hung low over the ocean, casting silver threads across the waves, but even this quiet beauty could not soothe the ache. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Through an ancient messaging system, now conveniently modernized, he was being summoned back to Olympus for a report.
He ignored it, choosing instead to let his thoughts disentangle in the cool breeze.
For centuries, Christopher had avoided temptation. He had been careful, cautious, meticulously abiding by the rules that bound him: Gods could never fall in love with mortals. He was forbidden from feeling the very thing he spent his immortal life creating for others. The gods had warned him long ago of the dangers, of what happened when immortals coveted human desires, of how easily gods could lose themselves in the fleeting passions of mortals.
Was this all there was for him? Pairing strangers, only to retreat to solitude as they embraced the joy he would never know?
He closed his eyes, letting the sea breeze wash over him, trying to remember the words of Aphrodite from long ago. She had warned him, “You are love’s servant, not its beneficiary.” At the time, he had accepted it without question. Now, though, those words haunted him.
A flash of laughter from below drew his attention. Another couple, giggling and twirling under the moonlight, lost in each other’s gaze. He could feel the intensity of their emotions, the palpable heat of the passion swirling between them. Christopher clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the feelings that could never be his. This was the life he had chosen. The life he was bound to. A life without love.
His phone buzzed again, but this time, it was not Olympus. It was a message from Sam, his best friend and assistant. “Club’s packed. You gonna help or what?”
Christopher sighed, knowing his responsibilities called. He could not afford to dwell on his own desires. Not when there were hearts out there waiting to be nudged in the right direction.
As he walked back to the pulsating heart of the club, an unfamiliar feeling gnawed at him. A sense of longing. It was stronger than it had ever been before. Somewhere deep inside, a question began to take root. What if—for once—he did not resist?
CONTINUE READING
