Page 19

Just a man who couldn't sleep, trying to be better than his worst impulses. Trying to deserve the trust of someone who saw past the blood on his hands.

The clock showed 4:47 AM. Still hours before Vincent would wake, before I'd have to pretend I'd slept, pretend I was stable enough to protect him instead of being the thing he needed protection from.

My phone buzzed, screen illuminating. Finally, an answer from Frankie. I’d texted him before going to bed, just in case he saw it overnight. Apparently, he had.

NEED TO TALK. AVGOSPITO. 30 MIN. COME ALONE.

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Avgospito was the greasy spoon diner tucked in the far corner of the Acropolis.

The Pantheon's version of a Waffle House, complete with sticky menus and waitresses who called everyone "honey" regardless of whether they'd killed ten people or a hundred.

I glanced toward Vincent's room, weighing the risk of leaving him alone against the potential information Frankie might provide. Information we desperately needed if we were going to survive.

I typed: BE THERE. DON'T FUCK WITH ME.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally: WOULDN'T DREAM OF IT, PRINCESS .

I sighed, dragging myself upright despite the exhaustion weighing down every cell. Sleep would have to wait. I scribbled a quick note for Vincent in case he woke early—GONE FOR INTEL. BACK SOON. STAY HERE—and placed it on the coffee table beneath a green gummy worm for emphasis.

As I pulled on my jacket and checked my weapons, I fought the impulse to look in on Vincent one more time. That would be a weakness I couldn't afford, not with the fever already crawling through my system and Frankie waiting with information that might mean life or death.

One last glance at the cracked bedroom door, then I slipped out into the Acropolis corridors, heading toward what I hoped was answers and not another betrayal.

"You look like shit," Frankie said, sliding a mug of coffee across the table.

The neon lights of the Acropolis's underground diner cast his scarred face in sickly blue shadows.

Five in the morning, and somehow he still looked pressed and polished in his tailored suit while I felt like something dragged through hell and back.

My broken nose throbbed with every heartbeat, the pain radiating outward like toxic ripples in a poisoned pond.

Heat crawled under my skin, my fever building despite the three ibuprofen I'd choked down before heading out.

"Thanks. Been a rough night." I ignored the coffee. Fever made everything taste like I was sucking on pennies anyway. "So. This contract."

"The contract wasn't my call, kid."

"Bullshit. You're the handler." My voice came out raw from the night's insomnia and the infection clearly taking hold in my system.

"For this region, sure." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "But this came direct from Prometheus himself. He’s the one who told me to make sure you did the job. Made it clear as day."

My skin froze despite the fever ravaging me. Ice and fire coexisted, my core crystallizing while my skin smoldered, a walking contradiction of extremes. "But why Vincent? He's nobody."

"That's what I thought." Frankie's fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the table. "Then I looked closer. Turns out it wasn't about the therapist at all."

"What do you mean?"

"It was about you." His dark eyes locked with mine. "Prometheus called it a 'loyalty reinforcement exercise.'"

The phrase hit like a blade between the ribs, twisting until I could taste blood at the back of my throat. Loyalty reinforcement. Code for when they suspected an asset might be developing independent thought.

"So Vincent was just... convenient?" The thought made my stomach twist, acid burning up my esophagus. Another innocent caught in Prometheus's web because of me.

Frankie shrugged, casual as if discussing lunch plans instead of a death sentence.

"Maybe. But maybe not. Word is, the guy’s got an uncanny ability.

Special training on deprogramming. Maybe Prometheus thought he was killing two birds with one stone.

Test you and take out the one motherfucker in this city who could steal his assets away from him.

Who the fuck knows? I sure don’t and I know better than to ask.

When the director says jump, I say ‘yes, sir.’"

My vision went red, rage surging through my fever-addled system like napalm. Vincent. Gentle, perceptive Vincent with his plant conversations and his steady hands. Vincent, who'd looked at a killer and seen a person worth saving. Reduced to a fucking test piece in Prometheus's sick games.

My fingers dug into the edge of the table, wood creaking under the pressure. I wanted to flip it, smash the mugs, tear apart the entire Acropolis brick by fucking brick until I reached Prometheus and ripped out his throat with my bare hands.

"So I was never meant to succeed," I said, voice deadly quiet. "He wanted me to fail the test."

"Or pass it by killing the therapist without question," Frankie countered. "Win-win for him either way. If you killed Matthews, your conditioning still held. If you hesitated, he had justification to bring you in for... reconditioning."

"And I failed spectacularly." I laughed without humor, the sound scraping raw in my throat. Each word sent fresh spikes of pain through my broken nose, cartilage grinding against itself in a way that made my eyes water.

"You're not the only one being tested these days," Frankie muttered.

“What do you mean?”

Frankie glanced over his shoulder, paranoia in every line of his body. "You hear about Apollo in Asia? Missing, resumed dead?"

"Yeah, since January. "

"And Triton in Oceania?" Frankie's mouth twisted. "Didn't even get a proper death notice in the official report. Just 'confirmed dead.' Now they've got some new guy calling himself Poseidon."

I frowned, trying to connect dots through the haze of fever. My thoughts felt slippery, hard to grasp. "You think Prometheus is behind these disappearances?"

"Fuck no." Frankie's voice dropped further, barely audible above the hum of the diner's ancient refrigeration unit.

"He's terrified he's next. This house cleaning has been going on since Hephaestus got ousted.

His sister Hera's been running Eastern Europe ever since, but the turnover in the other regions?

That's been accelerating. Prometheus is consolidating power because he's running scared. "

The Hephaestus situation. Eight years ago, the youngest director in Pantheon history ruled Eastern Europe for three years before his twin sister challenged him to a duel. Then he just... disappeared. No body, no witnesses, just gone.

"Word is, something's happening above the Seven," Frankie continued. "Some shadowy eighth player making moves. The Seven have always been the public face, but there's always been whispers about who really pulls the strings."

"So why tell me this?" I asked, blinking hard to force clarity back into my sight. "Why help me at all?"

Frankie studied his coffee for a long moment, steam curling upward like ghostly fingers. "Insurance," he finally said. "Prometheus is getting erratic. Making things personal. When directors start acting like dictators, shit goes sideways fast. I'm just... hedging my bets."

"By warning the guy with a price on his head?"

"By making sure someone knows what's really happening when the shit finally hits the fan.

" He reached for his coffee, and I noticed something I'd never seen before—a slight tremor in his hand.

Frankie was scared. The realization sent ice through my veins.

In ten years, I'd never seen Frankie scared of anything.

"Rhadamanthys arrives today," Frankie continued. "Word is, he's personally interested in your situation."

"The Judges are supposed to be neutral." I tried to focus on his face, but it kept doubling, shifting in and out of clarity like a bad satellite signal.

"Neutral doesn't mean uninvolved," Frankie replied. "It means he serves justice, not sides. And Rhadamanthys... he has his own interpretation of justice. Theatrical bastard with his cowboy hat and those damn spurs that announce his arrival like some spaghetti western antihero."

"And that's bad for me how?" My head throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, each pulse jackhammering fresh agony through my skull until light itself became a weapon.

"Depends entirely on what he sees when he looks at you," Frankie said, leaning forward. "A rogue asset who broke sacred oaths? Or a man breaking free of control? Either way, he's coming to witness whatever happens next. The man loves a good showdown."

"Great. Judge, jury, and critic all in one package," I muttered.

"Don't underestimate him, Luka. Behind all that theatrical bullshit is a man who's served the Pantheon longer than both of us combined. He sees things others miss. And if he's personally interested in your situation..." Frankie shook his head. "It means something bigger is at play."

"Bigger than Prometheus?"

"Much bigger. Which means you either have a powerful enemy or a powerful ally. The question is, which? "

“Well, at least now I know how fucked I am.” If the hit had come from Prometheus himself, there would be no talking him out of it. The only way this would end was with blood.

Frankie stood, scattering bills across the table like dead leaves. "Watch your back, Luka. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

He walked out without looking back, leaving me alone with a cooling coffee and a napkin that felt radioactive in my palm.

Vincent had never been anything but a test. A way to gauge my loyalty, to see if my programming still held.

And I'd failed spectacularly, proving whatever they'd suspected about my conditioning breaking down.

I tried to stand and immediately regretted it.

The room spun violently, floor and ceiling trading places in a nauseating carousel.

I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white, waiting for the vertigo to pass.

My legs trembled beneath me, muscles burning with the effort of holding me upright.

Each breath scraped through my lungs like I was inhaling ground glass.

Fuck. The infection was moving faster than I'd anticipated, fever spiking higher than should be possible this quickly. I needed to get back to Vincent before I completely crashed. Needed to tell him what Frankie had revealed. Needed to make plans before Rhadamanthys arrived.

The walk across the Acropolis's main concourse stretched into an endless nightmare. Distances warped and twisted, ten feet expanding into a hundred, then a thousand.

The fever clawed deeper with each step, hooking talons into my brain stem and pulling. Reality fractured into kaleidoscope shards that refused to align. My mouth filled with the taste of copper and rot, infection spreading through my system faster than my body could fight it .

I imagined Rhadamanthys watching me struggle from some hidden vantage point, spinning his dramatic tales about love and sacrifice while noting my every weakness. Would he see a man worth saving or just another broken asset ready for disposal? Did I even care what judgment he might render?

Yes, I realized. I did care. Not for myself, but for what his verdict might mean for Vincent's safety.

Each step became a war against gravity. Step, breathe, steady. Step, breathe, steady. My body became enemy territory, organs revolting one by one. The infection marched through me, conquering territories—lymph nodes, bloodstream, rational thought.

Sweat drenched my shirt, plastering fabric to skin while my body betrayed me—freezing one moment, burning the next, never deciding which hell to commit to. The cut on my cheek throbbed in time with my pulse, each beat sending fresh spikes of pain through my skull.

By the time I reached our apartment, the world had narrowed to a tunnel of shifting shadows. I leaned heavily against the wall, lungs burning with the effort of drawing breath, my skin on fire. My fingers fumbled with the access panel, missing the code twice before finally connecting.

The door slid open silently. Relief washed through me when I spotted my note still on the coffee table, the gummy worm undisturbed. Vincent hadn't woken yet.

I staggered to the couch, every step a negotiation with gravity. Mission accomplished. Made it back before Vincent could worry. Got the intel we needed. Now I just needed to rest. Just for a minute. Just until the room stopped spinning.

I collapsed onto the cushions, the fever raging through me like wildfire. My last coherent thought was that I needed to tell Vincent about Frankie's warning, about Rhadamanthys, about the test. About everything.

But darkness claimed me before I could form another thought, dragging me down into feverish oblivion where Prometheus waited with fire for a face and endless questions I couldn't answer.