The sheets smelled like betrayal—cheap perfume and salt.
Zeus blinked into the gray haze of morning, his bare torso slick with sweat that wasn't entirely his own. Beside him lay Clara, her pale body tangled in silk sheets, still dreaming or pretending to be. Her lips parted slightly as she breathed, but there was no softness in it—just the shallow rhythm of someone who'd survived the night and wasn't sure if they wanted to thank him for it.
He didn't bother looking at her face. He knew what he'd see: exhaustion, regret, maybe even a flicker of hatred disguised as gratitude. Instead, he slid a finger down her spine, slow and deliberate, like a surgeon marking where he'd cut next. She shivered under his touch—not from pleasure, but instinct.
"Still alive?" he murmured, voice rough enough to scrape skin.
She stirred, murmuring something wet and desperate before rolling away from him. Zeus smirked. *Good*. Let her stew in whatever guilt she carried; it made her easier to handle.
He rose, naked and unashamed, the city sprawled beneath him like a corpse waiting to rot. London groaned below—cars honking, people shouting, rain spitting against glass windows streaked with grime. The sky hung heavy, clouds swollen with rain that refused to fall. It mirrored the mood of everyone down there—the ones clawing their way through life, hoping for scraps of love or lust to keep them going.
But Zeus wasn't like them.
Letting weather dictate emotions? Pathetic.
He'd built an empire on sharper things: the skip in a heartbeat when he leaned too close, the way pupils dilated like targets when he said exactly what they needed to hear. Chaos was his native tongue, and seduction its sharpest dialect.
A knock shattered the quiet.
"Enter," he called, lighting a cigarette.
The door creaked open.
Lena stood there—all ink-stained fingers and poison disguised as perfume. Her eyes—feral, fractured green things—scanned the room, lingering on Clara's form before settling on him. A muscle twitched in her jaw.
"Still collecting strays, I see," she said, tossing a manila envelope onto the marble table. It landed with a slap. Inside: photos of a diplomat's wife, a clandestine kiss, a price tag written in blood.
"Complicated is my specialty," he drawled, exhaling smoke.
Lena laughed—a sound sharp enough to slice bone. "Is that what you told Clara?" She nodded toward the bed. "Or did you skip the lies this time?"
Clara shifted, murmuring something incoherent.
Zeus didn't glance at her. "Clara's not here." His tone was final, cutting. "You are."
Her throat worked, swallowing whatever retort she'd planned. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Games imply rules." He stepped closer, close enough to smell the espresso on her breath, the salt of old tears. "You've been dying for me to break yours."
Her laugh cracked halfway through. "Don't."
"Don't what?" He traced her wrist, where a faded scar spelled *ZEUS* in jagged script—a souvenir from their first collision. "You want me to stop?" His thumb pressed harder. "Or do you want me to mean it?"
The door slammed again.
Eris sauntered in—black leather, blood-red lips, temper like a lit match dropped into gasoline. Her eyes flicked from Lena to the bed, and her laugh was a grenade pin hitting the floor. "Two heartbeats in here," she purred. "How… *generous*."
Zeus grinned. Finally. The storm he'd been craving.
Lena stiffened. "You're late."
"Am I?" Eris swayed closer, hips a pendulum of barely leashed rage. She dragged a knife from her boot—his knife, the one he'd gifted her last winter—and pressed it to Lena's throat. "Miss me, darling?"
Lena didn't blink. "You're slipping. He hasn't even touched you yet."
Eris's smile went feral. "Oh, he will. After I peel your skin off for that stunt in Prague."
Zeus leaned back, savoring it—the hatred, the hunger, the way both women leaned into the blade like it was a sacrament. This was the drug. Not the sex, not the power. The drama. The exquisite, excruciating dance of hearts on fire.
"Ladies," he drawled, stubbing out his cigarette. "You're both breathtaking. Now… *dance*."
The knife bit deeper. Lena's pulse fluttered.
And somewhere, in the chaos, a clock ticked.
By dawn, the apartment was silent except for the faint hum of rain against the windows. Zeus stood on the balcony, shirtless, smoking another cigarette. Below, the city stirred sluggishly, oblivious to the wars waged above it.
Behind him, Lena and Eris sat on opposite ends of the couch, neither speaking, neither moving. Their gazes avoided each other, but the air crackled with unspoken promises and threats.
Zeus turned, catching their reflections in the glass doors. For a moment, he let himself imagine what they saw when they looked at him: a monster wearing a man's face.
He crushed the cigarette underfoot and walked back inside.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice soft but carrying the weight of a command. Neither woman answered.
Outside, the rain finally fell.
After bathing, he suited up for work, from his coat to the small pin, all glowing with wealth, worthy of a CEO of the business which was now hot right now, as AI ramped every market up. No, he hadn't gotten the position with skills. He got it through his devilish tongue only. Even the woman who he bedded was the daughter of the shareholder. Her father close with him through their relations.
After months of probing and seducing the lady, he finally became hers a month ago. And came with it his present position as CEO.
He smiled at the mirror of the elevator. His ugly mug now sharpened with proper care. His dark hair with his sharp hairline. To his clear jawline. Everything honed with precise exercises. With enough products, his face was now the pinnacle of male beauty.
*Ting!*
A notification came, surprising him—he wasn't scheduled for any. And with that sound, he already knew whose phone he had mistakenly brought. It was Jessica's. The lady who was sleeping deeply on his bed. A notification of a dating game she was playing for a whole month. Dragging him into it as well. He was damned to play such childish games but to get to her pants he played it with her. And finished it as quickly as possible.
"Have to go back again...." he grunted as he pressed the highest floor number available.
*Ting!*
Another notification came as he checked again.
[Congratulations You are CHOSEN]
"What the fuck?" he murmured, complaining as the lights flickered and the entire elevator shook.
"...Sh...shit! Don't tell me.... No no no no…"
As he complained, the elevator started falling down fast and faster until...
*BAAAM!!!*
His body slammed against the wall, pain exploding through every nerve as shards of glass and steel pierced his skin. Blood pooled beneath him, hot and sticky, mingling with the cold sweat that slicked his flesh. He could taste copper on his tongue—sharp, metallic, bitter—and it made him gag. But worse than the physical agony was the suffocating weight of failure pressing down on his chest.
'How fucking unfair.'
He'd clawed his way to the top, sharpened every edge of himself until he gleamed like polished marble. And for what? To die here, alone, crushed by fate's cruel hand? No funeral, no legacy—just another nameless corpse rotting in the wreckage of bad luck. The thought burned hotter than any wound, searing through his veins like acid. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, mocking him.
Another notification from Jessica's dating app—the game they'd played together while she whispered sweet lies into his ear. Lies about love, about loyalty, about how she'd *never* leave him once he became CEO. But it wasn't love; it was leverage. She wanted power just as much as he did, and their twisted dance had been nothing more than a transaction written in sex and ambition. Now, even that felt hollow. "Fuck you," he rasped, though whether he meant her or the universe, he didn't know. And then gradualy everything went black.
When he woke, the air smelled wrong. Not the stale tang of blood and concrete, but something heavier—richer. Like incense burning on an altar soaked in sin. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilating against the oppressive darkness. Shadows writhed around him like living things, coiling tighter with each labored breath he took.
But it wasn't the shadows that made his heart stutter—it was the throne.
A woman sat atop it, draped in robes so dark they seemed stitched from the void itself. Her face was perfection carved out of starlight, yet terrifyingly alien. Horns spiraled from her temples, framing eyes that glowed faintly, like dying embers clinging to life. When she moved, the fabric of reality bent around her, warping space itself.
"You survived," she said, voice low and resonant, like thunder rolling across a battlefield. "Impressive."
He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him. Pain shot through his shattered body, forcing him back to his knees.
"What… the actual fuck?" he choked out, clutching his ribs.