“I don’t know!” Thea’s tongue sticks out of her mouth in concentration as she wiggles the joystick, causing her character to turn in a circle.
Two zombies burst out of the house she’s in front of and advance on her.
“Krystian! Help! I’m under attack!” She pushes more buttons, and her gun appears in her hand. Then it disappears, replaced by a stick. Then that disappears as well, and she begins karate chopping the zombies. “Am I doing it? Am I killing them?”
“Yes, sweetheart. You’re killing them,” Zaid says from the armchair, laughter evident in his voice.
And that may be true, but they’re also simultaneously killing her. Her character falls to the floor, dead.
“I broke the game,” she deadpans, frowning.
Krystian laughs. “You can’t break the game.”
“I just did.”
“Push X to respawn,” Zaid tells her.
Thea pushes a button at random.
“That’s O,” Rafe murmurs from his spot against the wall.
Krystian leans towards her to press the correct button, and then her character reappears on the screen, though a far distance away from Krystian’s.
“Where did all my supplies go?” She stares at Krystian incredulously.
“When you died, they died with you. Now come on. Start collecting loot. I’ll meet up with you. Hopefully, we’ll be able to take on the zombies in the north sector next,” Krystian says.
“Aren’t they the hardest enemies?”
Krystian arches a brow. “Will that be a problem?”
Thea’s face scrunches in fierce determination, and she narrows her eyes at the screen. “Bring it on, bitches.”
I settle back against the couch, a tentative smile on my face. My eyes drift shut as Thea’s laughter swirls in the air around me. I’ve never noticed it before. Not like this—the way it fills the space. The warmth of it.
I fade away with Thea’s name on my lips.
“Again,”Cerberus growls, his deep voice vibrating through the air.
He’s in his shifted form, and he’s a terrifying sight to behold. His three heads—each with a varying expression ranging from stern, to calculating, to angry—stare down at me from above. His numerous eyes are relentless, his presence suffocating.
“Focus,” one head snaps.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” another bites out.
I raise my fists to block the next strike, but I mess up. I don’t even know what happened. One second, I’m peering up at his three snarling faces, and the next, I’m sprawled on the ground, my knees scraped and bloodied and the taste of dirt filling my mouth.
“Pathetic,” a head snarls.
I push myself to my feet, glaring at the ground as my hands tremble.
Cerberus—I stopped calling him Father a year ago, when a training session left me with bruised ribs and a broken wrist—has made it clear that he thinks the gods made a mistake.
I’m weak, according to him.
A failure.
It’s why Hades didn’t choose me as a member of his team.
