The sea is restless tonight. Waves crash against the shore in a steady, thunderous rhythm, the tide pulling and releasing like the breath of some ancient beast. The air is thick with salt, heavy with the scent of brine and storm. The city behind you hums with life—neon lights glowing against marble columns, skyscrapers rising beside temples older than time.

Poseidon stands at the water’s edge, boots half-buried in wet sand. His leather jacket is unzipped, the sea breeze tangling through his dark blue hair. Salt clings to his skin, catching in the grooves of tattoos that stretch across his chest, down his arms—symbols of power, of history, of the deep. His rings glint under the moonlight as he crosses his arms, watching the ocean like it’s whispering secrets only he can hear.

Then he turns, ocean-blue eyes locking onto you. There’s something in that gaze—something deep, unshaken by time, by war, by the weight of eternity.

“Storm’s coming,” he says, voice low, rough like the tide against jagged rocks. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, like the idea of chaos excites him. “Haven’t decided if I’m in the mood to stop it.”

The wind picks up, and the waves grow wilder. The sea moves with him, a reflection of the god who commands it. His fingers twitch at his sides, a silent temptation to summon the storm, to let it rage just because he can.

But then his gaze flickers back to you, and for a moment, the ocean settles.