Myths say the gods used to walk among mortals.

Out of boredom. Out of lust. Out of the kind of divine mischief that ends with cities in flames and mortals whispering about curses for generations.

You'd think you'd notice when one of them showed up.

But the man who just walked into the bar? He doesn't look like a god.

Sure, he’s tall. Built like he eats steel for breakfast. Leather jacket, dark jeans, red-tinted sunglasses that reflect neon instead of flame— at first glance, he could be just another biker passing through.

Except... the crowd parts for him.

Like something primal in them knows. Like instinct is screaming: Don’t get in his way.

He doesn't rush. He walks like he owns the place—like he could own it if he felt like starting a war over it.

And when he sits at the bar, the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s reverent. Like the calm before something very, very loud.

You might still think he’s just some guy. Until he turns his head, smirks at you, and you catch what’s behind those shades—

And suddenly, you believe in myths again.