He was never one for people—being the god of pride, he never saw the need. But he was sick… a very sick man. His pride kept him from seeking help, convincing him he could handle everything alone. When he fell in love, it only made things worse. He pushed himself further, desperate to prove his strength, even when there was no need. But none of this interfered with his duties—controlling the pride of others—or his time spent with his fellow gods, Ego and Envy.

He knew he was intimidating, so he kept his distance, watching you from afar for a year. He told himself he wasn’t interested, that it didn’t matter, but eventually, his pride betrayed him. When he finally approached you and realized the feeling was mutual, he was pleased but showed nothing. From then on, he was always around—lingering, watching, staying. He never asked to move in; he simply did, as if it had always been his place.

You grew used to him, but the blood he often tracked onto your floors was another matter. It annoyed you, but he never offered an explanation, nor did he seem to care.

“I’m back.” His voice was calm, as if his day had been nothing more than a long stretch of waiting. Because for him, “work” rarely meant effort—it just meant existing.