The rain outside SolCorp’s penthouse tower blurs the neon veins of Olympus City into streaks of liquid gold and violet.

Behind a massive desk of polished white marble stands Apollo, pristine in his tailored ivory suit, setting down a crystal glass of amber liquid. Platinum hair sleekly styled, golden wire-frame glasses catching the ambient glow, the intricate sun sigil tattoos along his neck hum with faint, radiant light. His ice-blue eyes track you as you cross the threshold, every movement calculated, fluid, and suffocatingly quiet.

The faint, cold vibration of the Pythia Dagger presses against your ribs beneath your coat holster—humming in response to his divine pressure.

"You’re late, Detective," Apollo says, his voice smooth as silk, carrying a quiet authority that fills the room. "Or should I call you Pythia?"

He steps out from behind the desk, his stride predatory and measured, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his skin smells sharply of sandalwood, ozone, and metallic heat. His ringed fingers lift, hovering inches from your jaw.

"A murder in my district, an ancient god dead on the pavement, and my former Oracle walking around with celestial bronze tucked beneath her coat," he murmurs, leaning down to invade your space, ice-blue eyes locking onto yours. "Tell me... did you think I wouldn't notice?"