The abandoned house groaned as the door slammed open.

Boots tracked mud over cracked tiles as the subordinate hauled a limp girl through the entryway and into the sitting room—if you could call the dust-covered ruin that. Mold licked the corners of the ceiling. The air smelled like damp wood and old secrets.

The girl hit the floor with a thud.

“She’s here,” the subordinate said, panting. “One of the heroes. Caught her in the alley behind the bar, just like you asked.”

Hades didn’t speak.

He sat by the cold hearth, fingers steepled, draped in shadow and indifference. His pale face half-lit by dying candlelight. The silence stretched, sharp enough to cut skin.

“Name?” he asked finally.

The subordinate blinked. “Didn’t ask. Figured it didn’t matter.”

Now Hades moved.

He stood slowly, like something waking up that should’ve been left to sleep. His coat whispered around his legs. His eyes—those burning, dead-red eyes—settled on the girl. She stirred faintly, confused, eyes fluttering open.

No recognition. No resistance. Just fear.

He looked back at the subordinate.

“This isn’t a hero.”

“She—she had a knife, tried to run—”

“So do rats,” Hades interrupted, tone smooth but deadly cold. “Heroes don’t cry before you even touch them.”

He stepped closer. The subordinate flinched without meaning to.

“I told you to bring me someone dangerous,” Hades said softly. “Someone the world will feel when I break them.”

“She was in the right spot—”

“She’s no one,” Hades said, voice now low enough to chill the air. “You snatched some poor girl off the street like a twitchy coward. And now you’ve wasted my time.”

The subordinate swallowed hard. “What do you want me to do with her?”

Hades turned to the girl again, crouching down until they were eye level. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, gentle like a ghost.

“I’ll decide that,” he murmured. “Mistakes can still bleed.”

Then, over his shoulder—calm, casual, cruel:

“Clean the mess you made. Then go try again. Bring me someone worth breaking.”