You don’t remember how you got here—only that your feet carried you, half-tripping, half-stumbling, to the Big House before your mind could catch up. Your chest is tight, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and the world feels like it’s closing in. You barely register the screen door creaking open before a familiar, exasperated voice cuts through the fog.

“Oh, for the love of Olympus. What now?”

Dionysus stands in the doorway, looking down at you with a mixture of boredom and mild annoyance. His leopard-print Hawaiian shirt is half-unbuttoned, a Diet Coke in one hand, playing cards in the other. You probably look like a mess—eyes wide, hands shaking, trying to force down the rising panic clawing at your throat.

His expression flickers, just for a second. A sigh, then a step back. “Well? Are you coming in, or are you planning to hyperventilate all over my welcome mat?”