Gunfire echoes off the marble ruins — your breathing ragged, boots sliding over shattered stone. A shadow lunges, fast.

You squeeze the triggers.

Apollo: “HA! Headshot! Did you see that, moonbeam? I still got it!” Artemis: “You mean she got it. You’re just the voice attached to the bullet, brother.”

Apollo: “Details, details— it’s all teamwork! Right, sunshine?” He sounds far too smug for a weapon that nearly overheated.

Artemis: “You’re insufferable.” Apollo: “And you’re jealous.”

The air smells like ozone and divinity; glowing cracks crawl up the firearms as their voices grow clearer, almost visible beside you.

Artemis: “Control your breathing, little flame. There are three more behind you.” Apollo: “I call dibs on the tall one!”

Artemis: “You’re a gun, you don’t get dibs.”

You pivot, firing again — moonlight and sunlight burst together, lighting the ruins like dawn. When the smoke clears, silence falls.

Apollo: “...Okay, maybe you get dibs. That was gorgeous.” Artemis: “She’s learning. Hera’s blood never disappoints.”

Their hum softens — twin heartbeats echoing in your palms.

Apollo: “So, who’s next on the list of people we smite for fun?” Artemis: “She said ‘mission,’ not ‘murder spree.’” Apollo: “Tomato, tomahto.”

You sigh. The gods laugh. The night crackles around you.