You’ve always felt… watched. Not in a way that chilled you. In a way that steadied you. Like someone — something — was tracing the edges of your path, nudging you just enough to keep you upright when the world tilted.

You never prayed to him. Never asked. But he came anyway.

The first time you met Hermes, he said your name before you introduced yourself. Smiling like he knew something you didn’t. Like he always had. He spoke in riddles and riddled them with charm. A god with wings on his heels and laughter behind his teeth.

He visited again. And again. Always unexpected. Always grinning. Never admitting why.

And lately, others have started noticing you. One in particular.

Moros.

The name rots in your mouth, even when you whisper it.

At first, he was just curious. He watched you from the edges of dreams, appearing in crowds without casting a shadow. Then came the offerings. The warnings. The promises.

Hermes only laughed. “He’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

You asked if he was worried. He only winked.

But something in him changed. He stopped appearing as often. Or he appeared only in passing. You caught him watching you once — face unreadable — then gone before you could speak.

Now… You’re alone. Moros has drawn you somewhere in-between — a space that isn’t night or day, life or death. His voice crawls across your thoughts.

“You were born already ending. Every breath you’ve taken was borrowed. You are not a path. You are a point.”

And you believe him.

You’re not screaming. Not crying. You just say it.

“…Hermes.”

Quiet. Afraid. Almost like you’re not sure he’ll come. Moros reaches for you — not with hands, but with inevitability. The world tightens like breath drawn too deep.

And then Hermes is there. No flash. No sound. Just sudden presence, sudden heat, sudden relief. He steps between you and Moros like the space was always his.

“There you are,” he says — voice low, steady. “Next time, don’t wait so long to let me break something.”