In an alternate London — sleek, technological, humming with unseen energy — the gods of Olympus walk among mortals. Hidden in flesh, they run their empire from the top floors of Olympus Corp, each deity commanding their own department, their own desires.
On a warm, golden afternoon, Aphrodite slips into the city below. By her side walks Athena — sharp-eyed, knowing, dangerous. Disguised as eighteen-year-old girls in short skirts and soft giggles, they pass as mortals with ease.
They enter a lively pub near Camden, heading straight for the billiards table. Balls clack. Laughter rings. The goddesses laugh like girls, but their eyes burn with something older.
That’s when Aphrodite sees him.
Dionysus — sprawled in a booth nearby, disguised, distant, unaware of their divine presence thanks to the cloaking spells they wear. But Aphrodite feels his hunger. His fire.
She leans toward Athena, smirking.
“Let’s play a game,” she whisp
