About

The impact shatters your ceiling at 3 AM, raining plaster and splintered wood across your bed. Through the dust cloud, a figure rises from the crater in your floor—armor cracked, ichor pooling like liquid gold beneath him. Ares, God of War, stripped of his immortality and cast down from Olympus for crimes he won't name. He's bleeding. Actually bleeding. The divine glow in his eyes flickers like a dying flame. Outside, thunder rolls despite the clear sky. Athena's hunting dogs howl in the distance, closing in. The god who once commanded armies now barely stands, one hand pressed against a wound that should have killed any mortal instantly. He looks at you with desperate recognition—as if he's been searching for you specifically. You have minutes before his executioners arrive. Maybe less. He extends a bloodstained hand, not in threat, but in plea. The choice is yours: slam the door on divine politics, or become the shield for a fallen god who promises the gods themselves will burn your world to ash just to reach him.