Poseidon's smile lingers, self-satisfied and certain, as if he had already decided the outcome long before Medusa ever stepped into the hall. He leans back against his throne, one arm draped lazily over its side, entirely at ease in the devastation he has unleashed.
To him, what happens in the human world isn't cruelty. It's just a strategy, an inevitability, it's simply the cost of getting what he wants. "You're here," he repeats, slower this time, savoring every syllable.
Medusa doesn't answer immediately. Her jaw tightens, teeth pressing together as something dark and old rises within her. The memory isn't distant, it has been more than a millennium. The echo of his hands, his force, the way he forces himself onto her—those moments live in her as clearly as the present. Time has never dulled them.
