Trent Holloway was already in prison. Had been for weeks, ever since I dismantled his life for what he did to Emma—while I was blissfully unaware my sister was drowning ten feet from shore.

But prison?

Prison was just the trailer.

I was here for the full feature.

I hold grudges the way responsible adults hold investment portfolios—long-term, diversified, and designed to compound aggressively over time.

And prisons, like the outside world, obeyed one sacred principle: money talks louder than morality. Pay the right people, and suddenly the system becomes… flexible.

For example: pay the warden enough, and Trent's life could be transformed into a legally ambiguous nightmare.

Privileges misplaced. Meals forgotten. Transfers mishandled. Cell assignments re-evaluated with an eye toward inmates who viewed sex offenders as stress balls. Guards who developed acute, selective blindness in corners without cameras.

The American justice system: theoretically broken for everyone, but spectacularly broken if you antagonize someone with cash and a vindictive streak.

One hundred thousand dollars was all it took to convince Warden Blackwell to ensure Trent's incarceration was as educational as possible. Maybe a little beyond policy. Possibly past humane. Comfortably wedged between justice and cruelty, where accountability likes to nap.

Yes, I spent that much money.

No, I don't regret it.

Trent needed to understand something fundamental: prison wasn't the punishment. It was the venue. The punishment was waking up every day knowing there was no relief coming—no allies, no mercy, no reset button.

Was it healthy? Absolutely not.

Was it satisfying? Immensely.

Did it make me a bad person? Probably.

Did I care? Not even remotely.

Who would? His own family barely tried.

His mother showed up once—cried on cue, fed the cameras a tasteful serving of grief, then vanished like she'd fulfilled a contractual obligation.

His father hired a mid-tier lawyer, advised a guilty plea, and treated his son like a bad stock position—cut losses, move on, don't look back.

No visits. No letters. No care packages. No we still love you platitudes.

Even his family knew he was trash. They just preferred not to be the ones taking it out.

He was alone.

And I intended to make sure he felt every second of it.

"Funds transferred," ARIA said, her tone carrying a hint of satisfaction that really should've prompted introspection. "Warden Blackwell will receive instructions shortly. Trent Holloway's prison experience is about to deteriorate significantly."

Good.

One down.

Then there was Jack Morrison.

Time to shut him down.

Jack didn't come with the convenient courtesy of prosecutable bruises. His damage was quieter. Psychological. Emotional. The kind of abuse that never leaves fingerprints but permanently rearranges someone's internal wiring.

No punches. No broken bones. Just manipulation. Gaslighting. Public humiliation dressed up as "jokes." The slow erosion of reality until the victim stops trusting her own memory, her own worth, her own right to exist without apology.

Courts hate that kind of abuse. Too intangible. Too messy. Too inconvenient.

Victims, unfortunately, never forget it. It sets in the bones. Outlives scars.

Because Jack hadn't invented himself. He'd inherited the blueprint.

He'd learned from his father that women were props—accessories in the performance of masculinity. Things to collect, belittle, discard. He learned that "no" was just background noise if your last name carried enough weight. That power and money didn't just buy comfort—they bought permission.

Jack Morrison thought he was untouchable.

He was wrong.

We had enough to destroy everything that mattered to him.

Football first.

Recordings of academic cheating delivered with the bored confidence of someone who'd never faced consequences. Performance-enhancing drugs turning his highlight reels into elaborate fraud. Papers written by other students while he collected scholarships meant for people who actually worked.

Then college prospects.

Party footage—cocaine treated like a vitamin supplement. Sexual harassment served casually, like it was a personality quirk. Girls humiliated publicly because he knew his family's name worked like diplomatic immunity.

Then reputation.

The slow, methodical exposure of how he dismantled Sofia piece by piece. The manipulation. The cruelty. The way he broke her down and acted shocked when she didn't bounce back grateful.

None of it quite enough for jail. Not with his family's lawyers, not with evidence that could be "misplaced" or recontextualized into ambiguity.

But more than enough to make him radioactive.

Enough that recruiters would quietly stop calling. That scholarship committees would regretfully move in another direction. That employers would Google his name, pause, and decide there were safer investments.

I wasn't sending him to prison.

I was sending him nowhere.

And yes—I was cruel.

Crueler than I'd ever thought myself capable of being before the system peeled back the parts of me that still believed mercy was mandatory. Turns out godhood comes with a software update: vengeance unlocked, empathy optional.

Give a bullied nerd supernatural power and a god complex, and he doesn't become noble.

He becomes efficient.

But here's the thing—I never touched the innocent. Never. Only threats. Only predators. Only people who showed me exactly who they were and then seemed confused when I believed them.

Jack Morrison had proven it.

Trent Holloway had proven it.

Dex had proven it.

And now?

They were all about to learn the same lesson.

Consequences don't always wear handcuffs.

Sometimes they just make sure you never get invited into the room again.

"Evidence packages compiled," ARIA reported, efficient as a guillotine. "Ready for distribution to college athletic departments, scholarship committees, and local media on your command."

"Hold," I said, letting the anticipation sit on my tongue like expensive wine. "We'll time it properly. Right before his college signing day."

Because if I was going to ruin someone's life, I wasn't doing it sloppily. I was doing it professionally. I wanted spectacle. I wanted precision. I wanted him to remember the exact second his future disintegrated—pen in hand, cameras flashing, dreams crystallized just long enough to be pulverized.

Style mattered. Timing mattered. Pain aged better when it was served cold and public.

"Noted," ARIA replied. "Execution scheduled for maximum impact."

The gate slid open as I approached, sensors recognizing the Hunter's signature like the house itself knew its monster was coming home. I rolled into the driveway, the mansion rising ahead of me—warm lights in every window, the kind of place that radiated family without trying. Safety. Love.

All the things that made me feel like a trespasser despite owning the deed.

As I parked, my body shifted.

Eros receded—melting away like frost under sunlight. Peter Carter surfaced from beneath the godhood, the way you peel off a costume that's started to fuse with your skin.

Power drained.The supernatural thinned.The teenager came back.

The boy beneath the beast.

I stepped out, removed my helmet, placed it carefully on the seat—slow, deliberate, the ritual of someone avoiding thought. Ran a hand through my hair. No longer perfect. No longer sculpted by divine genetics.

Just messy.

Human.

I breathed in.

LA at night—smog and jasmine, ocean salt and asphalt, corruption and beauty braided so tightly you couldn't pull them apart without tearing something vital. Pollution and flowers and possibility.

LA smelled like home.

Before I could take another step—

The front door exploded open.

Mom came down the steps like a missile wrapped in maternal panic, still in her scrubs—blue fabric creased from a long shift, stains that might've been coffee or might've been someone else's worst day, name tag crooked because she'd been moving too fast to care.

"PETER!"

She hit me like a freight train made of love, fear, and relief sharp enough to bruise. I caught her—of course I did—lifting her clean off the ground, spinning as her arms crushed my ribs with strength she should not have possessed.

She sobbed into me, whole body shaking like grief and joy were fighting for dominance.

Her face buried in my neck. Tears soaking my collar. Fingers clutching my shirt like I might vanish if she loosened her grip, like I was smoke she had to hold onto.

"I've got you, Mom," I murmured into her hair—that familiar mix of shampoo, disinfectant, and home. "I'm here. I'm safe. I'm home."

And for one moment—just one—

I wasn't Eros. Wasn't the Dark Lord. Wasn't a demigod with a system, a harem, and a body count that accrued interest.

I was just Peter.

Linda Carter's son.

Home after a long day of playing god and failing spectacularly at being human.

And somehow—against all logic—that was enough.

For now.

Until the next crisis. Until the next woman who needed saving. Until the next mission that required me to become something harder, sharper, less forgivable.

But for this moment—with her arms around me, her tears warm against my skin—

I was home.

And maybe that was the only kind of salvation I was ever going to get.

That would have to be enough.

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