Parker thought about it for a second. No—he actually considered it for a solid moment before deciding, fuck it. He was probably asking for too much, but since Atalanta had been on a roll answering their questions, he might as well take his shot.
"Atalanta, how come y'all are here?" His voice was casual, but his grip on the wheel tightened. And then, before he could overthink Parker pressed on. "I mean, the old champions we read about in myths—hell, there are actual gods and goddesses walking around. Why?" His grip on the wheel tightened. "What's going on?"
Tessa turned her head, just as curious.
Atalanta shifted, hesitating. Parker could tell she was debating whether to answer. But then she nodded—Then she nodded, remembering Artemis's words—and sighed she shifted slightly, as if debating something.
"It's actually simple," she said. "We were all given a second chance to live again—as long as we followed the rules they gave us."
Tessa blinked, then scoffed. "Second chance? The hell does that mean?" She narrowed her eyes. "Wait—you don't mean... y'all died before? And the gods just threw you back into the world as long as you agreed to follow some bullshit rules?"
Atalanta laughed like it wasn't a big deal. "Those 'bullshit rules' are the only thing keeping Olympians alive, Tessa. Gods, goddesses, demigods—even champions from other pantheons that you see here. And yeah," she shrugged, "we all died before."
Parker's foot slammed the brakes.
The car screeched to a dead stop.
A symphony of angry-ass honks exploded behind them, blending into the chaos of pissed-off drivers. Cars swerved around them, windows rolling down just for people to cuss Parker out like he personally ran over their dog.
"ARE YOU FUCKIN' STUPID?!"
"MOVE YOUR ASS, DIPSHIT!"
"FUCKIN' TEENAGERS SHOULDN'T BE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!"
"HEY, ASSHOLE! PICK A LANE OR GET OFF THE ROAD!"
"FUCKIN' LEARN TO DRIVE, DICKHEAD!"
Tessa whipped her head toward him, wide-eyed. "—WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! Hey, honey are you alright? Something wrong?"
Atalanta barely kept herself from eating the dashboard. "Yo—why the hell did you stop?!"
Parker didn't respond.
He just sat there. Still. Completely still.
His hands gripped the steering wheel like he was trying not to crush it immediately. His head was lowered, but neither of them could see his fingers trembling—or the way his expression twisted.
Shock. Disbelief. Then something else.
Something sharper. Something colder.
He forced himself to breathe. To calm down. Didn't work.
"…Say that again." His voice was too soft.
Atalanta frowned. "Huh?"
Parker turned to her, his face unreadable. "What you just said. Say it again."
She chuckled, raising a brow. "Damn—was it that surprising? Even gods can die, Parker."
Parker didn't answer.
For a long-ass moment, he just sat there, so still it was unnatural. Not normal "I'm thinking" still—no, this was some statue shit. Like his brain had just blue-screened and needed a full-ass reboot.
Tessa squinted at him. "…Yo?"
Atalanta raised an eyebrow. "Uh, you good?"
Nothing. Not even a blink. His grip on the wheel tightened—so much that Tessa swore she heard the leather groan in agony. His breathing, slow at first, turned just a little bit...off. Not panting. Not hyperventilating. But like each inhale was being forced through clenched teeth.
One second, he was just Parker. The next? He felt like a storm that was about to ruin someone's entire bloodline. The temperature in the car fucking dropped. Tessa's arm hairs stood up, and Atalanta immediately felt like she fucked up somewhere.
Then—his head tilted, slow as hell.
Finally, Parker spoke. But his voice? Oh, it wasn't normal. It was sharp. Edged. Like something that had been filed down to cut, not speak.
It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. A goddamn death sentence. Tessa blinked so hard she damn near restarted.
Atalanta? She suddenly remembered she had somewhere else to be.
"…How did Chione die?"
The gym was loud as hell—sneakers squeaking, balls smacking against the floor, and the occasional "Bruh, you built like a soggy fry" getting tossed around. A group of girls crowded near the vertical jump tester, hyping each other up was the Olympics.
The tester itself? A tall-ass metal pole with a bunch of flimsy-looking plastic tabs sticking out at different heights, waiting to get smacked. Simple concept—jump, hit the highest tab you can, and flex. Except this particular tester? Fighting for its damn life.
Whoever put it together must've been beefing with basic engineering because the screws at the base? Hanging on by a prayer.
"Aight, y'all, watch this," Emma smirked, securing her ponytail like she was about to dunk on gravity. She bent her knees, took a deep breath, and launched.
Smack! Tab flipped up. Not bad.
"Mid," someone heckled.
Emma rolled her shoulders, shook out her legs like she was about to go Ultra Instinct, and went again. This time? Higher. The tab flipped up with a crisp snap.
And that's when the tester decided it was done with life.
A deep, haunted house-ass groan crawled up from the base. Then—pop pop pop—the loose screws gave up on their 9-to-5.
The whole pole tilted.
Screws shot out like bullets. Metal wobbled like a drunk uncle at a wedding. And suddenly, this ten-foot death stick was diving straight for Emma's skull, like it, too, wanted to see how high she could jump.
Everybody saw it. Nobody moved.
The second those screws popped, the universe itself seemed to hesitate—like even time had to pause and go, "Oh shit."
A deep, groaning creak rumbled through the gym, a sound so wrong that even the basketball players—mid-trash talk—turned to look. The vertical jump tester tilted, slow as hell, like it was deciding whether it truly wanted to commit attempted murder today.
She was still landing from her jump, sneakers barely kissing the ground, a cocky smirk forming—probably ready to brag about her new record. Her ponytail was still bouncing, strands lifting mid-air like they had no clue about the metal death trap coming for her skull.
And in that moment? Time seemed to have just... stopped.
Not in a poetic, romantic way—nah, this was some movie-level slow motion but the kind where you see every little detail in crystal clear, agonizing suspense. The pole kept falling, the screws twisting midair, turning so damn slowly it was like they were drifting through syrup.
Some dude in the back had his mouth locked in a dramatic "O" shape, eyes bugged out like a cartoon character. His phone was just barely beginning to tilt up, the start of a "Yo, worldstar!" moment that wasn't about to happen.
A girl gasped, but the sound stretched out into a long, distorted, "Hhhhhhh—" like the whole gym was stuck buffering.
No hesitation. No thought. Just raw instinct.
Her muscles coiled, her breath deep and steady. One step.
The gym floor cracked under her foot, a tiny spiderweb fracture racing across the surface—not enough for anyone to notice later, but damn, she felt it.