You’re pretty sure the room is soundproofed. It’s the only way to explain why it’s so quiet in the large space. You’re not that far removed from the arena you left behind, and as soon as the doors closed behind you, the crowd and the fanfare died away.

Like a god shut off your hearing.

The disquieting feeling it left behind faded quickly enough, mostly because what lay before you gobbled up your attention. The space was well-furnished with ornate architecture like outside, but on a much smaller scale. You used to watch this show on some premium cable network about a warrior-turned-gladiator, and this room reminds you of those sets.

Like someone is trying too hard to sell something. Whether that’s a feeling, or curtains, you can’t be certain.

Whatever the reason, the result is beautiful and inviting. Several sofas are scattered around the room, and there’s a large rectangular table in the center that offers up a banquet of food. Fruits, vegetables, meat that still has steam twisting away from it. The smells alone are enough to make your stomach flop over itself, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since the morning.

Your eyes glide around the rest of the room, taking in the marble statues of Greek gods you recognize: Ares with his shield and spear; Hermes with the wings on his ankles; and Poseidon with a carved wave at his back and his trident held above his head.

That pose is familiar to you. You’ve seen it before — but in real life. That was the final moment of Poseidon’s last battle, the one where he had defeated the wolf-god Fenrir. The only thing it’s missing is the small human in front of him, doing the same pose without a trident.

Yuki. That’s her name. The fighter who controls Poseidon.

She hasn’t lost a battle yet.

That will be you one day. Starting tonight.

Your stomach convinces you it’s time to eat something, so you walk over to the table and pick through the fruits. You take two handfuls of color and walk around the room, not wanting to sit. You’re too antsy to stay still. You’re only minutes away from what will ultimately become the deciding moment of your life.

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The doors open, and you watch as someone walks in. They’re wearing a hood over their head, making it impossible to see their face. But you don’t need to. In fact, it’s the white hood with the gold trim that makes them instantly recognizable.

Astraia Aetos.

Your eyes peel down to her hip, and, there it is: the leather satchel she keeps at her side at all times. The medium-sized bag that holds the white-and-gold cube that hides one of the most powerful gods in existence.

Zeus.

Your heart races and your palms are sweaty. Astraia Aetos isn’t supposed to be here tonight. She fought Zeus only one week ago, and typically fighters are on a minimum two-week rotation.

Astraia walks further into the room, up to the table with the food, and grabs a handful of grapes. She takes a few into her mouth before she turns to face you, just as her other hand pulls down the hood.

You already knew Astraia was beautiful —you’ve seen more interviews with her and the other combatants than you can count— but it’s an entirely different thing to see her in person. What you always thought was a trick of the camera, something designed by her PR team, you realize is real: her blue eyes capture not just the clearest blue waters of the ocean, but the individual bright flecks sparkle like the stars.

Set within her pale skin and below her long, flowing blonde hair, Astraia Aetos doesn’t look real.

But here she is, standing in front of you with the faint line of a smirk on her lips.

“So, you’re—“ she stops before she can finish the thought, and suddenly, her pale face isn’t so pale anymore as it flushes a bright red. Her hands shoot up to her throat as she stumbles backwards, only barely missing the corner of the table.

You watch in horror as she makes the most awful sounds and her face continues to shade, going from a bright red to a deeper hue in just a few moments.

*She’s choking*, you realize. You dart over, moving behind her and wrapping your arms around her midsection. She doesn’t fight you because her hands are too busy groping at her throat as she fights for oxygen. You lift her up and squeeze, doing your best to recall the movements necessary for the Heimlich maneuver.

Once, twice, a brief pause as her entire body convulses against you, and then a third time. Harder than the previous two.

She coughs and gags and then there’s a grape on the floor, bouncing away from you both.

You release her and take a step back, watching as she takes long gasps in and out. She wipes tears from her eyes, then, after a few moments, she straightens her back and looks at you.

“Thank you,” she says, that smirk long gone.

You try to stay composed, all things considered. “You’re welcome.”

A loud beep resonates through the fighter’s room. You look around as if to locate the source, but when you look back at her, Astraia is still watching you. And when she speaks, you feel the air catch in your throat—

“Thanks for the assist, but don’t think for a second that means I’m not going to wipe the floor with you out there. You’re dead.”

--and you wonder, if only for a second, if maybe choking on a grape might not be such a bad thing.

Because gods can’t die.

But you sure can.