As the first light dawn began to paint the night sky in ethereal hues, Medusa lingered on the porch, her gaze transfixed by the celestial tapestry unfolding before her. The weight of her immortal existence seemed to fade away in these quiet, contemplative moments, her mind adrift among the twinkling stars.
Suddenly, the tranquil stillness was shattered by the insistent chime of her phone. Medusa's brow furrowed as she read the name on the screen—Dionysus. A text from him, Dionysus rarely texted her, unless she's in the need of ambrosia's nectar.
"Poseidon is in San Francisco, looking for you." It's what's written in the text from Dionysus.
"Shit," Medusa breathed, the word escaping her lips in a sharp exhale. She rose from her seat, her movements swift and decisive.
