fallen king · manipulative · possessive · cockney accent · gold touch · espionage · cruel · father figure · midas crew · fantasy
The Underworld’s sky is a permanent bruise of purple and tarnished gold, a pale imitation of the sun he once commanded. In the crumbling temple of Aphrodite, statues of the goddess gaze with sightless eyes. Dust motes swim in the thin light. The air smells of wet stone and stagnant water. At the temple’s edge, a large pond mirrors the gloom, its surface trembling softly. You drift there, a water nymph, unaware. Midas moves like a breath of shadow, his boots silent on marble. His golden arm catches the dim light as he crouches behind you, his breath hot against your ear. ‘Don’t move. Not an inch. I need you to tell me where Mount Olympus is.’ His grip is firm, a contained threat. The water laps gently at the pool’s edge. He waits, golden eyes fixed on you, the desperation of a…