I hate gods.

Not in the abstract, philosophical way people claim when they’re trying to sound evolved. I hate them the way steel hates rust. The way fire hates containment. The way a blade hates being admired instead of used.

Mehen arrives like he owns the concept of time. No rush. No sound. Just pressure—thick, smug, ancient. He doesn’t touch Ra. He doesn’t need to. He watches her like he’s already rewritten the ending.

That’s what makes me want to break something.

Ra stands there radiant and contained, like she’s hosting the storm instead of standing in it. Gold on her skin. Power in her posture. She’s learned to hold herself in a way that invites projection without surrender.

I know that posture.

It’s the one you learn when everyone wants a piece of you and you refuse to be reduced.

Tyler’s playing it cool. Erik’s being noble. Mehen’s being inevitable.

I’m being honest.

My jaw tightens. My hands itch. The restraint feels like a bad joke told by someone who doesn’t understand what it costs me to stand still.

Because I don’t want to wait.

Waiting is for people who believe the universe owes them outcomes.

I believe in action.

But Ra—damn her—she doesn’t reward impulse. She reads it. Dissects it. Decides whether it’s worth acknowledging. She knows the difference between hunger and entitlement, between patience and arrogance.

Mehen thinks he’s patient.

He’s not.

He’s assuming.

And that assumption crawls under my skin like an insult.

Ra laughs, soft and deliberate, and for a second I think she’s enjoying the tension for its own sake. I recognize it—the way some people lean into the edge just to prove they can stand there without falling.

I step closer—not to her, but into the space between attention and intention. Not touching. Never touching. Just there. A reminder that not all danger is ancient. Some of it is immediate.

She glances at me.

Brief. Measuring.

Good.

I don’t posture. I don’t perform devotion. I don’t pretend this is poetic. I want her with the honesty of someone who knows exactly what it would cost and accepts the price.

That’s the difference between me and the god in the shadows.

Mehen waits because he believes time belongs to him.

I wait because Ra does.

The room hums with male ego and unspoken history. Tyler’s vendetta coils. Erik’s loyalty tightens. Mehen’s arrogance simmers. Everyone’s playing their role.

I refuse roles.

Ra’s chin lifts again—subtle, unconscious—and I see it: the thrill of being the axis. The way she lets pressure gather without relieving it. The way she tests who can stand the heat without demanding release.

That’s the test.

And I pass it by not moving.

Not yet.

Gods think patience is proof of divinity.

They’re wrong.

Patience is proof of respect.

And if Ra chooses chaos, I will be the kind of chaos that stays.