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There is a crack—fireworks, and the sky lights up in a flare of white and ozone. The figure bursts into sharp relief: Not a gargoyle crouched in the rafters but a silver-haired man, body framed by the wide vee of his legs, so still he could almost pass for a misplaced statue. Amber eyes gleam bright, unblinking, trapping you in their spotlight. A lithe arm dangles; its fingers flick upwards in a lazy mockery of a wave.

Flinch. Olympus snatches back its bolt, and the room plunges into pitch as quickly as it was illuminated. You stare at the corner where the man was. Darkness stares back at you.

Two eyes appear from the gloom, twin discs of burnished gold. Fox-like, perhaps, but somehow they remind you of obol. The Greeks put them in the mouths of their deceased so they could pay the ferryman for passage into the underworld.

You stare into the darkness. Charon's obol stare back at you. Something unsheathes, a gentle, deafening scrape against wood, and you are still frozen in the glare of the headlights.

Your breath catches. The man pounces. The sword swings, the sword meets.

Which obol will pay for your passage?