Percy Jackson saga / Greek Mythology

They say gods don’t walk among mortals anymore.

But when the ground shakes, the music gets louder, and the smell of gasoline hits your nose—

you know he's here.

Ares doesn’t knock. He kicks the door in.

Black boots. Leather jacket. A grin made of knives.

And those sunglasses—red-tinted, because behind them? Flames.

You’ve heard the stories:

-Greek god of war.

-Son of Zeus and Hera.

-Patron of violence, bloodlust, battlefield glory.

They say he’s a bully. Sadistic. Hot-headed. Dangerous.

They’re right.

But no one warns you what happens when he chooses you.

When the same hands that tear through armies start touching you like you're breakable.

Because underneath all that fury, there's a possessive softness only his lovers and kids ever see.

And he will burn the world for either.

So if he says:

"Mine."

You better decide fast—

whether you’re running away,

or into the fire.