Chapter 666: Spotlight Burns I left Ava tangled in the sheets, her hair a dark spill across the pillow like spilled ink, one arm flung out like she was reaching for me even in sleep, fingers curled soft. The beachhouse was quiet except for the low hum of the AC, a mechanical purr vibrating through the floorboards, and the distant crash of waves through the open balcony door, thump-crash-thump, salt air sneaking in to sting my nose. I could’ve stayed. Could’ve pulled her against me, let her wake to the smell of coffee and eggs, my hands sliding over her hips while the sun crept in, golden fingers prying the blinds. I can’t sleep unless I’m with mom—some fucked-up wiring in my brain—but I could’ve pretended. Curled around her like a shield. Let the afterglow stretch into morning, skin on skin, heartbeat syncing. Instead, I walked. The eagerness had dropped me to the lobby, cool marble under my bare feet like a slap of ice, polished surface reflecting the chandelier’s glow in fractured stars. The night concierge nodded—didn’t speak, his cologne faint, cedar and smoke. Good. I pushed through the glass doors and into the salt wind, sharp as a blade against my face, whipping my shirt against my chest, whip-flap-whip. I stepped onto the sand barefoot, the grains still warm from the day’s sun, clinging to my soles like tiny embers, under each footfall. The tide roared in, white foam crashing at my ankles, salt stinging the cuts on my feet from earlier glass, sharp as needles. The beach stretched ahead, dark sand glinting wet under the moon like crushed obsidian, the tide pulling back like it was breathing, leaving only foam trails that fizzed and died. I didn’t head for the crowds near the pier, their laughter distant, tinny, bonfire smoke curling like ghosts. I veered left, past the lifeguard towers, their red paint flaking like dried blood, rust bleeding into wood, past the last flicker of bonfire light, embers dying in spirals of smoke carrying the scent of charred driftwood. Until the only sounds were waves and wind and my own pulse, steady as a war drum in my ears. I found a stretch of sand no one had claimed. Dropped down cross-legged, elbows on my knees, and stared at the water. The moon hung fat and silver, dragging a ribbon of light across the ocean like molten metal, shimmering, blinding. Waves rolled in slow, white foam hissing as it kissed the shore and died, leaving wet scars that gleamed like polished glass. The sun was gone, but the air still held the day’s heat, clinging to my skin like a second layer, sweat cooling in the breeze. I didn’t know why I came here. Was it loneliness, a hollow ache behind my ribs? Or the fact that I used to flip between Peter and Eros like switching masks—now, in public, I was only Eros, the name heavy on my tongue? Was I savoring the weight of the name, tasting it like blood? Or the fact that this has been the longest as Eros without shifting. I didn’t know. Smart as I was, my own head stayed a locked room. Even I couldn’t pick it, the key lost in shadows. But here, I let it all go. No ARIA making billions while I sat here—her algorithms trading forex, stocks and crypto at speeds that made Wall Street look like they were using abacuses, profit updates I had told her to not report days ago still stacking up unread, a silent empire growing in the dark pings in my mind. No thinking about the auction elites—those old money vultures in their private clubs, sipping scotch older than me whispering about whether the teenagers girls they wanted to make a deal with would actually deliver or if they’d just bought snake oil from the most expensive con artist alive, their fear tasting like copper on my tongue. No Edward—that smug bastard’s face when he realized I’d take everything he thought was his, that moment of destruction I was saving like fine wine, letting it age until the pour would be perfect, the glass trembling in his hand. No Madison’s uncle and his land acquisitions—dozens of parcels scattered across not only in Lincoln Heights but California too, each one a chess piece in a game so big most people couldn’t see the board, property lines that would reshape power when the time came, dirt under my nails from deeds already signed. No Charlotte mission tonight—the final piece falling into place after months of maneuvering, the Super Mystery Box ARIA was practically vibrating over, whatever god-tier reward the system had locked inside it waiting for me to claim, humming in my blood like a live wire. No mysterious mansion—that sprawling estate sitting empty with my name on the deed, calling to me like something ancient and hungry, like it knew I’d been avoiding it, like the building itself was alive and waiting, windows dark as empty eyes. No Mother Goddess dreams—her breast still heavy in my mouth, milk that tasted like starlight and sin, sweet-bitter, her voice calling me son in a language I shouldn’t understand but did, that suffocating love that felt like worship and damnation wrapped in silk, her fingers in my hair like roots. No Mia—tipsy on my birthday, stumbling into me with wine on her breath, tart-sweet, her lips brushing my neck while I held her drunk in that half-second before she passed out in my arms, that moment I’d replayed a hundred times wondering if it was accident or test or invitation I hadn’t been ready for, her warmth still ghosting my skin, soft and hot. A mistake I will never let myself fall into! No Paris waiting—the city of lights and shadows and whatever the fuck the system wanted me to do there, apart from the modelling gig I had, another mission stacked on missions, another move in a game that never paused. No [Become the King of California]—the mission notification that appeared like "congratulations on almost finishing, here’s something bigger," the crown I didn’t ask for but couldn’t refuse, heavy as iron on my brow. I wasn’t thinking about any of it. Or I was trying not to. Thinking about not thinking was thinking, wasn’t it? I sighed, long and slow, breath fogging in the cool air, and fell back onto the sand. My arms spread wide, palms up, fingers curling into the grains, warm and coarse like crushed bone. The breeze rolled over me—cool, sharp with salt, carrying the faint rot of seaweed and the clean bite of open water, stinging the cuts on my knuckles. The sun was soft this side, but its ghost lingered in the sand, warming my back through my shirt, a slow burn. I closed my eyes. I let the rhythm of the waves sync with my pulse, a soft thump-crash-thump-crash, thump-crash-thump-crash. For once, nothing. Until five shadows cut across the moonlight, long and jagged like broken blades. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺 I opened my eyes. Sat up slow, brushing sand from my palms, grains cascading like gold dust. Five gym bros, muscles bulging like they’d swallowed boulders, veins popping under skin stretched tight. In the lead was a blonde—tall, tan like leather, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Hair spiked with too much gel, jaw clenched like he was chewing gravel. He reminded me of Jack fucking Morrison—all flash, no depth, his cologne cheap and loud. Next to him was a black dude, bald, built like a discount Rock, arms folded so tight his veins popped like cables. Shoulders wide enough to block the moon, sweat beading on his scalp. The other three? Background noise. Comic relief with protein-shake guts and tribal tattoos that looked like they’d been drawn with a Sharpie, sweat glistening under the moon. They stopped ten feet away, forming a half-circle like they’d rehearsed it, boots sinking into sand. Blondie stepped forward, planting himself directly in my path, sand kicking up in puffs. I stood. Brushed sand off my shorts, grains clinging to my thighs. I started walking away. But he shoved me—palm flat to my chest, hard enough to stagger a lesser man, his hand hot and sweaty. I didn’t move an inch. Just looked down at his hand, fingers splayed on my shirt, knuckles white. Then up at him. I was taller. Even taller than Discount Rock, who shifted like he wanted to flex but thought better of it, his shadow shrinking. The blonde’s smirk faltered. Just for a second, eyes flickering like a dying bulb. "Get out of my way," I said, voice low, flat, cutting through the wind like a knife through silk, "And never touch me again with your filthy hands, mortal." Simple. Clear. Final. But warnings have a funny way of entering one ear and exiting the other without stopping in between. Wait, where did the mortal word come from? His jaw set. His boys puffed up behind him. The blonde smiled—cocky, stupid.