Chapter 25: My Life

The hillside overlooks Tokyo from an angle that shouldn't exist.

Hana sits on grass that feels real beneath her palms—individual blades, the slight dampness of morning dew, the organic texture of earth. The city spreads below like a circuit board of lights, millions of windows and streetlamps creating patterns that pulse with human activity. The sky above is pre-dawn gray, neither dark nor light.

She doesn't remember arriving here.

"You're awake."

Artemis sits nearby, perhaps three meters distant. She's wearing her human form today—the athletic figure, the wave-brown hair, the gray eyes that hold millennia. Her clothing is casual: loose pants, a simple shirt. Nothing divine about her appearance except the weight of her presence.

"This isn't real," Hana says.

"It's real enough." Artemis gestures at the view. "A projection. A meeting space. The physical location doesn't exist, but what happens here does."

"What happens here?"

"We talk." Artemis's voice carries something Hana hasn't heard before. Uncertainty, perhaps. Or vulnerability. "I've been testing you for months. Challenges, competitions, situations designed to reveal who you are."

"And?"

"And I still don't understand you." Artemis turns to face her fully. "You're not a goddess. You're not a warrior. You're not a priestess seeking divine favor. You're a mortal who was transformed against her will, and yet—"

"And yet?"

"And yet you fascinate me." The admission seems to cost something. "Which is rare. After millennia of observing mortals, very few still fascinate me."

Hana processes this. The city lights flicker below, indifferent to divine confessions.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you've been honest with me. More honest than most mortals dare." Artemis shifts her position, drawing her knees up. The posture is unexpectedly human. "You told me about your trust issues. Your childhood trauma. The patterns you learned to survive."

"You asked."

"I did. And now I'm offering something in return." A pause. "My own honesty. If you want it."

This is unusual, Sage observes. Divine beings rarely offer vulnerability.

Maybe she's testing us again, Frost suggests.

Or maybe she's just lonely, Quinn adds. She said she was. Even with the handmaidens.

Hana studies Artemis's face. The ancient eyes. The careful stillness that conceals whatever churns beneath.

"I'm listening."

Artemis's story emerges in fragments.

"Zeus raped my mother." The words are flat, clinical. "Leto was a Titan's daughter. Beautiful. Noticed. My father—" the word carries weight, "—took what he wanted. As he always did."

The hillside remains still. No wind. No sound except two voices.

"I gained consciousness while still in the womb. Aware. Trapped. Helpless." Artemis's gaze fixes on some middle distance. "I felt my mother fleeing. Hera's persecution. The earth rejecting her because no land wanted to anger Zeus's wife. I felt all of it, and I couldn't do anything."

"That's—" Hana stops. There's no adequate response.

"Horrific. Yes." Artemis's voice doesn't waver. "Then I was born. And moments later, I helped birth my brother. A newborn serving as midwife. The absurdity still haunts me."

Scenes flicker at the edge of Hana's vision—not quite visible, but present. Young Leto fleeing. A rocky island. Blood and birth and the cries of infants.

"I wanted to help. After that. To protect the vulnerable. Women, children, those who cannot protect themselves." Artemis's hands clench against her knees. "So I gathered followers. Abandoned women. Those who had nowhere else. The ones who became the foundation of what mortals called Amazons."

"The huntresses."

"Yes. We hunted. We trained. We built something apart from the games of gods and the cruelties of men." A pause. "And then Actaeon."

The name lands heavy in the quiet space.

"I don't remember his name anymore. Just what happened. He saw me bathing. Accident or intention, it didn't matter. I reacted in rage. Transformed him. Set his own hounds upon him."

"And?"

"And later, I saw what remained." Artemis's voice finally cracks. "Pieces. Scattered across the forest floor. The hounds didn't understand—they were just following instinct. But I understood. I'd done that. Turned a man into meat because he saw me vulnerable."

Silence.

"The wars destroyed us." Artemis continues after a long moment. "Three times the Greek pantheon fought other divine systems. Three times we were annihilated. Scattered to winds, diminished, forgotten. I watched my brothers and sisters fall. Watched everything we built crumble."

"And now?"

"Now I found Leandra and Nikandra. Fifteen years ago. Saw them see me bathing, the same as Actaeon. I was ready to kill them—" she stops, "—then I remembered his remains. The horror of it. So I gave them a choice instead. Death or service."

"They chose service."

"They did. Gave my existence meaning again." Artemis finally looks at Hana. "But meaning isn't fulfillment. I'm still alone. Even with them."

The admission hangs in the air. A goddess confessing loneliness to a mortal she's been testing for months.

She's not testing you now, Quinn observes. This is real.

Real doesn't mean safe, Frost counters.

But it might mean something, Sage adds. Connection. Understanding. The things you've been building with Prism5.

Hana considers her response. The easy path is deflection—acknowledge the story, express sympathy, maintain distance. The harder path is reciprocity.

"Do you want to hear mine?"

Artemis's eyes sharpen. "Your story?"

"Yes."

A long pause. Then a nod.

"There was a boy."

Hana's voice sounds strange in the constructed space—more distant than she expects, as if the words are coming from somewhere else.

"I was training rebels. In Syria. Daraa. It doesn't matter where exactly. What matters is that one day, a boy walked into camp. Maybe eight years old. Thin. Terrified. Explosives strapped to his chest."

The city lights below seem to dim. Or maybe that's just perception.

"I was ordered to shoot. Standard protocol for suicide bombers, regardless of age. But I looked at his eyes and I couldn't—" She stops. Breathes. "I wouldn't. I defused the device myself. Took six minutes. Longest six minutes of my life."

"You saved him."

"I saved him." The words taste bitter. "Wanted to bring him back to the States. Asylum. A new life. The request went up the chain. Got denied. Political shift—wrong person won an election. We were recalled. Russia filled the vacuum we left."

"And the boy?"

"Killed in a bombing three weeks later." Hana's hands clench against the grass. "I finally had a chance to help someone. Really help. And it ended because of politics."

Silence.

"The worst part was, new management wanted different people. Men who followed orders without hesitation. Men who didn't question shooting children. It was an excuse to clean house." She laughs. There's no humor in it. "So I got benched. Stuck in a back office for years. Forgotten. Until I ended up here."

Artemis is watching her with an expression Hana can't read.

"You tried to save him."

"Trying doesn't matter if he's still dead."

More silence. The city continues its pulsing glow, indifferent to the weight of confessions.

"We're both carrying ghosts," Artemis says finally.

"Yes."

"Different ghosts. Different burdens. But the weight is similar."

Hana doesn't respond. The observation doesn't require acknowledgment.

"You train like a warrior," Artemis continues. "I've watched you. The discipline. The focus. The refusal to let your body be something you don't control."

"I train because I need something that's mine. Something nobody can take." Hana meets her eyes. "When everything else was taken—choice, body, identity—I needed to know I could still build something."

"Control."

"Space. Room to exist. Something that belongs to me." Hana's voice hardens slightly. "When someone steps into that space without permission, that's when I have problems."

Artemis nods slowly. "I understand that. Perhaps better than most."

"I believe you."

They sit in silence. The sky begins to lighten—artificial dawn in a constructed space.

"We're not friends," Hana says eventually.

Artemis's almost-smile returns. "No?"

"No." But Hana's voice carries something that might be warmth. "But we understand each other. Maybe that's enough."

"Maybe it is." Artemis stands. Her form shifts slightly—more divine, less approachable. "I may reach out again. It's nice to have someone who understands."

"Call first."

"I'll try." She pauses. "The kami—Kae—has something planned. For you and the others. I won't interfere, but—" She stops. "Be careful."

"I always am."

"No, you're not. You're reckless in specific, calculated ways." Artemis's voice carries grudging respect. "But you survive. Keep doing that."

Then she's gone. The hillside remains, but the presence that gave it weight has departed.

Hana wakes in her apartment.

The clock reads 7:23 AM. Sunlight streams through windows she doesn't remember leaving uncovered. Her body is stiff, as if she's been sleeping in an awkward position for hours.

The phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hana." Ren's voice. Professional mode. "The television production company called. They want you for the recurring role. Okinawa Mermaids. They're sending contracts this afternoon."

The words take a moment to process. The audition from weeks ago. The role she thought she'd lost.

"Okay."

"That's it? Just okay?"

"I'm still waking up." Hana rubs her eyes. "We'll discuss it later."

"Later. Yes." A pause. "Are you all right? You sound—"

"I'm fine. I'll be at practice."

She hangs up before Ren can ask more questions.

The apartment is ordinary. Morning light. Furniture. The laptop still open on the desk, trading software running its endless calculations.

Then the air shifts.

A glow appears near the door. Not harsh—soft, like moonlight concentrated into a single point. It pulses once, twice, then expands into something larger.

Hana sits up.

"I thought we were done with this."

The glow doesn't respond. Just continues to expand, forming the outline of a doorway that leads somewhere else entirely.

Kae, Sage observes. She said she had something planned.

Another test, Frost predicts.

Or something else, Quinn adds. Something final.

Hana stares at the forming portal. Behind it, she can sense something ancient and patient waiting.

Whatever comes next, it's starting now.

She stands.

And prepares to face whatever truth awaits.