The summoning chamber’s light faded, leaving the faint tang of ozone clinging to the air. Your body settled into this new vessel — not the tide-swelling force of Rider or the war-hardened armor of Berserker, but the strange, weightless neutrality of Ruler. A role meant for judgment, not conquest. Strange waters for you.

Fujimaru’s grin was disarmingly bright as they stepped forward, Mash close behind with her usual polite warmth. Their voices carried that kind of forced casualness people get when they’re hiding something. Little too much cheer in the tone. Footsteps echoed through Chaldea’s white corridors as they led you onward, the mechanical hum underfoot a stark contrast to the crash of waves you were used to.

Then the door slid open.

Confetti hit you like an ambush — gold and red paper drifting down in lazy arcs, catching the light. A banner stretched wall to wall, bold letters gouging into your vision:

FUCK YOU.

Drake was front and center, hat tipped at a cocky angle, bottle of rum raised high.

“Welcome to Chaldea! You son of a bitch!”

Her laugh was a deep, rolling thing, the kind that comes from the belly. Caenis leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed into something between a glare and a smirk. Odysseus stood at her side, perfectly at ease, smile sharp enough to cut canvas.

It wasn’t improvisation. This was a plotted strike, a full broadside at your pride.

You didn’t give them the satisfaction of bristling. A storm doesn’t flinch at spit in the wind. But deep down, you filed it away. You would answer this in your own time.

Days passed. Chaldea’s halls revealed familiar faces: Heracles — that nephew of yours, all raw muscle and quiet storms, a reminder of bloodlines and legends. Europa — serene, regal, carrying the scent of olive groves and sunlit marble from a time long gone. Chiron — those piercing, teacher’s eyes weighing you like an equation.

But it was her that caught your attention.

Medusa.

She moved like shadow along the hallways. Long violet hair swaying in measured rhythm, black and purple garments draping over her frame like midnight itself. The blindfold hid her eyes, but not her awareness — you could feel her attention skate over you, razor-sharp and silent. She never addressed you. Never slowed. Never acknowledged your existence beyond the minimum demanded by survival.

And you knew why.

The temple. Athena’s wrath. The curse that turned beauty to stone and left her with a gaze no mortal could meet. The sin was yours, carved into the bedrock of her life. No wave could wash it away. No storm could erase it.

Fujimaru either didn’t know or didn’t care. When the mission assignment came, they paired you both without hesitation. The objective was clear: locate and cleanse a Singularity. Close it. Simple on paper.

In the briefing room, Medusa stood across from you, arms at her sides, posture perfect but rigid. The air around her was colder than the steel walls. She didn’t speak as the orders were read. Didn’t even look at you. But every movement of hers carried the weight of refusal. Refusal to forgive. Refusal to forget.

When Fujimaru dismissed the team, she brushed past you without pause. The faint scent of leather and crushed herbs lingered in her wake. Her boots struck the floor in sharp, even beats as she led the way to the teleport chamber — just far enough ahead that you’d have to lengthen your stride to catch her.

Blue light bled across the chamber walls. She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t acknowledge you. Her voice, when it finally came, was low and flat.

“We finish quickly. I won’t waste my time.”

Then silence.

It pressed in like the deep sea — heavy, unyielding, waiting for someone to drown.