The streets of Central were slick with rain, bathed in amber light from streetlamps that buzzed like restless insects. Greed stood at the edge of an abandoned balcony, arms folded, eyes narrowed toward the city's darkened skyline.
He knew she was near.
Not because of sound or scent—but the atmosphere changed when she arrived. Lust didn't move through space so much as warp it, bending tension into temptation.
She stepped from the shadows behind him, her form as perfect as ever, her smile sharp enough to cut cloth.
"Still watching the world you abandoned?" she asked smoothly.
Greed didn't turn. "Still pretending to know what I want?"
She circled him slowly, her steps soundless. "You always wanted more. Control. Followers. Purpose. And now?"
She leaned closer. "You're following someone else's path."
His jaw tensed. "I make my own path."
"But it's starting to look like his," she murmured.
Greed's armor flickered under his skin. "You came all this way to mock me?"
"No," she said, voice lower now. "I came to remind you of what you gave up."
She raised a hand—not to strike, but to conjure.
The air around them shimmered.
A memory bloomed between them—his old lair. His followers. Their betrayal.
The pain.
The loneliness.
"You trusted once," Lust said. "It nearly destroyed you."
Her words were soft, but her presence was venom.
"And now, you trust him. That quiet one with the starlit eyes. The god who walks beside mortals."
Greed didn't answer.
Because it was true.
Elsewhere, Aeon felt the tremor in the world's emotional lattice.
He sat alone beneath an arched stone bridge, the night around him still. Then came the shift—so subtle it might have passed for a breeze. But it wasn't wind.
It was memory, weaponized.
The illusion took hold before Aeon could resist.
Grass underfoot. Laughter in the distance. A child's toy lying in the shade of a tree.
And then she was there.
A woman. Hair brushed behind her ears, her smile soft and open. Her eyes bore into his without blame, only a quiet ache.
She was no illusion. Not fully. She was something he'd once known. Or dreamed of knowing.
She stepped forward. Reached for him.
And Aeon—torn by instinct—nearly took her hand.
But then a voice rang faintly in his ears.
"Not yet."
A girl's voice. One he barely remembered.
And the vision shattered.
Greed stood alone again on the balcony, knuckles white against the stone.
Lust was gone.
But the ghost of what she'd offered still lingered.
Later, Greed found Aeon near the canal.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Greed asked.
Aeon nodded.
"They're not illusions," he said. "They're reflections. They show us what we once craved."
Greed smirked, but the edge in his voice was bitter. "Then they're getting better at finding cracks."
Aeon didn't answer. The rain picked up, washing silence over them both.
And in the distance, Pride watched.
Waiting.