Julius froze, fingers still hovering above the keys, as the answering note shimmered with something unmistakably alive.

  He reached out to close the piano—but a voice, soft and unmistakably human, murmured through the room.

  He jolted back, heart slamming against his ribs, and knocked over a small vase. He winced, bracing for the sharp crash of ceramic shattering on tile.

  But no sound came.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The vase hung suspended in midair.

  Julius stared, his expression glazed with awe and confusion. Slowly, he reached toward the frozen object—only to feel a strange resistance, like pushing through thick glass. The air wouldn’t move. Time wouldn’t move.

  His breath caught.

  He turned, scanning the room with darting eyes, trying to gather any possible explanation.

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  Then he saw it.

  Standing across the room—calm, radiant, impossibly familiar—was himself.

  Terror bloomed in Julius’s chest. His mind spun with questions and bleak possibilities. He took an uneasy step back.

  “I have questions for you,” he said shakily. “Won’t you answer them?”

  The figure opened its mouth—and spoke.

  Its voice was layered, impossibly vast: a chorus of millions speaking in perfect harmony. Within a single sentence, Julius heard a mother’s lullaby, a father’s warning, the laughter of children, and the weeping of widows—all woven together.

  His stomach twisted.

  Still trembling, he asked, “Who are you? What are you? What do you want from me?”

  The figure walked forward, calm and unbothered, and took a seat at the kitchen table. “Play a game with me, gentleman,” it said. “I will answer every question. Fulfill every desire. But only if your futile attempts to best me succeed.”

  Julius hesitated, then pulled out the chair across from him and sat.

  “Give me your name,” he demanded.

  The god’s eyes narrowed. “Lower your tone, boy,” it hissed. “You know not what I am. You are in no position to be making demands.”

  Julius saw his opening.

  “Oh my, my apologies, O’ Great One,” he said mockingly. “Surely someone as mighty and brilliant as yourself wouldn’t need anything from someone like me.”

  The god rose to his feet, voice thick with disdain. “I am here to use you as my host. Do not resist. You’ve been given the honor of becoming a vessel for my greatness.”

  Julius leaned back with a smirk. “What a shame,” he said, almost to himself. “I thought I’d be given the chance to crush a divine being under my heel. But, alas, no challenge has been made.”

  The god’s face twisted with fury.

  “HOW DARE YOU! You are a fool—worse than a fool! You want a game? Then you shall have one! YOUR CHOICE, MORTAL!”

  Julius grinned—wide, vicious, triumphant. His eyes locked onto his divine reflection with wicked satisfaction. The god, he realized, was afraid.

  Julius rose from his seat, spine straightening with terrifying poise. “We’ll play an ancient Chinese game called Nim,” he said, savoring every syllable. “Are you familiar with it?”

  The god’s eyes widened.

  Julius’s grin grew wider still.

  He had seen it—fear in a god’s eyes.

  Julius was terrifying.