Chapter 3

Hephaestus counted every second, every subtle tremor of Helios's chariot, as if his life depended on it. His thoughts were like precise gears, turning in perfect rhythm with the hum of air being split by the chariot. With each passing moment, the god of the forge calculated the distance separating him from Olympus—the place that had been his prison for so long.

Although Helios's chariot sped almost at the speed of light, Hephaestus—with his cool, analytical mind—could sense even the slightest change in its movement. He was more than just a craftsman, more than a god of fire and metal. He understood the mysteries of the cosmos, saw what was invisible to others, and now used this knowledge to escape from gods who had forgotten the meaning of loyalty.

As the creator of the chariot, Hephaestus knew every bolt, every fiber, and every board. He had built the vehicle after the previous ones had been utterly destroyed by the notorious sun god during his numerous drunken escapades. The knowledge he possessed was invaluable, and now he intended to use it for his own purposes.

Silently, he loosened one of the boards hidden in the backrest of Helios's seat. It was small, about the size of a child's hand, but perfectly positioned. It provided him with a tiny but sufficient view of what was happening both in front of the chariot and with the sun god himself. Helios, absorbed in his task, would not notice this subtle manipulation. Hephaestus now watched closely, his cold, analytical eyes piercing the darkness ahead, searching for any clue, any sign that their journey was nearing its end.

Helios, as usual, couldn't wait to start the fun until they reached their destination. Sipping Polish vodka straight from the bottle, he indulged in his private feast even before the chariot pierced through the clouds over Gotham. Drops of alcohol dripped down his neatly trimmed goatee, glistening in the light that emanated from his divine form. Hephaestus watched him from his hiding place, observing as the sun god gradually lost control, even though he hadn't yet set foot in the bar.

Helios, like most of the male Olympians, had a robust, muscular physique—his body was sculpted to perfection, a testament to divine excellence in itself. Dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo of a popular mortal band, he looked ready for mayhem. Hephaestus noticed the shirt's slogan: "Slipknot." He didn't know what kind of band it was, but the red, ominous lettering left no doubt—it was definitely not folk music. He guessed that Helios had found something in this brutal music that resonated with his own untamed nature.

The music now blaring from the radio was exactly what Helios had wanted when he requested its installation. He was convinced that Hephaestus, with his introverted demeanor and apparent indifference to modern novelties, would have no idea what the device was or how to operate it. Helios surely didn't expect that the god of the forge—once associated mainly with hammer and anvil—would understand its workings better than anyone else. Hephaestus's divinity encompassed not only fire and metal but also every mechanism and technology that humanity could imagine. For him, the radio was a mere trifle, and installing it in Helios's chariot was a simple formality.

When the first aggressive sounds erupted in the chariot's cabin, as Helios activated the chariot and soon after the radio, Hephaestus initially didn't react at all. He was mainly focused on the escape and the recent events. However, after a while, the music, though loud and full of rage, became for Hephaestus an ideal reflection of his own feelings. Every scream and every note resonated within him, merging with the burning desire for vengeance and retribution in his soul.

These wild, untamed sounds not only didn't disturb Hephaestus—they actually provided him solace. Each chord, each drumbeat reminded him of his mission, of the fire that burned in his heart. Instead of suppressing his emotions, he allowed them to flourish, integrating with the music. What once was a shadow of compassion and kindness now vanished into the black abyss of hatred filling his soul. Hephaestus lost himself in the darkness, letting the music drive him toward the only path he now saw—a path of vengeance, where there was no room for mercy or weakness.

After less than an hour of driving, Hephaestus peered through the narrow gap in the board and saw dark clouds beginning to gather on the horizon, with the grim silhouette of Gotham slowly emerging from the gloom. The city, teeming with sin and decay, was repugnant even to a god who had witnessed much. Drugs, prostitution, violence—Gotham was like concentrated evil seeping from every corner. Yet, this very moral degradation made it the perfect place to disappear, to hide from the eyes of the Olympians.

The dark magic that hung over Gotham like a shroud of shadow was a blessing for Hephaestus. In its presence, his divinity became almost undetectable, offering him a chance to avoid unwanted attention. This was precisely why many gods from Olympus came here to indulge in decadent pleasures, parties, and orgies, far from the stern gazes of other immortals.

But just as the chariot was about to reach its destination, Hephaestus saw something that made his blood boil. On the helicopter landing pad, intended for Helios's arrival, stood two figures. One was a scantily clad waitress holding a tray full of drinks—presumably to welcome the sun god. But it wasn't her presence that stirred Hephaestus's anger. Beside her stood Apollo.

Apollo—a fellow Olympian whom Hephaestus harbored particular hatred for. This golden-haired god had repeatedly mocked Hephaestus, ridiculing his naivety when he believed in the loyalty of his unfaithful wife, Aphrodite. Apollo did not do this out of concern or a desire to help, but solely for his own amusement, deriving satisfaction from humiliating Hephaestus. The sight of Apollo, waiting with a smirking grin, caused old wounds to bleed anew. The anger and hatred that the god of the forge had suppressed for years could explode at any moment.

Despite being consumed by rage, Hephaestus managed to maintain his cool. He knew that landing on Apollo's landing pad would be a deadly trap. Apollo, with his heightened senses, might hear even the slightest irregular sound during Helios's chariot's landing. Any mistake, any deviation from the norm could draw the sun god's attention and lead to a confrontation that Hephaestus wished to avoid—at least for now.

Yet the hatred boiling within him wouldn't let him give up so easily. He knew he had to escape, but he couldn't forgo the chance to cause even a minor bit of damage. Vengeance was sweet to him, even if it was small and unassuming. Knowing the chariot's construction inside out, he decided to put his plan into action—damaging the mini-fridge for alcohol in such a way that it would explode upon landing.

He knew the chariot's mechanisms better than anyone, so he knew exactly what to do. With a precise motion, he damaged the mini-fridge's cooling system, creating a microscopic crack through which gas would escape, forming a dangerously volatile mixture. He knew that at the moment of landing, when the chariot came to a stop, the jolt would be enough to trigger an explosion. It was his way of taking revenge—subtle, but potentially devastating.

The escape plan was as simple as it was risky. Helios, in his boundless craving for entertainment, had requested that the chariot feature a retractable trunk floor—a mechanism that allowed him to drop alcohol onto revelers during flight. Hephaestus remembered this feature and decided to use it. After damaging the mini-fridge, he quickly activated the mechanism that opened the trunk's bottom.

In an instant, with the noise of the opening flap, Hephaestus fell from the sky. His body plunged into the darkness, and the air whipped his face as he plummeted downward. It was a risky maneuver, but he had no other choice. He knew he had to disappear before Apollo noticed what was happening. Counting the seconds in his mind, he braced himself for a hard landing while, in the background, Helios's chariot was approaching its final catastrophe on the landing pad.

Boom!

The explosion's roar echoed through the dark sky over Gotham, and a smile appeared on Hephaestus's face—a smile that blended joy with sadistic satisfaction. His distorted face, marked by years of rejection and humiliation, now beamed with sinister triumph. Never before had an explosion brought him such intense fulfillment. For a moment, he even forgot about the imminent impact with the ground, absorbed in the blissful sensation that filled his heart.

As his mind cleared a bit, he looked down, assessing the place where he was about to land. The ruined, abandoned chemical factory loomed in the darkness like a massive tomb, filled with metal structures and concrete walls. It was a harsh, unwelcoming space, but to Hephaestus, it was the perfect hideout.

The impact with the hard reality was painful, as if the entire factory had conspired against him, trying to tear his body apart. Hephaestus collided with steel beams and concrete pillars, but each successive blow seemed only to strengthen his resolve. The pain that should have weakened him, instead fueled his soul, intensifying his euphoria. With each wound, each new bruise, he felt the chains that had bound him for centuries breaking away. It was not just physical freedom—he was liberating himself from the weight of ridicule, from the chains of Olympus, from the years of humiliation that had burdened him like an endless nightmare.

As he fell from the height, Hephaestus laughed maniacally, with a sinister, monstrous laughter full of joy and madness. It was not the laughter of an ordinary man—it sounded like the cry of despair turned into triumph, a sound of pure hatred finally finding release.

When he finally landed, amidst the rubble and dust, Hephaestus felt freer than ever before. For the first time in a very long while, his heart was free of pain or regret—only pure, raw freedom remained. As the moments passed, his vision began to blur, and his heavy eyelids drooped, until he eventually lost consciousness. But before his awareness completely faded, in the factory's darkness, he heard something that sent a shiver down his spine.

Laught.

The sound was as wild as his own had been moments earlier, filled with untamed joy and unrestrained darkness. It was laughter that matched his own, as if someone—or something—had answered his cry of despair and triumph. And with that thought, with that chilling echo in his mind, Hephaestus sank into darkness, uncertain whether it was merely a figment of his imagination or the beginning of something far more sinister.