Throughout the ages, unbeknownst to mortals, the legendary Greek demigods and heroes have been trapped in a cycle, where they are reincarnated as a new being without any memories of their past lives, but fated to relive their lives according to the prophecy defining their original beings' past lives. Mercury (Hermes) has been tasked with Pyrrha's (Achilles') fate.

When Pyrrha asks him if he's going with anyone, despite the overwhelming urge for him to ask her out, he merely replies with a simple 'no'– a mere bastardization of what he truly wants to say; that he's not good enough for her either. And so they part ways. She doesn't see the look on his face. But neither does he see hers.

She's taller and more beautiful than ever and he watches her dance and weave between the fighters like a leaf in the wind, dodging and blocking attacks effortlessly before countering with her own strikes. But as graceful as she seems, he can see she's grown mentally; stronger, harder. And he can't help but wonder if it's because of him.

He left the room with Pyrrha's screams still ringing in his ears. And though he tried to convince himself that it was not something for him to interfere in, he just couldn't shake off the feeling that he was, to some extent…abandoning her. He wouldn't lie. He hated the feeling.

He's standing there, eyes unwavering and face unreadable as he stares down at her. There's a gaping hole in her chest and there's blood everywhere, blood on her bare skin, blood on his hands, blood pooling around her. Red. Everything is red. And all he can see is red.

Her eyes were wide in disbelief, sword still raised to block a strike that couldn't be blocked, and there was blood. There was blood everywhere. Red was all he could see. His silver eyes locked with her unseeing ones for the briefest of moments; Mercury gasped, and the world started again.

"You know, on second thought, that shirt doesn't look so good on you. Take it off, won't you?"