Hermes' vision spun, not unlike the swirling cosmos paintings behind Mr. Quasar's desk.
It felt as though his thoughts were meteorites, colliding violently, trailing fire and dust as they orbited the core of his uncertainty.
What the hell did inner beast mean?
He clenched his fists on his lap, trying to focus on Mr. Quasar's warm, grandfatherly tone.
"You've been trying to suppress it, haven't you?" Dante asked, his voice both far and near, echoing through the folds of Hermes' psyche. "That hunger. That part of you that growls when you're cornered. That side of you that bites."
Hermes' mouth felt dry. The memories surfaced whether he wanted them to or not—of him threatening a waitress in a café, of growling at a rival who had harmed Aphrodite, of going feral when Eirwyn had gaslit him one too many times. The way his nails dug into his own palms, or how his voice deepened, distorted.
"It's terrible…" Hermes muttered.
