EIGHTY-SEVEN

Like the fingers of a jazz pianist winding down the 88’s, Persephone sifted through the files up on the 86th floor of the Olympia Skyscraper. She wore headphones and danced to the ongoing beat. She’d been at it for six hours, and her legs hadn’t yet screamed at her to stop.

She pulled another file labeled “End of Days” and threw it on the stack, on top of “Apocalypse”. None of the Gods knew she was here.

That was good.

The world would spin that much longer.

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