Smith Goes Back to Greece (Welcome Home, Smith)

Smith was halfway through not caring about anything when his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He stared at it like it had personally offended him.

Then it rang again.

And again.

“Whoever this is,” he muttered, “you’ve got about three seconds before I throw this thing into a river and claim it was self-defense.”

He answered. “Yeah?”

A woman’s voice came through—calm, controlled, and so perfectly composed it made his skin crawl.

“They are with me.”

Smith sat up so fast the chair squealed. “Who is this.”

A pause. Not confusion. Not hesitation. Just patience. Like she’d waited centuries for him to pick up.

“You know who this is.”

“Nope,” Smith said. “You’re gonna need to be real specific.”

“They are safe.”

“Where are they?” Smith snapped. “Where’s Maggie? Stacy? Lucas and Evan? Bruno? Peanut? Mr. Whiskers? Matilda? Barnabas?”

The voice didn’t flinch at a single name.

“Safe,” she repeated.

“That’s not an answer.”

“They are guests.”

Smith blinked. “Guests.”

“Yes.”

“That’s kidnapping with nicer branding.”

“It is hospitality with conditions.”

“That’s kidnapping with snacks.”

The voice continued, unbothered. “You will come to Greece.”

Smith laughed, sharp and immediate. “No.”

“Then they will remain.”

“That’s literally kidnapping.”

“It is the only way I could reach you.”

Smith’s stomach dropped.

“Why,” he said slowly, “couldn’t you reach me.”

A softer pause this time.

“I cannot leave.”

Smith closed his eyes. “You can’t leave Greece.”

“No.”

“And you decided the solution was to collect my people.”

“They are unharmed.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“You will come,” the voice said again—not a threat. A fact.

Smith’s jaw tightened. “How do I know this isn’t a trap.”

“You do not.”

That honesty chilled him more than a lie.

“Who are you.”

“Hera.”

Smith exhaled.

Of course.

He heard laughter faintly through the phone. Dishes. A dog barking once. It didn’t sound like a dungeon. It sounded like dinner.

“You touch them,” Smith said quietly, “I’ll tear Olympus down.”

“They are not your punishment,” Hera replied. “You are.”

The call ended.

Smith stared at the phone, then shouted, “BARNABAS!”

A fishbowl bubbled. “What.”

“Pack your stuff. We’re going to Greece.”

Barnabas rolled one eye. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t get a vote.”

A “yip” came from behind the couch. Matilda—disguised as a Yorkie that fooled no one with a brain—popped her head out, eyes glowing faintly.

“You’re staying,” Smith said.

She sneezed smoke.

Smith sighed. “Fine. But behave.”

She wagged her tail like a liar.

Greece hit him like a punch.

Beautiful. Merciless. Old enough to remember him.

Smith kept his hood up and his head down. It didn’t help.

Someone shouted his name in Greek before he’d taken ten steps. Smith pretended not to hear.

A tour guide stared too long. Smith said “No” before the question formed.

A woman with a basket of fruit pointed at him. “You still owe my cousin for that roof.”

“That roof was already broken.”

“You broke it more.”

Smith handed over cash without counting.

“You look tired,” she said.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Barnabas muttered, “You could’ve paid that years ago.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying not to be me.”

Smith turned a corner too fast and walked straight into a brick wall that smelled like sweat, cologne, and bad decisions.

The wall didn’t move.

Smith bounced back. “Watch it.”

The man grinned—wide, confident, and just a little unhinged. Designer jacket. Gold watch. Hands scarred from years of wrapped knuckles.

“Well,” the man said, spreading his arms, “if it isn’t my favorite liability.”

Smith stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ares laughed, loud and pleased. “That’s the greeting? No hug?”

Smith glanced past him. “I don’t have time for this. Or you.”

Ares gestured toward a black SUV idling nearby. From somewhere underground came the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh.

“Business is good,” Ares said proudly. “I promote. I scout. I let people hurt each other legally now. Growth.”

“You run a fight club,” Smith said flatly.

“An exclusive fight club,” Ares corrected. “Branding matters.”

Smith shifted, already angling away. “You’re still feeding off violence like it’s a personality.”

Ares leaned closer. “And you’re still pretending you’re above it.”

Smith met his eyes—and whatever Ares saw there wiped the grin clean off his face.

“Not today,” Smith said quietly. “I’m not here for you. I’m not here for him. And I’m not staying.”

Ares studied him, then smirked again, slower. “You’ve gone soft.”

Smith walked past him. “You’ve stayed bored.”

Behind him, Ares called out, amused and sharp:

“Careful, brother. Greece remembers its fighters.”

Smith didn’t turn around.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s why I don’t fight here anymore.”

Hera’s villa sat quietly in the hills.

Smith burst in ready for war.

And froze.

They were eating.

Lucas had gravy on his face. Evan was poking something ancient. Stacy looked bored. Maggie was fascinated. Bruno stood guard. Peanut bounced. Mr. Whiskers judged silently.

“You were kidnapped,” Smith barked.

Lucas frowned. “No we weren’t.”

Evan nodded. “We got invited.”

Stacy shrugged. “Food’s good.”

Smith scanned for chains. “Where’s Hera.”

“Here.”

She stood behind him, composed, regret worn thin.

“This isn’t kidnapping,” Smith snapped.

“It is an invitation you would refuse.”

“I did refuse.”

“And yet you came.”

Barnabas cleared his throat. “Still kidnapping with snacks.”

Hera glanced at him. “I can hear you.”

Barnabas sniffed. “Then I’m speaking clearly.”

Maggie leaned toward Stacy. “Is the fish always like this?”

“Yes,” Stacy said.

Matilda yipped and jumped on a chair.

“Your dog is not a dog,” Hera said calmly.

Stacy blinked. “What.”

“We’re leaving,” Smith said.

“Why?” Maggie asked.

Smith couldn’t answer. He just said, “Because.”

Stacy studied him, then nodded. “Okay.”

Hera gestured down the hall. “Not here.”

Smith followed.

The room was small. Human.

A wooden box sat on the table.

“I was wrong,” Hera said.

Smith waited for theatrics. None came.

“I used pain to teach obedience,” she continued. “It taught you how to leave.”

“So why now.”

“Because you have punished yourself long enough for what I began.”

Smith’s hands shook once.

She slid the box toward him. “This is not forgiveness. It is truth.”

“Hades,” Smith said.

“Yes.”

He opened the box.

Inside: a small carved lion.

Memory hit him like breath returning after drowning.

Certainty followed.

They knew.

They had always known.

It was her.

Hera bowed her head. “I wanted you to know—before the end.”

Smith closed the box.

“I didn’t come for you,” he said.

“I know.”

Outside, Lucas shouted, “EVAN TOUCHED A THING!”

Smith exhaled.

They left at sunset.

Chaos intact.

As they passed the gate, Zeus appeared—smiling, lazy.

“Still dramatic,” he said. “I never liked that mortal you follow. John Merlin.”

Smith stopped.

“That man,” he said flatly, “was more of a father to me than you ever were.”

Zeus had nothing.

Smith walked on.

Maggie fell into step beside him, shoulder brushing his.

She looked up. “You know… Hercules was always my favorite.”

Smith snorted. “Not me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Always had a thing for Thor.”

Maggie laughed.

Smith laughed with her.

And for the first time in centuries, the weight he carried wasn’t punishment.

It was memory.

And he kept walking.

End