Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say that some people are born with tragedy in their veins. That, by some cruel twist of fate, they are destined to live a life bursting with pain, merely a plaything for some higher power's amusement.

(How much can one soul take before they are shattered beyond repair?)

In a world full of brilliant nebulas and supernovas, of courageous protagonists and heroes, what becomes of the stars that burn out? The blazing souls that are reduced to a sole sputtering ember, leaving only a faintly glowing piece of ash in their wake. A pale imitation of what could have been, stubbornly holding on.

Was that really a will to live? Would that tiny, little spark that had once been so vibrant be able to power the same kind spirit it had before?

(Percy Jackson was 8 years old when his mother married a monster.)

- - -

When Gabe Ugliano entered their lives, everything changed.

Looking back, Percy knew his mom must have been struggling on her own. Being a single parent wasn't an easy thing for anyone, let alone a single mother trying to raise Percy. As a hyperactive kid with a penchant for trouble, even as a young child, Percy knew that there was something inherently wrong with him. He was different, he was too much, he was not enough.

(A decaying, rotten part of Percy's mind wishes he had been less. Maybe, if he hadn't been such a difficult child, his mom wouldn't have had to bring Gabe into their lives.)

Sally Jackson hid the strain of being a single parent well, preserving his innocence in that regard. He never knew the financial turbulence they were under, he just knew that his mom played a game with him to find the best coupon deals when grocery shopping. She didn't have a regular job and was always trying to find work, but she spared him from the details of that stress. Even from the limited viewpoint of a child, Percy recognized that his mom was an incredibly hard worker, working odd jobs and taking night classes. Despite the stress she surely had been under, Percy never doubted that his mother loved him.

(But Percy was too much, and so Gabe had to step in.)

Gabe whispered these words of bitter honey and molasses to Percy, and though he choked on the acrid words hidden behind sickly sweet faux concern, he took them in and made them his own.

(For who was Percy, a clueless child, to question what an adult told him?)

Is he still a child? What is the turning point between youth and adulthood?

Could he really be just a child?

Could a child face all of this alone?

(What makes a monster a monster?)

- - -

“Percy, I've been thinking…”

Percy looks up from his PB&J sandwich and notices with no small amount of trepidation that his mom looks nervous. That usually means that his school called to complain about him (but it's summer break), or his mom was breaking it to him that they had to move again, for some inexplicable reason she could never fully explain to Percy.

Wiping her hands on the red checkered apron she was wearing, Sally settles down across from Percy on the kitchen table with a sigh. Rain is pattering gently against the window, a soothing sound that reminds Percy of the splashes and rumbles of the song of the ocean he'd heard the few times they'd gone to Long Island Beach with his mom.

His mom's voice mixes with the rain, soft and hesitant. “How would you feel if it wasn't only us here?”

Percy cocks his head, confused. “Are we getting a dog?” he asks.

His mom lets out a burst of surprised laughter. “No, baby, no dogs. No, I'm talking more about… another grown-up in the house.”

Percy’s initial thought is one of shock and rejection. It had always just been them two. Why should they change a system that was working perfectly fine?

“Why would we do that?” It sounds a bit whiny, even to Percy's ears, but he feels justified in his concern.

His mom's eyes soften as she moves to kneel next to him, her calloused hands reaching out to grasp his own. “Oh, honey, I know change is scary. But good things can come from change. Remember what we learned about butterflies?”

Percy remembers. In a rare splurge, his mom had taken him to a butterfly garden a few months back. She'd told him how just like caterpillars have to become a chrysalis before they turn into a butterfly, even when things might be scary, it would always turn out better in the end.

(Percy thinks about how caterpillars have to first turn into mush in order to change into something better. It sounds painful.)

His mom must see the indecision in his eyes, as she gently tucks his head to her chest and rocks him. Her voice wobbles as she sighs, “I just think it will be good for us, baby.”

She looks at Percy, then, brown eyes boring into sea-green eyes. “You wouldn’t have to stay with Ms. Pierson so much. You know I hate leaving you.”

Percy does know. He doesn’t mind staying with Ms. Pierson, the little old lady next door, but he does get so bored with her and her weird soap operas she was always watching. And her house smells funny. Percy also knows how his mom struggles to fit her schedule around being home with him, working late into the night so she can spend the days with him when she can.

“Besides-” Percy's mom looks like she wants to say something else, but she doesn't, her breath coming out in a long, wavering sigh as her mouth twists bitterly. “You don't have to make a decision now, I just want you to think about it. I think- I think I met someone I want to introduce you to.”

- - -

At seven years old, Percy has a few things figured out:

• Sour candy is way better than chocolate
• The beach is a million times cooler than the city
• His mom is his only friend

Is that such a bad thing?

Percy doesn't think so. That was just the way things were; it was Percy and Sally, son and mom; the best team ever.

(But, a quiet, traitorous voice whispers in Percy's mind, he is lonely sometimes.)

Percy loves his mother with all the love his little heart could hold. But that made it all the more painful when she had to leave; to work, to class, to study.

Percy is alone a lot of the time.

(And he is fine with that, isn't he?)

Would it really be so bad to have someone else at home to keep him company?

Despite himself, Percy finds himself feeling intrigued, even excited by the idea of having another friend. It had always only been Percy and his mom against the world. Wouldn't another person make it all that much easier to carry?

- - -

Later that same evening, Percy takes a running leap and sprawls across his mom's lap, ignoring her mock exasperation as she moves her textbook to a safer location. Laying with his head in her lap, he grins up at her as she tugs her fingers through his curly hair and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I want to meet that person you were talking about.”

Outside, the rain howls, speeding up and hammering the glass like war drums resounding with foreboding.

But inside their cozy home, Percy is snuggled up to his mom, and everything is okay.

Chapter Text

Percy wonders what his mom's friend will be like. 

Despite himself, Percy feels himself being carried away in a fantasy of who this man is. Someone kind and happy, who will play games with him! Someone who dotes on Percy and spoils his mom.

Someone who plays an active part in Percy's life, something more tangible than the faded warmth and idea of a kind smile he has for his dad. 

Percy is still confused by why his mom wants someone else to join them (isn’t Percy enough?), but he knows that most kids have two grown-ups at their home. Is this how that works?

- - -

They meet at a McDonald's down the street. Percy is excited; they rarely eat from restaurants, so this must be a really special occasion! 

His mom's friend isn't there yet, so they go ahead and order. His mom lets him choose where they sit, so they settle down in a corner booth, Percy bouncing excitedly on the padded bench. The window is dirty, but the sun trickles in and casts pretty shadows of light on the table.

This is the best day ever! Percy is with his mom, they’re at a real restaurant, he’s eating some chicken nuggets and french fries (his mom had said he didn't have to eat any vegetables!), and Percy's food even came with a little toy!

Percy swings his legs under the table, his sneakers knocking lightly against the vinyl seat. His fingers tap an excited rhythm on the tabletop as he watches the door, waiting. Any second now.

He tries to imagine what his mom’s friend will be like. He must be kind—his mom wouldn’t be friends with someone who wasn’t. Maybe he’s funny, the kind of guy who tells bad jokes but laughs at himself anyway. Maybe he plays catch, or likes the ocean as much as Percy does. Maybe he’ll like Percy.

The thought makes something flutter in his chest. He doesn’t know why, but the idea of another grown-up liking him—really liking him—feels important. His mom always says Percy is the best thing that ever happened to her, but sometimes, when she comes home late from work with dark circles under her eyes, he wonders if that’s really true. Maybe if she had someone else, another grown-up to help, she wouldn’t be so tired all the time. Maybe this friend could be that person.

The minutes stretch, and he keeps imagining. What if Gabe teaches him things? How to ride a bike without training wheels, how to throw a football. What if he buys Percy ice cream just because? What if he calls him “kiddo” the way his mom does, ruffles his hair, tells him he’s proud?

His stomach flips at the thought. He wants that. Wants it so bad he feels silly for it, but still, he can’t help but hope.

- - -

Fifteen minutes later, and his mom's smile has become strained. Percy had finished his food, and is idly pushing the little plastic car that came with his food around on the table.

A shadow appears to the side, as if a cloud had temporarily covered the sun. This must be his mom's friend!! And then he looks, and he realizes he must be wrong, because this isn't like the person he had imagined. 

A short, pudgy man, wearing a grease-stained shirt and a crooked smile was standing next to the table, carrying a tray of food. (Two hamburgers, more fries than Percy had ever seen, and a big soda). 

Percy waits for his mom to question who this man was or tell him to go away, but instead, she gestures at the booth across the table and says with a nervous smile. “Good to see you, Gabe! Why don't you sit down?”

His mom had taught him that heroes came in all shapes and sizes, and that we shouldn't judge people based on how they look, so hesitantly, Percy peeks around his mom and shyly waves at the man.

(She hadn't warned him that monsters could wear the skin of mortal men and masquerade as normal people.)

The man sits down with a groan, shaking the table, and leans back and spreads his legs apart lazily to take up the entire booth across from them. Without preamble or acknowledging them, the man (Gabe?) unwraps his first burger and takes a bite. 

“Hey, get me some ketchup, would'ya, Sally?” Even Percy knows that you aren't supposed to talk with your mouth full. Did Gabe not have a mom who taught him that? 

Percy looks to the side at his mom, whose fingers are clutching her salad fork more tightly than they have to be. “Sure thing, Gabe”. To Percy, she gives a reassuring smile and whispers, “I'll be right back, kiddo”.

Percy sits quietly (uncomfortably) as Gabe finally swallows his mouthful and squints at Percy.

“So… how old are you, punk?”

Realizing that Gabe was talking to him (what did “punk” mean? Was that like the loving nicknames his mom gave him?), Percy felt a bit better as he peeks up at the man. 

“I'm seven years old, but I turn eight in a few months! Mom said that we'll go to our favorite cabin on the beach to celebrate. I've only been there twice, but I think it's my favorite place in the entire world! Have you been to the beach before?”

Gabe just grunts, still peering thoughtfully at Percy. 

Confused by the lack of response, Percy turns his attention to the squishy bench he was sitting on. There is a small tear in the plastic next to him, revealing the stained foam inside. He notices that when he shifts, it tears a little bit more. He wonders how it had gotten there and why no one cared enough to fix it yet.

Interrupting the awkward silence, his mom slides into the booth next to Percy and squeezes his hand, tossing the ketchup packets across the table to Gabe. Gabe smiles at her, but Percy thinks it doesn't look right. 

The grown-ups start talking, and Percy mostly tunes them out and looks outside. Percy likes the window. Even though it’s dirty—smudged with fingerprints, streaked with something that looks like old rain—he can still see through it. The sun filters in, warm and golden, casting soft, shifting shapes of light across the table. It makes the ketchup packets glow red, turns his plastic toy car almost translucent, bathes his mom’s face in something that makes her look happy, even when her smile is stretched a little too tight.

The dirt doesn’t matter. Not really.

If he angles his head just right, he can ignore it entirely. He can focus on the world outside—on the way the leaves dance in the breeze, on the flash of a passing car, of people smiling and laughing.

It’s easy, he thinks, to pretend the dirt isn’t there.

He can still see the light.

Someone is walking a dog outside, and they pause outside the window as they wait for the crosswalk to change colors. Percy beams at the dog and waves happily at the owner, who smiles back. 

“-isn't that right, Percy?”

“Huh?”

Percy's mom rolls her eyes in fake exasperation, smiling fondly at him. “Gabe was asking what you do while I’m at work, and I told him about how you hang out with Ms. Pierson. And how much you wish you could stay home.”

Percy wrinkles his nose at the reminder. “Oh, yeah, that would be so awesome! I could stay home and we could do things together all day!”

Gabe watches the exchange with an unreadable look in his eyes. “You really love your mom, don'tcha, little man.” Peter beams in affirmation, and notices that his mom’s eyes look a little teary.

Percy squeezes her hand, leaning his head on her shoulder. He knows his mom feels guilty about not being home enough, and he hates that she feels like that. 

(In a way, was it his fault that his mom felt bad? If he wasn't there, she wouldn't feel like this.)

“Sounds like you guys need a babysitter,” Gabe said, winking at Percy.

“I'm not a baby!”

“Of course you're not, sweetie. Gabe just means you're not big enough to be home by yourself.” Percy's mom pats his hand reassuringly, giving Gabe a look.

“Oh, okay.”

“So, what'd ya say, little man? Would it be okay if I came over sometimes?”

Percy looks from Gabe to his mom, who is smiling encouragingly at him.  She wants this.

“I- I guess so.”

Percy's mom swoops down to press a kiss to his forehead, and he looks up to see tears in her eyes. “Thank you, baby.”

- - -

Percy doesn't know what he feels as they all leave the McDonald's to walk home. Together.

This is what most kids have, right? Most families have two grown-ups at home, not just one. This is normal, right?

Percy doesn't know how to feel about Gabe. Percy guesses Gabe is okay (if a bit smelly), but he hadn't been terrible. 

Percy doesn't know why his mom had looked so relieved when he agreed to let Gabe come over. Was she really that lonely?

(Wasn't Percy enough for her?)

Chapter Text

Life with Gabe is weird.

Not necessarily bad, but different.

Since the meeting at McDonald's two months ago, Gabe had started coming over for a few hours every day for “bonding time”. Percy's mom is always there, and they do anything from watch a movie together, go to the park, or on one memorable occasion, they even went to an aquarium!

(Gabe had complained to Percy's mom the whole time, wanting to leave, but Percy still enjoyed it.)

So, life had moved on, with another person clumsily added to their hodgepodge family.

And it was okay.

(Right?)

Percy doesn't really like Gabe that much, but his mom does, and Percy doesn't exactly have a good reason not to like Gabe, so it was fine.

Gabe was always saying nice things about Percy—too nice, maybe. He always had some kind of praise ready, whether Percy had done something impressive or not.

"Man, you’re the coolest kid I know!"

"Wow, so strong for a little guy!"

"You always know just what to say, don’t you, punk?”

Percy doesn't know how to respond. His mom tells Percy he’s smart and kind, but not all the time, not for things that didn't really matter. When Gabe says it, it makes Percy's skin feel too tight, like his body doesn't know if it wants to squirm or sit up straighter.

It feels… good, though. Like warm sunshine on his face. He likes being told he was good. He likes being special. But it also feels weird. Like he hasn’t really earned it, like Gabe is giving it too freely, too easily. But Percy's mom beams whenever Gabe praises him, so if must be good.

It feels good to be noticed. It feels wrong to be noticed this much.

Percy doesn’t really like Gabe that much, but his mom does. And Percy doesn’t have a good reason not to like him.

So it’s fine.

It is.

- - -

Percy can't pinpoint when it started. Or even what it was, for that matter.

Gabe is a touchy person. He likes hugs from Percy and his mom, likes to hold his mom's hand, and always asks Percy if he wants to sit on his lap on the couch.

Percy hugs his mom all the time and sits on her lap, there was nothing wrong with that. So why does Percy feel weird when he does the same with Gabe?

Percy is just confused, really.

Nothing is wrong. Percy is fine. His mom is happy. There is nothing wrong with Gabe.

- - -

The kitchen smells amazing. Warm, rich tomatoes simmer in the pot, filling the air with the promise of something delicious. Percy is standing on a chair by the counter, his mom beside him, both of them covered in powdered spices and bits of sauce. His favorite blanket is draped over his shoulders like a cape, its worn fabric comforting against his skin.

It’s not just any blanket, though, it was his baby blanket. He’s had it since he was a newborn, and his mom said that someone super special gave it to him. Soft and faded blue, covered in tiny sea creatures, it had been with him for as long as he could remember. It smells like home, like the detergent his mom always uses, like warmth and familiarity. He’d tried, once, to leave it folded in his closet—to outgrow it, like he thought maybe he was supposed to. But that had lasted all of two days before he’d scooped it back up, wrapping it around himself with relief.

His mom laughs as she wipes a smear of sauce from his cheek with her thumb. “You’re supposed to stir the pot, not wear it, chef.”

Percy giggles, gripping the wooden spoon tightly as he mixes the sauce. “I am stirring! It just got a little excited.” He waves the spoon dramatically, sending a tiny splatter onto the stove.

His mom gasps playfully. “Percy! The sauce is rebelling!”

“Then we have to fight back!” Percy grabs a stray dry noodle from the counter and brandishes it like a sword. His mom dramatically recoils, clutching her heart.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Percy grins, wiggling the dry noodle threateningly. “Surrender, or be defeated!”

She puts her hands up in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright, you win! You’re the spaghetti king.”

Percy puffs out his chest. “That’s Chef Spaghetti King to you.” Just as he says this, the noodle decides to snap in half, leaving him with a tiny stub. They make eye contact, and his mom starts cackling, laughing at Percy’s pouting expression. She pulls him into a hug, tightening his blanket around his shoulders and holding him close. Their laughter echoes in the small kitchen, filling every corner with warmth.

Then the front door opens.

“Something smells good,” Gabe says, stepping inside. His voice is light, easy, but something about it makes Percy’s grip on his spoon tighten. Gabe had been over at a friend’s house all day or something, leaving Percy happily to spend time alone with his mom.

His mom smiles. “We’re making spaghetti. Percy’s been my little sous chef today.”

Gabe walks over and ruffles Percy’s curls. “Of course he is. Kid’s a natural.”

Percy forces a small smile and keeps stirring.

Gabe leans against the counter, watching them with a smirk. “You got room for one more in this fancy kitchen of yours?”

Percy's mom nudges him playfully. “Only if you can follow orders, mister. Chef Spaghetti King runs a tight ship.”

Gabe laughs and holds up his hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of challenging the king.”

Percy tries to go back to focusing on the sauce, but then he feels something press into his palm under the counter. He looks down to see a small, crinkled candy wrapper peeking out from Gabe’s hand.

Percy hesitates. His mom doesn’t like him eating candy before dinner.

Gabe winks. “Don’t tell your mom,” he whispers.

Percy glances at her—she’s busy checking the noodles, humming softly to herself, unaware. He doesn't want to take it, but Gabe is watching him expectantly, waiting.

So Percy unwraps the candy and pops it into his mouth. It’s cherry-flavored, sticky and sweet on his tongue, but it doesn’t taste as good as it should.

Gabe gives him a pleased smile and pats his back.

His mom turns around, smiling warmly. “You boys getting along?”

Percy swallows the candy. It sits heavy in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

It was fine.

It was.

- - -

Percy and his mom are eating dinner that evening when she gets the call.

Percy is poking at his spaghetti, twirling the noodles on his fork and watching them dance and spin. Gabe is on the couch in the living room, playing a game on his phone, shrill dings and booms floating into the kitchen.

Percy's mom sounds frustrated on the phone. “Just give me a second to talk to my son, okay? You realize I do have a family and a life beyond this job.” She listens for a moment, huffs, then mutes her phone.

Her gaze meets Percy's, and her eyes are tight. She takes a calming breath. “That was work. Kelli called off sick, so they want me to come in tonight. I don't want to leave, but Gabe's here, so you won't be by yourself. It's that okay, baby?”

Percy thinks about saying no, that he didn't really want to be with Gabe without her there. But Percy knows that his mom's work is already threatening to fire her (he had overheard her talking to Gabe a few days ago), and she needs that job. So he swallows his bitter-tasting complaints and smiles brightly up at his mom. “That's fine, mom! I'm sure we'll find something to do.”

She presses a kiss to his curly hair, then rushes to the living room to clear it with Gabe. Percy’s hands feel funny, and his spaghetti looks gross.

Percy knows he is making a big deal out of nothing. Gabe is cool. His mom likes Gabe.

He’s fine.

- - -

“So, punk, what'd ya wanna do while your mom's out? It's guys night!”

Gabe had joined Percy at the kitchen table, after watching his mom leave the house with a wave and a blown kiss.

Percy shrugs. “I dunno. I'm kinda tired.” He really just wants to hide in his room.

Gabe thinks for a second. “How about a movie? That doesn't take too much energy.”

That sounds good. There’s nothing wrong with movies. “Sure! Can we watch Big Hero 6?”

“Nah, little man, it's my turn to choose, remember?” Percy and his mom had always taken turns to choose movies. Since Gabe had sort-of moved in, he had joined the cycle. Percy had thought it was his turn, but he shrugs it off.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. What do you want to watch?”

Gabe winks at him. “It's a surprise.”

Percy is intrigued, and immediately starts trying to guess which one it was. “Have I seen it before?”

Gabe laughs, playfully shoving him. “None of that, punk, it's supposed to be a surprise. But no, I don't think you've seen this movie before.” He winks.

- - -

Percy pops some microwave popcorn and grabs his blanket. Once they’re ready, they settle on the couch, Gabe with the remote in hand. Gabe looks at Percy curled up cozily in the corner with his blanket and popcorn, and sighs exaggeratedly. “Can you sit in my lap? I'm kinda cold, and you always warm me up.”

Percy doesn't really want to (he was already cozy!), but readily hops up into Gabe's lap. Gabe reaches around and pulls the blanket over both of them, with the popcorn bowl in Percy's lap.

“There, that's better, isn't it?” Percy doesn't really think so, but he munches happily on the popcorn, waiting for the movie to start.

Percy is disappointed when he sees that the movie has real people. All the movies Percy watched with his mom that had real people were boring, usually about history and wars and serious stuff. Percy likes movies that are animated, like Finding Nemo and Aladdin.

But it’s Gabe's turn to choose, so Percy sighs and settles in.

- - -

The movie starts with a lot of grown-up talk, which Percy doesn't really follow. He’s mostly just munching on his popcorn and thinking about the neighbor's cat. She had escaped last week, and Percy had been the one to find her. He wonders how she’s doing. Maybe his mom would let him visit some time?

Behind him, Gabe shifts and pulls Percy closer. Percy wiggles uncomfortably on Gabe's lap, and he hears Gabe's breath hitch. Had Percy accidentally hurt him?

On the TV screen, the two grown-ups had started kissing. Like, a lot. It was kinda gross.

Gabe shifts again, and Percy feels something poking him.

In the movie, the grown-ups had started taking off each other’s clothes, still kissing, lips making gross squelching sounds.

Percy feels Gabe wiggle his hand under the blanket and set it on Percy's thigh.

In the movie, the grown-ups are completely naked, now. Percy feels weird. His mom had told him that the places covered by clothes were special, and only special people should see it.

(Is Percy special?)

Distantly, Percy notices the popcorn bowl slip off of Percy's lap, falling to the floor with a dull dong. Popcorn spills across the floor, white and yellow contrasting against the pale green rug.

Under the blanket (blue, soft, and worn. a seagull in the corner. seashells, fish, crabs.), Percy feels Gabe inch his hand up, up, and up.

Percy wonders if this is normal, but he knows the fear in his heart wouldn’t be there if this wasn’t something very, very wrong.

The grown-ups in the video were doing something weird, now. Was that sex? His mom had told him a little bit about that, but he didn't think it'd be so… violent.

Percy's ears are buzzing. His mind scrambles to keep up – to process anything beyond the dull roar in his ears like the rushing of waves tumbling over each other to reach the shore.

Gabe is rubbing him now, and Percy wants to disappear.

It's raining again, outside. The raindrops thunder against the window, as though demanding to be let in.

Gabe is shaking, shivering, and gripping Percy harder.

There are sounds, grunts and whispers and words like gooey cherry candy – sickly sweet and bitter at the back of his throat as he chokes on blood and fear.

.

.

The movie is over (how long has it been?).

Percy sits on Gabe's lap, under his favorite blanket.

(It's dirty, now.)

Percy thinks he might hate it.

Gabe is quiet now, relaxed and melted against the couch. Had he fallen asleep?

Percy stands up on trembling legs, popcorn crunching and ruining and breaking under his feet.

As Percy is almost out of the room, he hears his name through clouded ears. Is he underwater?

“Percy? Your mom can't know about this. This is our secret, okay? That's what guy's night is, you aren't supposed to talk about it.”

Percy shakily nods, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s throwing up.

It tastes like popcorn and cherry candy and the aftertaste of something broken, and Percy vows that he’ll never eat them again.

He stumbles into his room and collapses before he even makes it to his bed.

Percy is lying crumpled facing his window. The rain is slowing, now, and the drops run down the glass in jagged lines. The world outside is distorted, unreachable through the dirty glass.

His blanket is still around his shoulders. With a sob, he tears it off and throws it at the wall. It falls in a pathetic heap, taunting him.

Alone, he lays on the floor, his skin raw and his mind numb.

(Not every breakdown is loud, like chaos brought to life. There is no screaming, no wailing at the loss of innocence, here. Instead, Percy breaks down to the silence of his room, horribly and utterly alone.)

Chapter Text

The room is cozy and warm and fuzzy. Percy rolls over, carpet scratching his cheek. Distantly, he notices that the sun is shining through the clouds through his sheer curtain, casting shadows of light across the room.

Percy hears muffled voices and a clattering of dishes down the hall. Is it breakfast time? Percy feels fuzzy and warm and-

Popcorn. Cherry candy, sweet and bitter in his throat.

Laughter. Choked sobs.

Hands on his thighs. Touching him, inching higher, higher.

Percy remembers.

He sits up in shock, the fast change of position sending his blood rushing and roaring and Percy is lightheaded and something is not right.

Percy’s heart pounds in his chest, but there’s something else mixed in with the panic—a deep, gnawing confusion. His mind is tangled, a knot of thoughts and images he can’t unravel. His fingers tremble as he wipes the sweat from his brow, still sitting on the edge of the bed, the room spinning around him.

He doesn’t understand why it feels like this. The confusion wraps around him, tighter than the blanket he threw across the room. His stomach still churns, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, and he tries to focus, tries to make sense of everything. Why does it feel wrong?

Gabe didn’t really do anything bad, right?

Percy stares at the wall, his vision blurry through the tears he hasn’t noticed falling. His thoughts stumble over themselves, each one louder than the last. It was just a touch. What was wrong with that?

Just...a touch. (Gabe’s hand on his leg, his thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles-)

Percy tries to make sense of it, tries to convince himself it was nothing—just a weird moment, a thing that happens. Just a mistake. Just... a touch.

But the thought doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t feel right.

Why does his skin crawl when he thinks about it?

Why does his chest ache when he remembers Gabe’s voice, soft and teasing, his words slippery like they were meant to burrow into Percy’s head, to make him believe things he wasn’t sure of.

The way Gabe looked at him—those eyes, the things they seemed to say without words.

Percy doesn’t know what’s going on. But he does know one thing–he needs his mom.

- - -

Percy bursts into the hall, desperate to find his mom. His heart is tearing through his chest and he has to find her now.

He skids and slips into the kitchen, coming face to face with his mom.

And Gabe.

(Blue blanket, spilled popcorn, hands touching, squeezing-)

Through a haze, he hears his mom laugh at his dramatic entrance, gesturing to his chair (across from Gabe across from Gabe) as she turns to fill up a plate for him.

He sits down robotically, in shock.

(God, he just wants his mom to hold him and tell him that everything is going to be okay-)

Percy feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he can't hold himself back from recoiling at the touch. His mom laughs, brushes the hair off his forehead and presses down a soft kiss. “What was that about, kiddo? You still waking up?”

(Everything is wrong this isn't supposed to happen, Gabe's looking at him and he doesn't know what to do-)

“Uh, yeah.”

His mom looks at him quizzically, but is distracted by Gabe who clears his throat. “So, little man, what did you think about the movie we watched last night?”

(This can't be happening. Gabe is staring at him and telling him something through his eyes and he just doesn't know-)

“Oh, what movie did you guys watch?”

“It's a new one, just came out. Maybe I'll show it to you sometime.” Gabe winks at Percy, who feels the sudden urge to vomit.

He does, he runs out of the room and barely makes it to the bathroom where he spills his guts into the toilet.

A gentle hand is rubbing his back, and he leans into it desperately, salty tears sliding down his face and mixing with vomit.

“Oh, honey, what's going on?”

Percy wants to tell her, he wants to tell her, but Gabe is standing right there in the doorway of the bathroom and Percy is trapped.

A forced laugh from above. “What'd ya think little man, maybe we overdid it with the candy last night.”

Gabe is looking at him is looking at him and Percy just… nods his head.

Percy hears his mom sigh as she runs her hand through his hair. “Oh, honey, you know you can't eat that much sugar in one go, it'll make you sick. I'm so sorry, darling.”

There, on the floor of that crowded bathroom, his mom kneeling by his side and a monster lurking above them, Percy feels his heart shatter.

- - -

Gabe is loudly cursing and complaining in the other room, and Percy has tuned the noise out from where he sits in his bedroom.

He’s spent a lot of time there, these last few days. He knows his mom thought he was still sick (“Maybe you caught a stomach bug, I don't think candy would make you sick this long.”), but Percy knows he’s hiding.

Percy is trapped. His world seems confined to his bedroom and his lonely, hollow home (that doesn’t feel like home, might never feel like home, isn’t home anymore). Because they had invited a monster in.

In the chaos of everything (hands popcorn wrong-), Percy had completely forgotten about the trip his mom and him had planned for his eighth birthday.

Gabe was mad because he couldn’t get the days off of work to come with them, and Percy's mom refused to postpone the vacation. Up to that point, Percy hadn't even known the man had a job (had Percy ever seen him working or being remotely productive?), but he is unspeakably grateful.

It would just be Percy and his mom. Alone, on the beach, his favorite place. Just them two. No Gabe.

Percy knows he should say something about what happened (quivering legs beneath him, a disgusting, dirty, bad baby blanket, because that's what he was-), but he hadn't been able to talk to his mom alone.

Gabe had started sleeping over in his mom’s bedroom. He was there when Percy woke up, and he was there when Percy went to sleep. He was always watching, warning Percy with his eyes.

But it would just be Percy and his mom, alone for a few days. He could tell her then (hands touching, groping, crumbling popcorn-), and Gabe would leave, and everything would go back to the way it was before Gabe.

(He can't go back to who he was before. He is different and something is wrong-)

- - -

Percy and his mom are packing and getting ready to go. Gabe is sulking on the couch, watching them (watching, watching always watching-).

Suddenly, Percy's mom gasps in dismay. “Oh my god, I forgot to pick up the cake from the bakery!” She checks her watch. “We need to check in at the cabin by 5:00, that's not enough time for me to pick the cake up and finish packing!”

Percy wants to say that he doesn't need a cake, he just needs to get out of here, but is interrupted by Gabe slapping a hand to his knee and standing up. “That's no problem, Percy and I can go pick it up while you finish packing. We'll be back in a jiffy, and you guys will get to the cabin in time.”

“Oh, would you? Thank you Gabe, you're a lifesaver.” Percy's mom beams at Gabe, and Percy's mouth tastes sour.

Percy wants to disagree, to argue that Gabe could pick the cake up by himself, why does Percy have to go with him, but the warning glint in Gabe's eyes steals the words out of his mouth.

It was Percy's birthday, a day that should have been of celebration, but instead, it was a time of external execution of self – a crushing of childish hope and a baring of humanity to the cruel comforts of the world. Percy follows Gabe to the car.

- - -

In a way, the build-up is the worst part, the anticipation that something is coming and the knowledge that there is nothing he can do to stop it. Percy is trapped.

The drive to the bakery is silent and uncomfortable, but uneventful. Gabe goes inside and comes back with Percy's cake (a deep blue that was sure to stain their mouths, but it was worth it for the win against Gabe who had argued last week that there was no such thing as blue food).

Gabe secures the cake safely in the backseat, and sits down behind the wheel. And sits there.

Percy can feel his tension skyrocketing with each second of silence, but he doesn't know what he can do. Say something? Cry? Scream?

So it is as much a relief as it is a horrible confirmation when Gabe finally sighs and settles his hand innocently on Percy's thigh.

“You're a special kid, you know that, punk? I never thought I'd come to love a kid like I do you, but then you came along.”

The buzzing is back in Percy's ears, ocean waves drowning out and muffling Gabe's words. Gabe's thumb is tenderly rubbing circles on Percy's thigh, inching higher, higher, higher.

“You do nasty things to me, when you look at me with those gorgeous eyes. Kids aren't supposed to be so tempting, but you're different. I know you're teasing me on purpose.”

The world blurs with unshed tears, a miniature ocean contained in Percy's eyes. The hand is cupping him there, now, and Percy wishes he could die. Gabe says it’s Percy’s fault. That Percy is making him do this. That Percy is tempting him. Percy doesn’t really know what that means, not exactly, but the way Gabe says it, the way he squeezes him when he says it—it makes Percy feel disgusting.

Gabe was continuing, and Percy hears him from underwater. “Your mom doesn't know how filthy you are, trying to tempt a grown man. Do you really think she'd still love you if she knew the truth?”

Gabe’s words swirl in his head, thick and choking like black smoke, clinging to everything and leaving a film of wrong behind. Percy shuts his eyes until they sting with starbursts lighting up the back of his eyelids.

“You know, I have some friends that have done bad things. They've killed people before.”

Percy’s heart stops.

"I would be so sad if something happened to your mom because someone hurt me."

Percy’s stomach twists.

"Not even I could stop them if they got mad."

Percy squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold back the prickling at the corners, trying to breathe past the lump clogging his throat.

Percy bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

His mom always says she loves him no matter what. She tells him he’s a good kid, that he has a kind heart, that he’s smart and special and the best thing in her whole world.

But his mom doesn’t know what kind of kid he really is.

She doesn’t know that Percy makes Gabe look at him like that.

She doesn’t know that something inside Percy is so wrong that it made Gabe want to touch him like this.

And if she did? If she knew what Percy had done, what Percy had let happen—

Maybe she wouldn’t love him anymore.

Maybe she’d look at him the way he looks at the stain on his favorite hoodie he never wears anymore, the stain that won’t come out no matter how many times it’s washed.

The thought makes him dizzy. Percy’s hands ball into fists in his lap, his nails biting into the soft skin of his palms. He wants to believe that his mom would still love him. He needs to believe it. But Gabe’s words are curling around his ribs like barbed wire, digging deeper every time he breathes.

Gabe is a grown-up. Grown-ups always know best. They’re the ones who decide what’s right and wrong, who teach kids how the world works. And Gabe says this is how the world works.

So maybe Percy is bad.

Maybe he’s dirty.

Maybe this is just what happens to kids like him.

He stares out the window, watching the world pass in a blur of grays and browns. The sun is bright, but it doesn’t feel warm anymore. The light looks wrong. Everything feels tilted and fuzzy with tears as the curves of sunlight beat through the window in spiraling prisms of white.

(When Percy Jackson was eight years old, he realized that some people are destined for a life of pain they cannot escape. Percy realized that he is one of those people.)

- - -

Percy doesn't remember much about the drive home from the bakery that day.

It reminds him of that moment in a movie where the music cuts out while the video continues and you almost forget that the story on the screen isn't real. The silence is pervasive and all-encompassing, and it rings in your ears. But you watch, unconnected and dispassionately, at the horrors on screen.

For movie silences only ever occur during the most terrible things.

Chapter Text

There's something incredibly degrading and dehumanizing in the act of pretending that nothing has happened. To go on, pretending to be normal (pretending to be clean), acting as though your world didn’t just end.

Percy is quiet on the drive up to Montuak. He knows his mom noticed and is worried, but he can’t bring himself to act normal. Not when he knows what happened in this very car, not even an hour ago (hands touching him, ears roaring, Gabe moaning–)

Percy’s body is in the car, but his mind is far away. The seatbelt presses against his chest, too tight, too restrictive. The fabric of his hoodie is rough against his wrists, and suddenly, he can feel every fiber of it. The weight of his own skin is suffocating. The headlights from passing cars blur into streaks of gold and white, flickering, shifting, unreal.

His mom’s voice drifts over him like a wave breaking against the shore, words dulled and distant. He hears her, but it’s like there’s a wall between them. He wants to respond, wants to be present, but everything is slipping through his fingers like sand.

He shouldn’t feel like this. He shouldn’t feel like he’s not real.

But maybe if he’s not real, then none of this is either. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can wake up somewhere else.

“You alright, baby?"

Percy blinks. The car is stopped. Glancing around, he sees that his mom had pulled over to the side of the road.

Percy blinks again, and fuzzily looks at his mom. He doesn’t quite feel real.

His mom looks even more concerned, her brown eyes searching his face, and Percy belatedly realizes that he was supposed to say something.

“Yeah.”

For some reason, his mom doesn’t look reassured. “Talk to me, baby. Please. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Percy should tell her. He should tell her about Gabe being weird and making him uncomfortable and touching him and--

Percy remembers what Gabe said. How something was wrong with Percy, and how his mom would get hurt if he said anything. His mom is the most important thing in Percy’s world, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened because of him.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.” Percy yawns exaggeratedly to emphasize his point.

Percy’s mom doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I promise.”

- - -

As the car pulls back onto the highway, Percy stares out the window, his fingernails digging into the fabric of his jeans. His mom is talking—soft, soothing words about the beach, about how nice it would be to get away for a while. She keeps glancing at him, worried, but not worried enough.

Something ugly rises in his chest.

Why can’t she see it? He’s on the verge of telling her. She just needs to ask one more time.

But she lets it go. He’s sitting right next to her, breaking apart, and she just keeps driving, keeps talking, keeps smiling like everything is fine.

It’s not fine. He’s not fine.

He clenches his jaw so hard it hurts. A thought slithers into his mind, cold and cruel. Maybe she doesn’t want to see. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe it’s easier for her this way—to pretend he’s just tired, just quiet, just a little off.

Maybe if she really looked at him, she’d realize how wrong he is.

The thought is like a slap, snapping him back. No.

What the hell is wrong with him? His mom loves him. She works herself to the bone for him. She takes him to the beach, holds his hand, tells him she loves him more than anything in the world. She’s the only good thing in his life, and he dares to blame her?

Guilt crashes over him, sharp and suffocating. He’s a terrible son.

She deserves better.

If she knew what he was—what he let happen—would she still love him?

His throat tightens. His stomach churns.

He doesn’t want to know the answer.

Percy doesn’t know how to fix what’s wrong with him.

But he does know one thing, and the thought settles deep in his bones. A quiet, terrible understanding.

His mom can't ever know.

Percy is alone.

- - -

Percy and his mom had only been to Montauk a few times together, but Percy is pretty sure it’s his favorite place ever.

They’re sitting on the beach outside of the cabin, watching the sun set over the ocean. The gentle waves catch the fading light and seem to glow unnaturally in the dusk. Despite Percy’s attempts to “help”, his mom had successfully started a small campfire, and they had feasted on hot dogs and smores.

Percy’s mom looks happy, relaxed in a way he rarely sees. As he watches her on the beach, laughing, free for the first time in what feels like forever, the guilt settles in his stomach like a stone.

She looks so happy. So alive.

She doesn’t know that something inside Percy is wrong.

She doesn’t know that her own son is disgusting.

And what would happen if she found out? Would she still hold him like this, stroke his hair, whisper how much she loves him? Would she still laugh with him over burnt marshmallows and seafoam?

Or would she look at him the way he deserves to be looked at? Would she finally see what Gabe sees?

She deserves to be happy. She deserves to be safe.

And if that means Percy has to keep quiet—if that means swallowing down the nausea and the terror and the way his hands won’t stop shaking—then so be it.

Without looking away from the sunset, Percy’s mom reaches over and gently grasps Percy’s hand. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you love me?"

She takes a second to think. “I love you… more than the ocean has drops of water.”

Percy giggles. “That was a good one.”

“How about you? Do you love me?” She gently squeezes Percy’s hand.

Percy thinks hard. “I love you more than there’s fish in the sea!”

Percy’s mom laughs. She pulls him into her lap and squeezes him tight, and together, they watch the moon rise as the ocean waves gently serenade them.

- - -

Percy wakes up gasping.

His skin is damp with sweat, but it doesn’t feel like his own. He can still feel it—hands that aren’t his, the heat of breath against his ear, the sickly scent of beer clinging to the air. He shoves the blankets off and stumbles out of bed, heart hammering, bile rising in his throat.

He can’t stay inside. Not in the cabin, not anywhere that has walls. He needs out.

The night air is sharp against his too-warm skin as he steps outside. The sand is cool beneath his bare feet, grounding him for a moment before his stomach twists again, his chest seizing with something raw and unbearable. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he’s moving toward the water.

The ocean looks different at night. Darker. Wilder. More alive. The waves surge toward the shore in a way that feels almost… intentional. Each crash is heavy, resounding in his chest like the echoes of something ancient and knowing.

The wind howls. Percy shivers.

For a moment, he swears the ocean is angry.

It crashes harder, the spray misting his face, stinging his eyes. The tide rolls up, swallowing the sand near his feet before pulling back just as fast. There’s something in the way the water moves—something that feels less like nature and more like emotion.

Like the ocean sees him.

Like it knows.

His breath catches, and suddenly he hates it. Hates the way it feels too big, too vast, too aware. Like it can sense the filth inside him, the way his skin crawls with something no water can wash away. Like it knows he didn’t stop Gabe, that he just sat there and let it happen.

Percy clenches his fists. He wants to scream. Or cry. Or disappear into the waves and never come back.

Instead, he drops to his knees in the sand.

The tide reaches out again, curling around his ankles before slipping away. Gentler this time. Not angry. Not mourning. Just… there.

And Percy doesn’t know whether to feel comforted or ashamed.

- - -

They have to leave the next evening, and Percy isn’t ready. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to go home. Just for a second, he wonders what would happen if he ran away and lived on the beach forever.

But no, he couldn’t leave his mom.

As they’re carrying their supplies back into the car, Percy’s hands are shaking. God, how is he going to do this when even now he feels as though a thousand needles are piercing his skin? He is barely keeping back bile, and the world feels like too much to handle.

He doesn’t want to go back. Can he really do this?

He can’t.

He can’t go back.

But he has no choice.

Gabe is waiting. Percy's stomach twists at the thought of it, and the small part of him that had been happy, even for just a few hours, begins to fade. The memory of their laughter melding with the soothing ocean waves, of smores and the warmth of his mom’s embrace and an overwhelming feeling of safety… It feels like a dream he’s not ready to wake up from.

His hands are still shaking as he rolls his suitcase out of the cabin. He doesn’t know if his mom notices. She’s humming quietly, her back turned as she organizes the last of the supplies. She hasn’t asked him anything since the earlier conversation, and part of Percy is grateful for that. But it doesn’t make the pressure in his chest go away.

The air feels thick with tension, like there’s a storm coming. It’s stupid to think like that—like some cosmic force is always waiting to strike—but that's how it feels. One moment of peace and then… the crash. Always the crash.

He forces himself to walk slowly toward the car, every step heavier than the last. The ocean waves behind him are no comfort. The distant horizon, which had seemed so beautiful moments ago, now feels like an impossible distance. Like he's standing on the edge of something, looking out into a world where he doesn’t belong.

“Percy,” his mom says, her voice breaking through the thick fog in his mind, “you okay, sweetie?”

His breath catches. Her voice is so soft, so caring. Too kind. How can she be so good, so full of love, and be stuck with someone like Gabe? Percy almost wants to scream at her, tell her that she deserves better, that he’s sorry for everything. But he can’t. He has to protect her.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re awfully quiet, and you’re pale… You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m just tired,” Percy mutters, trying to force a smile, but it doesn’t feel like it reaches his eyes.

His mom doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t press. She gently grasps his hand and crouches down to his height, and Percy wants to sob. “You know I love you, right?”

Percy tries to sound like his heart isn’t breaking. “How much do you love me?”

She thinks for a second, then grins and says, “I love you more than the grains of sand you’re bringing home with us.” To accentuate her point, she ruffles his hair and laughs at the sand that falls out.

They spend a few more minutes there, just watching the ocean waves, before Percy’s mom squeezes his hand and climbs into the car. Percy follows, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

- - -

As they pull away from Montauk, the peaceful calm of the beach slips away. Percy feels the familiar dread fill his chest. Even though it’s still a few hours until they’ll get home back to the apartment, Percy feels like he’s already trapped.

The rest of the drive feels like it goes on forever. His mom talks, but Percy isn’t really listening. Her voice is just noise in the background, nothing more than a faint hum.

When they finally pull into the parking space, Gabe is sitting on the front porch, waving at them as they park, looking the perfect picture of a supportive friend. But Percy can see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, hiding behind his welcoming grin.

It’s small. Almost imperceptible. A slight tightness in Gabe’s jaw. The way his eyes dart over to Percy’s mom before locking onto him.

He’s nervous.

For the first time since it happened, Percy feels a tiny sliver of control.

Because if Gabe is afraid, it means Percy could have done something. It means Gabe knows that what he did was wrong.

But he also knows Percy won’t say a word.

Percy looks away first. He drops his gaze to the ground, to the pavement beneath his sneakers, because he can’t stand the weight of it.

Gabe chuckles, like he’s already won.

And maybe he has.

Chapter Text

Last year, Percy had learned about erosion in school. How weather and water steal bits and pieces of dirt and stone and carry it far, far away. That they can beat and steal away from even the tallest mountain until it’s unrecognizable.

The thing about erosion is that it’s a slow, subtle thing.

It occurs over a long period of time, in which one might not be paying attention to the little chips and cracks growing wider and deeper. It’s not until you look at it closely and remember the glory it once was that you notice how unequivocally different it is.

Mass destruction is noticeable. Destruction in the form of deterioration is overlooked.

Every day that Gabe remains, Percy feels his soul tear apart a little bit more. Every touch wears away at him, ruining, disintegrating.

Percy wonders how long it will take until all of him is broken down and carried away by the force that is Gabe. 

—

Gabe has officially moved in. Percy can’t escape him. 

Percy’s skin burns at every touch, and no soap is enough to make him feel clean. 

Percy has always been a tactile person, but something about touch, recently, has made him want to scrub his skin off until it bleeds. It feels like a thousand insects are scuttling uncomfortably under his skin and his spine goes ramrod straight in response to any movement that happens close to him.

(There is something intrinsically intimidating about broad hands cupping your flesh within their fingers and stroking over places that should not be touched. There is something nightmarish to a man who could rip your muscles to shreds with soft touches instead of harsh blows.)

Percy is rotting.

—---

The days and weeks blur together for Percy, but it's impossible to forget the first time.

Since Gabe moved in, Percy's mom has been picking up more hours at work, talking excitedly about what fun things they'll be able to do with the extra money. ( “We can go back to the aquarium, I know how much you loved that! Oh- remember that cute candy shop in Queens? We definitely need to check that out!")

Percy's mom is working the night shift tonight. She's picked up a side job as a bartender on the weekends, and it will just be Percy and the monster they invited into their home.

As Percy hugs his mom goodbye and pretends he isn’t uncomfortable watching Gabe kiss her, he feels an overwhelming sense of dread. Percy forces a smile, waving goodbye to his mom as she heads out the door, but it feels fake, hollow. The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the air thickens, suffocating. 

Immediately Percy edges away from Gabe. Percy can feel Gabe’s eyes burning his skin as he avoids eye contact. “So, punk, whaddya wanna do tonight? Watch a movie? Play a game?”

Percy can feel his heart drop. He knows how this goes, and he’s so incredibly exhausted. “Can I just go to bed? Please?” Percy forces himself to look up, to make eye contact so Gabe can see his desperation. Percy can feel his hands starting to shake. 

Gabe just looks at him, expression unreadable, then sighs. “Fine. You owe me, though.”

Numb with relief, Percy runs from the room as fast as he can, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. He’s safe, here. He dives into his bed and curls up under his blanket and traces the patterns on it. He hates this blanket, hates what it represents. But his mom was worried when he stopped using it, so Percy still sleeps wrapped in his worst nightmare.

Percy is so absorbed in glaring at his blanket (that disgusting seagull that saw everything, that smiling fish he used to adore that he now hates to an unreasonable degree) that he almost doesn’t hear his bedroom door click open. 

Almost.

Even as Percy’s body freezes as he sees those eyes like glaciers in a stormy sea and he hears the roaring ocean waves drowning out his thoughts, Percy realizes that he isn’t surprised. 

And as Gabe pulls Percy’s pajama pants off his pliant body (why wasn’t he fighting, this is wrong wrong WRONG-) and Percy is drowning and oh god it hurts and his soul and body is torn in two– Percy isn’t here. 

(Waves churned and broke apart shells under their wake. They eroded rocks until they smoothed. They weathered shards of glass until they gleamed teal and sparkled in the sunlight.)

Percy can distantly hear Gabe groaning above him, shaking and crushing and tearing him apart -

Later that night, Percy is reduced to a gasping, sobbing mess, trying to tear the filthy skin off his bones. He chokes and hangs his head, wrenching that stupid nasty blanket off of him and hurling it far away from him. He can’t look at it. He screams into his pillow until his voice gives out, crying and sobbing and he can still feel those hands on him, caressing and stroking and groping and holding him down and all he can think of is popcorn breaking under his feet and what a stupid thing to think of right now and the rain is still pounding-

This story has no happy ending. 

Percy knows this. 

- - -

Percy Jackson was eight years old when his mom married a monster.

At first, it was just little things. Gabe moving in. Sleeping in their apartment like it was his own. He took up more space than Percy had ever been comfortable with. There were the late-night arguments, the smelly cigarettes in the air, and the quiet bruises Percy learned to hide.

But it wasn’t until the day his mom stood next to Gabe in their living room, engagement bands shiny and new on their fingers, that Percy understood the true weight of it.

He couldn’t breathe, watching them together. His mom, smiling as though she hadn’t just sold Percy’s safety for the promise of a life that wasn’t even real.

Not when Percy wakes up shaking, his skin burning like it still holds the memory of hands that should never have touched him. Not when he forces himself to limp out of bed and move through the world like nothing happened. Every touch, every lingering stare, every breath that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, another layer of something cold settles over his heart.

It wasn’t until the wedding day that the full impact hit Percy. His mom’s radiant smile, her happiness—Percy couldn’t share it. He watched from the sidelines, feeling like an outsider in his own home. Gabe, standing beside her, now legally tied to their family, tied to Percy.

Gabe’s moves were subtle, a slow erosion of everything Percy had once known to be safe. His mom was oblivious. She didn’t see the way Percy flinched when Gabe came too close, or how his smile faltered when Gabe spoke to him. 

It was the worst kind of destruction—the kind that happens so gradually you don’t notice until it’s already too late. Gabe didn’t tear Percy’s life apart with one violent blow. No. Gabe chipped away at it slowly, with every slight touch, every careless word, every time he took more from Percy than he could bear to give.

Because that was how monsters worked. They didn’t destroy everything all at once. They took their time, wearing away at you until you weren’t even sure who you were anymore.

- - -

Percy doesn’t cry anymore.

He knows no one is coming to save him. Not his mom. Not anyone. He had to be strong enough to protect himself, even if that meant locking his heart away in pieces. He learned to laugh when nothing was funny, to act like everything was fine, even when every day felt like another piece of him was being chipped away.

Maybe once, he thought his mother would see him. Maybe once, he thought if he was hurt badly enough, if he flinched just the right way, if he let his voice crack just a little when she asked how he was, she’d know.

But she doesn’t.

It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. It doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want to save him, if she knew how. But it doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t know. That she walks into the kitchen every morning and kisses him on the forehead and calls him her brave boy, her strong boy, like that’s something good to be.

And Percy gets it now.

So Percy learns.

He learns to keep his face neutral when Gabe calls him over. He learns to keep his body still and compliant when he hears footsteps approaching. He learns to bite his tongue and smile through it because fighting back only makes it worse.

And at some point—he can’t even remember when—something inside him locks down.

No one is coming. Not superheroes, no god of any religion, not even his own mother.

If Percy wants to survive, he has to be stronger. Colder.

He has to learn how to lock this away, to bury it under so many layers that even he forgets it’s there.

Because the truth is, it doesn’t matter how he feels. It doesn’t matter if it hurts, if he’s exhausted, if he wants to scream until his throat gives out. All that matters is getting through the next day.

So he does.

He forces himself to laugh too loud, to be the kid who cracks sarcastic jokes even when no one’s listening. He makes himself big and messy and impossible to pin down, because if he’s too much, maybe no one will see the parts of him that are slipping away.

He becomes untouchable.

He convinces himself that if he acts like it doesn’t matter, maybe it won’t matter. If he builds his walls high enough, maybe no one will ever get close enough to hurt him again.

It works.

But it really doesn’t.

Because most nights, he still wakes up gasping for air, nails digging into his palms as he braces himself for what is inevitably coming, for the suffocating weight of a sticky body on top of him. Most days, he catches himself flinching at nothing, every hand coming at him seeming to belong to Gabe. 

He can’t escape.

So he survives. Because that was all he can do.

End of Part One

Chapter Text

Percy does his best to not think about Gabe lately. (Grover would say that Percy doesn’t think, period, but Grover also somehow managed to accidentally eat a fork the other day, so Percy doesn’t necessarily consider him to be the expert on the topic.)

The school bus is taking them to that Museum of Arts and History or whatever it’s called. Percy honestly doesn’t know or care, he just knows that the AC in this bus is broken and the whole thing smells like way too many people that haven’t yet discovered the joys of deodorant crammed in a hot vehicle. Really, he knows they’re troubled kids or whatever, but this has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment.

Percy shifts in his seat, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. The fabric feels suffocating against his skin, clinging to the sweat on his back. He can already tell today is going to be one of those days—the kind where everything feels just a little too loud, a little too much, like the world is pressing in on him from all sides. There’s way too many people around him and no way to get away if he needs to.

Across the aisle, Nancy Bobofit is throwing wadded-up pieces of paper at Grover’s head. Grover, to his credit, is mostly ignoring her, though Percy can see his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

For a second, Percy wants to stand up, to say something, to yell at Nancy for picking on Grover. But the words stick in his throat. His muscles stiffen, like the very air was too thick to move through. His palms are clammy, his heart racing. Freeze, the voice inside him whispers. Don’t engage. Don’t make it worse.

He can feel his body betraying him, locking him in place like he’s made of stone. His mind feels like he’s wading through sludge, trying to think of anything but the numbness that just overcame him. His vision flickers, like there’s a film over his eyes, blurring everything in soft edges. Is that… is that a shadow moving in the corner? No, it’s nothing. It’s fine. His mind is just playing tricks. He’s been seeing things lately—flashes of faces, dark figures, too many people standing too close, when there’s no one at all. Percy looks down at his lap, hoping the floor would swallow him up.

That’s when he feels it—a light pressure on his shoulder, steady and warm. Grover’s hand. Percy doesn’t have to look up to know it’s him. He’s the only one who ever seems to notice when Percy gets like this, who understands at some level what’s happening without asking. Grover doesn’t speak at first, and Percy is grateful for that.

“Percy, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine. She’s not worth it.”

Percy wants to believe him. He wants to feel the same calm Grover always seems to have, the same control he has over his emotions. But all Percy can do is nod, his throat tight, because the words won’t come.

Percy can’t say anything, so he clenches his jaw, digs his nails into the meat of his palm, and stares out the dirty window. It’s all covered in fingerprints and smudges left behind by too many people who don't care. (It can’t be healthy to relate this much to a window, but here he is.) Percy tries to see past it, tries to find the brightness beyond it. But it’s hard. He has to really concentrate, push through the fog in his mind to make out the distant trees in the park they’re passing, the blurry figures of kids running across the grass. The laughter, muffled by the glass, feels far away.

For a moment, Percy wonders what it’s like to be normal. To have a life where the biggest worry is some stupid math test or whether or not your friends will sit with you at lunch.

But that’s not his life. It’s never been his life.

“Dude, you’re gonna burn a hole in the glass,” Grover mutters, leaning in slightly.

Percy blinks, realizing he’s been staring so hard his vision has gone blurry. He forces himself to relax, to somehow convey that whatever mess is going on inside his mind is perfectly normal. “Just thinking.”

Grover snorts and gives him a side-eye, clearly not believing for a second that Percy is fine. “Uh-huh.”

Percy elbows him, but it’s half-hearted. “Shut up.”

The bus lurches to a stop, sending a few kids forward in their seats. Mr. Brunner wheels to the front, his wheelchair positioned in the aisle. “Alright, everyone off. Stay with your groups, and for the love of the gods, try not to touch anything priceless.”

Kids start pushing and shoving toward the front. Percy lingers for a moment, staring at the museum through the dirty window. It feels wrong, somehow. He doesn’t know why—maybe because it’s a museum and he’s a walking disaster, or maybe because he’s been running on fumes for too long. Whatever it is, something feels off, like he’s been dropped into a scene that doesn’t belong to him.

But he shakes it off. It’s just a field trip. What could go wrong?

(And yes, even Percy can recognize that by thinking that, he has invited everything to go wrong. Ah, well.)

- - -

The museum hits him like an ice-cold slap to the face. It’s freezing in here, the kind of cold that makes you feel like you’re being slowly turned into a human popsicle. Maybe the bus AC was just that bad, or maybe places like this are meant to feel as inviting as a morgue. Either way, Percy is suddenly grateful for and thinks fondly of the sticky warmth in the bus.

The marble floors echo with the sound of sneakers squeaking, the air smells like ancient dust and disappointment.

Mr. Brunner is practically vibrating with excitement, leading them through the exhibits like this is the most exciting thing he’s ever done. The man is thrilled, practically rolling himself faster than the kids can walk. (Once Percy thinks about it for a second, he realizes that the man teaches Latin at a school for troubled kids. This very well could be the highlight of his year. Percy honestly can’t judge.)

Grover nudges Percy. “Five bucks says he starts monologuing in less than five minutes.”

Percy smirks. “I’d give it two.”

Less than two minutes later, Grover is grudgingly passing Percy five dollars.

They move deeper into the museum, past rows of statues and glass cases filled with relics. Percy tries to focus, but something feels wrong. He can’t place it—maybe it’s just the usual restlessness he gets whenever he’s trapped somewhere he doesn’t want to be. Or maybe it’s the way the hairs on his arms won’t stop standing up.

Percy’s unreasonably paranoid and anxious, he knows that, even he can recognize how much the shit with Gabe has messed him up, but something feels wrong. (Something always feels wrong, something is wrong with Percy ever since that night when-)

Then he notices her.

Ms. Dodds, their pre-algebra teacher, is walking at the very back of the group, her sharp eyes scanning the students like a hawk looking for prey. Percy has never liked Ms. Dodds, and the feeling seems to be enthusiastically mutual. There’s something about her—maybe it’s the way her gaze lingers just a second too long, or how her voice always sounds like she’s waiting for you to mess up. (Her eyes seem to stare into Percy’s soul like when Gabe-)

Most of the other teachers at Yancy Academy are at least trying to be helpful. Ms. Dodds? She doesn’t even pretend to like them. Especially Percy.

She catches him staring and quirks an eyebrow, lips curling slightly. Percy looks away, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Grover leans in, whispering, “Dude, why is she even here? It’s a history trip.”

“No idea,” Percy mutters. “Maybe she’s here to feed on the souls of the damned.”

Grover snorts, but the sound comes out nervous.

Mr. Brunner pauses in front of a massive display—a bunch of enormous statues of gods and heroes, their marble faces frozen in expressions of quiet power. Percy’s never been one for art, but even he has to admit that some of them look way too lifelike. He stares up at one—some old dude in a chiton holding a lightning bolt—and for a second, he swears the statue is looking right back at him.

He blinks, and it’s just stone again.

Grover must notice his expression, because he mutters, “Dude, you good?”

Percy shakes himself off. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Right,” Grover says, unconvinced.

(Please, Percy is clearly the epitome of great mental health, and Grover has nothing to worry about. So what if he sees statues moving and humans with demon-like faces staring right at him every once in a while. Or that one time he swears he saw Mr. Brunner riding a horse through the halls after hours. He’s definitely fine.)

Point is, Grover has no reason to be worried about Percy.

Mr. Brunner is at the front of the group, gesturing toward an enormous Greek vase covered in pictures of gods battling monsters. He launches into an explanation about how these myths shaped the world, how the stories still linger in modern culture. Percy should be listening. He really should. But all he can focus on is Ms. Dodds, watching him from the shadows.

What a weirdo.

- - -

They reconvene outside for lunch. (Of course, it’s right after Mr. Brunner went into the story of Kronos eating his kids and Zeus making him throw them back up. In great detail. Seriously, there’s no way the color of the vomit was actually recorded; he had to be making that up. Thanks, Mr. Brunner.)

The museum courtyard is alive with noise—kids laughing, pigeons flapping, and the occasional honk from traffic beyond the gates. Percy and Grover sit at the edge of the fountain, their lunches balanced on their knees as they people-watch.

Percy tears off a piece of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chews slowly, eyes drifting over the chaos around them. A group of kids are throwing chunks of their Lunchables at the pigeons, laughing as the birds flap in panic.“Is it bad that I kind of want one of those pigeons to fight back?”

Grover snorts, taking a massive bite of his apple. “Knowing your luck, it’d go straight for your face instead.”

Percy considers that and sighs. “Yeah, that tracks.” Percy throws a piece of crust at Grover, who catches it with surprising reflexes and munches on it like he’s been starving for days. Percy wisely doesn’t comment on it.

They sit in silence for a while, the sun warm on their backs despite the slight breeze drifting through the courtyard. Percy lets himself zone out, half-listening to the sounds around him. He’s been trying not to think too much today, because thinking leads to remembering, and remembering leads to-

Nancy Bobofit is up to something.

Percy’s eyes snap to her as she weaves through the crowd, her hands quick and practiced as she definitely lifts a pack of gum from some guy’s backpack. She’s got that smug little smirk on her face, the one that says she knows she won’t get caught.

“Does she ever not steal?” Percy mutters.

Grover glances over. “You know, I don’t even want to know.”

“She’d probably be better at it if she wasn’t so obvious,” Percy says, shaking his head.

Nancy must overhear them, because she suddenly changes course, heading straight for them.

Percy tenses. He knows that look.

“Hey, Jackson,” Nancy sneers, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Got anything worth stealing?”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. You want half my PB&J? I promise it’s worth, like, millions.”

Nancy laughs like he’s said something truly hilarious, but then—

There’s a hand. In his pocket.

Percy freezes. The world narrows.

For a second, it’s not Nancy’s hand in his pocket—it’s someone else’s. Someone bigger. Someone whose touch makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist into knots, makes his breath catch in his throat because he can’t move and he’s not twelve anymore he’s seven and—

Instinct takes over.

There’s a surge of something, a pulling sensation deep in his gut, and then—

Nancy screams.

The entire courtyard goes silent.

Percy blinks.

Nancy Bobofit is in the fountain.

She flails, spluttering, her frizzy red hair plastered to her face. Water sloshes over the edge, rippling unnaturally, like something is still pulling at it.

Percy jerks back, his heart slamming against his ribs.

He hadn’t—he couldn’t have—

Could he?

The water stills, but the damage is done.

Nancy scrambles to her feet, her face twisted in rage. “You freak! You pushed me!”

Percy stands frozen, a cold wave of shock crashing through him. His heart races, his breath quickens, and the world seems to tilt. He doesn’t remember pushing her, but how else could this have happened? Is he finally losing his mind? He feels like he’s trapped inside his own skin, unable to escape the tightening, suffocating feeling that something’s wrong.

He’s had moments like this before, little blanks in his memory, where time stretches and then suddenly snaps back, leaving him disoriented, unsure of what just happened. The idea that he could’ve done something so violent—especially when he doesn’t even remember it—is terrifying.

Percy is dangerous to be around. A plague that only brings destruction to those around him.

The world seems to blur again, and for a moment, Percy’s not sure if he’s still standing in the courtyard or if he’s somewhere else entirely—somewhere in his mind where the lines between reality and his fears have completely unraveled.

Kids are whispering, pointing. Grover looks at Percy like he’s seeing him for the first time.

And then—

A shadow falls over them.

Percy slowly turns.

Ms. Dodds is standing there, eyes glinting, lips curled in something that’s definitely not a smile.

“What,” she says, in a voice like rusted metal, “is going on here?”

Percy swallows hard.

Yeah. He’s dead.

Chapter Text

Okay, so it turns out that pushing someone into a fountain can get you in trouble.

(He's still shaking a bit, his stomach twisted in knots, wondering what the hell he did and how he must be losing his mind. He doesn’t remember touching Nancy, doesn’t remember pushing her, but something clearly happened. His thoughts feel scrambled, like pieces of a puzzle he’s too scared to put together. Maybe that’s just how things go now—he’s starting to wonder if he’s even real, or if any of this is. Maybe this is all in his head, some twisted hallucination where he’s just a puppet to his own panic.)

Still, Ms. Dodds–who seems to have her own personal vendetta against him– is being extra weird as she makes Percy follow her all the way through the museum to the ancient Greek section. Like, what is this, some kind of sick power play? Tell the kid he’s in trouble and make him follow you past a bunch of paintings of dead and dying people?

In retrospect, that does seem exactly like the thing Ms. Dodds would do. Yeah, Percy’s actually not really surprised.

They come to a stop in front of a huge painting of Kronos devouring his children. It's not exactly the best thing for Percy to be looking at as he's questioning his sanity. It's a replica of the original painting, apparently, but still very concerning. It's a grotesque scene, all twisted and horrifying, with the god’s mouth dripping in blood, his eyes wild, and his massive hand reaching for another child to swallow whole. Percy wonders for a second if the artist had actually seen what the Titan looked like, because it feels way too real. The horrible expression on the faces of the children in Kronos' grip seems almost... personal. Percy shudders.

Ms. Dodds stands there for a moment, staring at the painting, like she’s lost in thought, before her eyes flick to Percy. Her lips curl into a faint, sad smile.

“Do you know what this is, Percy?” she asks in that low, honeyed voice that sends a chill down his spine. Oh god, he hates this. The tightness in his chest is only getting worse as she keeps talking. Every word she says sends a jolt of panic through him, but it's the way she’s staring at him that really gets under his skin. (She’s looking at him like a predator that wants to eat him, something Percy is all too familiar with–)

“Uh, yeah,” Percy says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Kronos eating his kids. Real uplifting stuff.” Ms. Dodds doesn’t even acknowledge the sarcasm, which, okay, rude. Can he get a bit of credit for his wit even whilst he's tired, confused, and possibly on the brink of a psychotic break?

“That’s right. A god who fears his own children so much that he sacrifices them. But he’s not the only one to do so, is he?” Ms. Dodds gives him a significant look.

Percy feels a strange sense of foreboding wash over him. Something’s off.

The air feels colder now, the weight of her words pressing on him like a physical thing. Something about her shifts. There’s something about the way she moves, how she gets so much closer, like she’s cornering him, and it makes his hands start to shake. His throat tightens, and he can barely breathe, fighting against the instinct to run or hide.

“I don’t—”

But Ms. Dodds interrupts him, her eyes narrowing, as though asking him how he can be so stupid. Yeah, real helpful, thanks. “Don’t play dumb with me, Percy. You’re in way over your head.” She leans in closer, her lips barely an inch from his ear. “And you’re about to find out just how much danger you're really in.”

Well, no shit. He already feels like he's been shoved into a bad horror movie concocted by his own messed up brain. His head’s on fire, his heart’s in his throat, and she’s leaning so close (oh god, too close, way too close-) and he’s sure his personal space is officially nonexistent. He's frozen, feet glued to the marble floor. He can smell her perfume—like roses, but rotting. Something’s not right here, but, again, nothing’s felt right all day.

For one awful moment, Ms. Dodds leans even more into his space and he's sure he's about to die from sheer proximity to her. She takes a deep, purposeful breath, before finally straightening up. She looks troubled, for some reason that Percy can’t even begin to fathom.

“You're not supposed to be here, Percy,” she whispers, all eerie and cryptic. “You’ve drawn attention—attention you don’t want.”

She steps back, and for a moment, Percy feels a flicker of relief, thinking it might be over. But then something else happens. She changes.

And… Woah.

Ms. Dodds doesn’t look like Ms. Dodds anymore.

That’s new. Her form ripples, and in an instant, the Ms. Dodds he knows is gone. Her eyes glow yellow, her teeth elongate into sharp, jagged fangs, and her fingers twist into claws that scratch at the air like they’re ready to tear him apart. Her mouth opens, and an unearthly screech fills the air.

The fear he’s been paralyzed by has all but disappeared, leaving behind an empty sort of numbness.

Creepy teacher that hates him and has no sense of personal space? Hell no.

Scary demon-like hallucination that appears in front of him? Sure, why not.

Percy, the absolute idiot that he is, just looks at the murderous figure in front of him, blinks, and says, “Wow. I really need to go to bed.”

Grover had warned him that two hours of sleep a night, three Red Bulls a day, and an unhealthy amount of spite isn’t actually enough to keep someone going. Well, looks like Percy owes Grover five bucks for betting he would crack sometime this semester. Whoopsie-daisy.

Of course, just to make everything extra ridiculous, Mr. Brunner rolls into the scene like it's just another Tuesday. “What ho, Percy!” he calls, tossing Percy a pen, because that definitely makes sense.

Percy catches the pen—why not humor the figments of his imagination?—which, of course, turns into a sword. Naturally. Not like anything else makes sense at this point.

Out of sheer, ridiculous, dumb luck, the sword materializes right as the weird demon thing lunges at Percy. She impales herself and—surprise—turns into dust as Percy just watches, confused.

Percy is alone.

Holding a ballpoint pen.

Looking at a pile of dust in front of him.

“Welp,” Percy mutters, shaking the sword-pen in disbelief, “guess that solves that.”

With nothing better to do, Percy wanders back outside and finds Grover trying to look casual by the water fountain. Nancy perks up when she sees him, and says, “I hope Ms. Kerr whipped your butt.”

Percy stares blankly. “Who?”

“Our teacher. Duh.”

Percy blinks and looks over at Grover. “You know, our algebra teacher,” Grover offers unconvincingly.

Riiight. There’s clearly something going on, but Percy doesn’t even care right now.

Percy hands him the five bucks.

“What’s this for?”

“Don’t rub it in.” 

- - -

After some much-needed sleep (take that, Grover), Percy was hoping for at least a little clarity. But of course, the universe had other plans. At this point, Percy is fully convinced he’s the punchline of some cosmic joke, because there's absolutely no way this is his life. He's starting to think he might be cursed, or maybe just allergic to normalcy.

No one remembers Ms. Dodds. The only reason Percy knows that she ever existed is because Grover can’t lie for shit. (Albeit, there’s no explaining the murderous demon form, he and his messed up brain are willing to take sole credit for that one.)

Life goes on, because what else is there to do? Percy stopped trying to figure out what the hell was happening after about three hours of overthinking and two mental breakdowns. He’s learned the hard way that sometimes, pretending everything’s fine is just easier than processing it. So that’s his method now: pretend it’s fine until someone tells him it’s definitely not.

His grades start plummeting, but whatever.

Percy is politely informed that he’s been officially uninvited to Yancy next year after he called his English teacher an "old sot" (he has zero idea what that even means, but he still stands by it).

Fine, then. Good riddance. See if Percy cares.

...Except, he totally cares.

Like, a lot.

Maybe it’s the fact that Grover’s still his best friend and Percy’s too afraid to admit how much his precarious mental health relies on that. Or maybe it’s the fact that Mr. Brunner somehow still believes in him (Percy secretly thinks Mr. Brunner needs a psychiatric check-up for that, but hey, he’ll take what support he can get).

Or maybe it's because of his mom. Oh, his wonderful, amazing mom. He hates that ugly pang of shame that always creeps in when he inevitably messes up again. This is the sixth school in six years. Who even does that? Hey, at least he lasted the full school year this time. Progress?

- - -

Percy’s found a new low.

He didn’t even know that was possible, yet here he is, crouched outside Mr. Brunner’s office, eavesdropping on his best friend and favorite teacher talking about him.

Grover’s worried about him. That’s nothing new.

(Despite Percy’s valiant claims of total mental stability, Grover is unconvinced. For some bizarre reason.)

To be fair, Grover did catch Percy feverishly scribbling down a chart ranking sea creatures after a particularly traumatic nightmare last night. Percy doesn’t even remember why a giant siphonophore made it to the top, but honestly? It’s probably better not to ask. All he knows is that he’s never been more perfectly normal in his life, thank you very much.

But Grover’s talking about deadlines—something about the solstice, mist, "kind ones" (but not a good kind?), and, of course, Ms. Dodds (HA! He knew it!). Grover’s all worried about keeping Percy alive, and Percy is touched, yet feels a bit miffed. Percy’s been managing just fine, thank you very much, and doesn’t necessarily consider himself to be a danger to himself. (No, we’re not going to talk about how he was coping with everything last night before he turned to deep-sea research. He’s fine.)

Grover says something else while Percy is busy internally defending his mental status, and there’s movement in the room. Percy freezes and holds his breath, not making a sound that could give him away, when--

Is that the fucking horse again? The backlit silhouette of a four-legged creature that frankly should not be able to fit inside is accompanied by Mr. Brunner's voice telling Grover that the coast is clear.

Yeah, no. Percy’s officially done.

He’s going to bed. Like a real, responsible human being. He doesn’t have the spoons, the crayons, or any reasonable explanation for why he’s still dealing with this right now. Goodnight, world.

- - -

The last few days of the semester pass without fanfare. Percy couldn’t care less about classes, except for Latin, but even that is still a struggle. Seriously, what kind of school offers Latin? He loves Mr. Brunner, but it seems like such a useless topic.

After the three-hour Latin exam (because apparently, that’s a thing), Mr. Brunner calls Percy up before he can escape.

Percy’s immediate panic is that Mr. Brunner caught him eavesdropping, but no, it’s just the “You’re expelled, kid, and it’s actually a good thing, trust me” chat. Wow, okay, ouch, that’s not what he was expecting. Percy’s just standing there, blinking like an idiot, trying to process that his favorite teacher thinks this is the best outcome for him.

Mr. Brunner must see something in Percy’s eyes and tries to backtrack, but only ends up making it worse. I mean, ‘You’re not normal’? Percy is well aware he’s got all sorts of issues, but no need to rub it in, damn.

Percy finally takes pity on Mr. Brunner frantically back-peddling and leaves.

Yay for burning bridges. 

- - -

Percy wasn’t thrilled about splitting up from Grover, but apparently, the universe had other plans. Turns out, Grover was on the same Greyhound headed to Manhattan. What a funny little coincidence. (Percy would laugh, but he’s learned that “coincidences” tend to suck for him.)

Grover looks wildly uncomfortable, like he’s about to either puke or bolt.

Percy decides not to judge. God knows what Grover has put up with from Percy. Percy himself is one thought away from flinging himself out the window the closer they get to home the apartment.

And who knows? Maybe Grover has some deep-seated bus trauma or something. (Percy forcibly shoves down a certain memory—blue birthday cake in the backseat—and refocuses.)

And, because nothing in Percy’s life can be simple, the bus breaks down.

He watches as Grover manages to pale even further. Now Percy is really starting to get worried. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay.”

Grover, peering out the window like he’s watching his own execution, doesn’t respond. Percy understands that feeling better than he wants to. It’s the same way he feels when he hears the lock turn at the apartment door, when he smells stale beer before he even steps inside. Like no matter how much you prepare, it’s coming. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before Percy can press him, the driver reappears and orders everyone out. Grover seems reluctant to move until Percy practically drags him out of the bus.

Then, once they’re outside, Grover won’t sit down. He just keeps staring around like a crazed animal, hyper-focused on something Percy clearly isn’t seeing.

“Dude, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Grover doesn’t answer. He just squints suspiciously at—three little old ladies running a cute little farm stand on the other side of the road?

Ah, yes, terrifying.

Then, in a hushed voice, Grover asks, “Tell me they’re not looking at you. They are, aren’t they? I’m not imagining this?”

Percy, now fully confused, follows Grover’s gaze.

Yep. The old ladies are definitely staring directly at him, with an intensity that does feel a bit concerning. Stranger danger, hello? They’re knitting something (or is it crochet? Percy does not know the difference), and they look... sad. Sad to see him?

A weird feeling knots in his stomach. It reminds him of the way people used to look at him and his mom when they thought he wasn’t paying attention—teachers, cashiers, even the landlord—pitying, like they knew something was wrong but didn’t want to get involved.

He debates going over to check on them—like, are they okay? Did he step on their emotional support zucchini or something?—but Grover suddenly yanks him up and drags him back to the bus.

“Yeah, nope, we’re not doing this,” Grover mutters as he pries the bus doors open and shoves a bewildered Percy inside.

Percy cranes his neck for another look, because seriously, what the hell? Disconcertingly, the women are still looking directly at Percy. Weird.

And then—one of them raises an almost comically large pair of scissors. Is she crying? Damn.

Percy watches, completely baffled, as she snips the yarn, never breaking eye contact.

Okay. That’s... a choice.

He swears he hears the snip across four lanes of traffic. Huh. Auditory hallucinations, he doesn’t get a lot of those.

Right on cue, the bus shudders back to life.

Grover (who still seems to be mid-panic attack, oops) has wedged himself into a corner seat and is muttering something about this being “above his pay grade.” Percy, meanwhile, is mostly just relieved they’re moving again. No offense to Grover’s existential crisis, but Percy wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive in this thousand-degree metal death trap with no AC.

Then, Grover turns to him, looking haunted.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispers.

Percy doesn’t know what exactly set Grover off—the bus, the old ladies, a deeply personal hatred of public transportation—but he gets it. Sometimes, everything is too much.

So, Percy does what Grover would do for him in this situation, the only thing he can do: he leans against Grover in silent support, waiting for him to breathe through it.

(Even though his own skin is crawling the closer they get to Gabe.)

Grover has put up with so much with Percy. Percy will do anything to repay the favor.

“Percy?”

“Hmm?”

“Promise you’ll let me walk you home from the station?"

Okay, turns out Percy wasn’t actually willing to do anything to help his friend, because no way—no way—was he bringing Grover anywhere near Gabe.

Because Percy can already see it—Grover following him up the stairs, frowning at the smell in the hallway, the cigarette burns on the carpet. He can see Grover noticing how Percy hesitates at the door, how he takes a breath like he’s about to dive underwater before stepping inside. And then Gabe—

Percy swallows hard.

No. No way.

“Yeah, sure,” Percy lies.

Grover smiles at him, looking genuinely relieved, which makes Percy feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

And when Percy ditches Grover at the station—slipping away the second Grover ducks into the bathroom—well. It’s for the best.

Even if it rips him in half.

Because Percy knows Grover. And Grover knows Percy.

He knows Grover will see Percy’s panic the closer they get to the apartment and put the pieces together. And then he’ll push. And then he’ll meet Gabe—

No. No, no, no.

So, as Percy climbs into a taxi, his hands start to shake. The dull roar in his ears creeps in, making everything feel far away.

Percy’s voice wobbles as he recites the address. He presses his forehead against the taxi window, willing himself to breathe.

It’s better this way.

Better than hearing Grover’s voice change, the way his mom’s does when she lies and says she’s fine.

Better than seeing the anger, the hurt, the pity in Grover’s eyes when he figures it out.

So, as the taxi rumbles toward the apartment, the dull roar in his ears creeps in, making everything feel far away, Percy reminds himself that this is for the best. It’s been months since he last saw Gabe.

It never gets easier.

And he’s not ready.

Chapter Text

Percy steps into the apartment, and the stench of beer, sweat, and stale cigarettes slams into him.

It’s thick, suffocating, curling in his lungs like poison. His stomach clenches at the scent—it’s not just unpleasant, it’s familiar.

Too familiar.

The air is heavy with laughter, slurred curses, the scrape of cards, the clink of bottles. The TV hums low in the background, but the real noise is Gabe and his poker buddies, loud and obnoxious as ever.

He knew it would be like this. It always is.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Gabe barely looks up from his hand, but Percy feels his presence like a chain around his throat, tightening with every breath. “Well, well,” Gabe drawls, voice slow, mean. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Percy knows that voice. It’s the same one from a hundred different nights, a thousand different nightmares.

His feet refuse to move. His fists clench so hard his nails bite into his palms, grounding him in the present—but just barely.

One of Gabe’s friends chuckles, a low, ugly sound. “Kid looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

Percy forces himself to breathe through his nose, keeping his face blank. He knows better than to talk back, knows just how quickly Gabe’s mood can turn.

A bad card hand, a bad joke, a bad night—any of it could set him off.

Percy glances toward the hallway, toward safety, but Gabe’s voice hooks into him like a harpoon.

“Don’t be rude, punk. Get your old man a beer.”

Percy nods, stiff and mechanical, and moves toward the kitchen, every step measured. His pulse pounds in his ears, his vision narrowing like a tunnel.

One beer.

Just get the beer.

He keeps his head down, breathing slow, but the memories burn like fresh wounds.

This is fine.

He can do this.

Half an hour, maybe a little more, and his mom will be home.

The bottle is slick in his shaking hands as he returns to the table. Gabe snatches it away with a scoff, sneering at the tremor in Percy’s fingers, but thankfully says nothing.

Percy prays—to a god he doesn’t believe in, just anyone, please—that he’ll be excused. Please let that be it, please let him go, please–

Gabe grabs his wrist.

Percy flinches, but Gabe just yanks him forward—laughing, pulling him into his lap–

No no no–

Percy can’t breathe. Can’t move.

Amidst the laughter of Gabe’s friends and the roaring in Percy’s ear, he can hear all too clearly the words that place the final nail in Percy’s doomed coffin.

Gabe pulls Percy against his chest, caressing and kneading and breath too hot and wet and desperate against Percy’s ear–-

“Your mama won’t be coming home until tomorrow, punk.”

The words hit Percy like a punch to the stomach.

“Very last minute, her coworker went MIA and your sweet mama had to go in or she’d lose her job.”

It takes Percy too long to process what Gabe is saying through the roaring in his ears, but when he does, it’s like the air is ripped from his lungs.

Gabe leans back just far enough to meet Percy’s wide, horrified eyes, and winks.

Percy knows.

Knows his mother wouldn’t have left him alone overnight. Knows she would have called him, told him, warned him.

Knows this isn’t a coincidence.

Gabe had everything to do with his mom being called into work.

The weight of it crashes down on him like a tidal wave, and suddenly, he’s falling into himself, disappearing. He barely registers Gabe’s hands on his thighs, the words spoken too close to his ear—

“She sent her love and asked me to take good care of you. Which we will, won’t we boys?”

Percy can barely hear the men’s raucous laughter through the ocean building in his ears, and Percy is barely aware of the men standing up and tossing money on the table as Gabe jeers.

The first touch is a riptide.

Percy is yanked under before he can gasp for air. He doesn’t remember when he stopped breathing—only that the air has been stolen from his lungs, replaced with salt and silence.

The apartment fades. The smoke-choked room dissolves into deep, endless blue.

He is sinking.

His limbs are weightless, drifting like seaweed in the current.

His body is not his own.

Gabe’s voice warps, a garbled thing, struggling to travel through water. The laughter of his poker buddies echoes like distant gull cries, meaningless and far away.

Another touch. Another wave.

Percy sinks deeper.

His skin stings, scraped raw against the ocean floor. The current tears at him, twisting him, dragging him down, down, down.

He is drowning.

He chokes on flesh. His soul is torn apart.

Over and over and over--

It hurts. Oh god, it hurts.

He tastes beer and cigarettes and salt and sweat and—

Oh god, the hands.

Touching him, squeezing and caressing and–

The world above is a blur of light and shadow, unreachable.

If he could just—swim up—if he could just break the surface—

But he doesn’t.

He sinks.

And sinks.

And no one reaches for him.

The mighty tide does not care if he drowns.

And neither does he.

- - -

Percy doesn’t know how long it takes.

One moment, he is there–trapped, pinned, helpless.

And then–

He is in his bed.

He is naked, sticky, and so confused and hurt.

Gabe is laughing somewhere above him, slurring something about how Percy did great.

Percy blinks, and it is later.

The moon is out. Silver light stretches through the window, reaching for him, soft where everything else tonight was rough and cruel.

Slowly, achingly, Percy sits up.

He chokes down a sob.

His mom will be home tomorrow. He needs to clean himself up. She can’t know.

The house is quiet. No jeers, no sneering taunts as Percy leaves his room—just the muffled snores from the next room.

Floating.

Percy finds himself in the bathroom, though he doesn’t remember getting there.

His reflection stares back.

A corpse.

The boy in the mirror is dead.

His eyes are fractured glass, reflecting nothing.

Empty.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He wonders if he should press them to the glass, check for a pulse.

Instead, he turns the shower knob, sharp and sudden.

Scalding water slams into his skin, a thousand burning needles piercing his shoulders.

It hurts–it hurts–it hurts–

But his head is quiet.

He lets the steam rise, lets the heat strip him raw. The mist clings to his lungs, thick and choking, but he breathes it in like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He is melting.

Like Icarus, his body is set alight, wax dripping in molten trails down his skin. The heat burns him clean, burns him away.

He wonders if Icarus was grateful when he drowned.

If he was relieved, sinking into the dark, knowing he would never feel the sun again.

Chapter Text

Percy is sitting on the floor of his room, staring at the wall.

The world outside moves—cars rumble past, birds call to each other through the trees, the wind rattles the windows—but inside, time is thick and unmoving, a pool of tar swallowing him whole.

His body isn’t real.

The room is bathed in golden sunlight. And Percy is trapped with it, like a bug in amber, pinned beneath the weight of something vast and unspoken, as if the light itself is pressing him down, holding him in place.

His body is a foreign thing—too stiff, too sore, too raw.

No human form should be capable of carrying this much pain.

He curls in on himself, arms wrapped tight, nails digging into his forearms like he's trying to hold himself together. The pressure doesn’t help. The cracks are too deep. The foundation is already rotting.

Then—

A knock. Soft but insistent.

“Percy?” His mom’s voice is gentle, hesitant.

He blinks. It takes effort. Like forcing his eyelids through molasses.

“Sweetheart, are you awake?” The words don’t make sense at first.

Awake?

The sun spills through the window in golden streaks, but the warmth doesn’t reach him. His skin is ice, his veins rivers of frost. His body is sinking, deep, deep, deep—where the light cannot reach—

The doorknob rattles.

“Percy?”

His hands move on their own, gripping his hair so hard his scalp burns. His breath drags in sharp, rattling in his throat. The room tilts. The walls pulse. His stomach churns.

Move. Stand. Answer her.

It takes everything he has to force himself upright. His limbs feel boneless, disconnected, like a puppet jerking on frayed strings.

“I’m coming,” he says. His voice is too normal. Too steady. A lie shaped into sound.

He wants to rip out his own throat.

The door creaks as he opens it, and there she is—his mother, standing in the hallway, framed by morning light. It catches in her hair, turns it gold. She smells like coffee and sea salt, like home.

Percy forces a smile, but it feels tight, like he's stretching a wound. “Morning.”

Her gaze flickers over him—his hunched shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something. She knows him too well.

For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Just watches him. Then— “Did something happen?”

His stomach knots itself into something unholy.

He should lie. He should throw up a smirk, make a joke, brush past her with a shrug. He should make it easy for her. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

But he can’t.

Suddenly, he's just too exhausted to hide it anymore.

His breath stutters. His fingers twitch. A shiver crawls up his spine like a ghost running its fingers along his bones.

And suddenly, he’s there again—

The rough hands. The laughter.

The weight pressing him down.

The carpet burning against his cheek.

He’s drowning.

His mom is shifting forward, reaching for him, and—

He flinches.

It’s barely anything. A twitch. A half-step back. But he sees it land. He sees it wreck her.

She freezes, her face crumpling for half a second before she forces it smooth again. Her hands tremble at her sides.

She takes a slow, careful breath. Exhales through her nose.

“Sweetheart,” she says, steady, too steady, like she’s holding something back. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

Percy swallows hard. His pulse slams against his ribs, frantic, desperate. He suddenly wants to tell her. Wants to let it all out, let the words come pouring out like poison, let the rot spill free.

He's so tired of holding this on his own.

But if he says it out loud— If he admits it—

It’s real.

And he can’t survive that.

His mom starts to speak again, soft and careful.

Then—

A cough. The scrape of a chair against the floor. Heavy footsteps in the kitchen.

Gabe.

The air turns to cement in his lungs.

His mom’s eyes flick toward the noise. Just for a second. But she doesn’t miss the way Percy stiffens, how his fists clench at his sides. How his breath hitches like he’s just been punched.

Something shifts in her expression. Her jaw locks. Her fingers twitch. She takes a deep, shaking breath—slow, forced, like she’s pushing something ugly down, like she’s choosing not to explode.

Then, finally, she exhales. Her face smooths over.

When she speaks, her voice is casual. Gentle. But there’s an edge underneath it. A blade hiding in silk.

“Hey,” she says, carefully. “How about a trip to the beach today? Just us. Like we used to.”

Percy blinks. The words don’t make sense at first.

His jaw clenches. The weight in his chest presses heavier. He still feels yesterday lodged deep in his ribs, a dull, lingering ache that won’t let him breathe right. His head is still waterlogged, still sinking, still stuck.

But—

The ocean. The salt in the air. The waves crashing loud enough to drown everything else out—

His throat works. He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

His mom’s smile is small, but steady. She lifts a hand—like she wants to touch him, wants to pull him close—but lets it drop. Instead, she just nods, voice light. “I’ll get our stuff.”

Then she’s gone, slipping down the hall toward the kitchen.

Percy exhales, shuddering. His pulse still feels like it’s trying to tear through his ribs. His hands still tremble at his sides. But—

The beach.

Maybe the ocean can quiet the storm in his head, if only for a little while.

- - -

The road stretches out before them, unraveling like a frayed thread, a seam splitting open to reveal the raw, endless nothing underneath. The world outside is a smudge of green and blue, the colors bleeding together like water spilled over ink.

Percy is barely holding himself together. He sits rigid in the backseat, staring out the window, waiting for something to snap into focus. His reflection watches him in the glass, stretched and distorted, eyes too wide, too hollow. A ghost of a boy who still hasn’t learned how to exist outside of someone else’s control.

His mother says something. Her voice is a soft murmur, the syllables slipping through his fingers before he can grasp them. In the rearview mirror, her gaze flicks back to him between glances at the road. She is watching him too closely, trying to read him like a book left out in the rain, its pages warped, its words smeared beyond recognition.

"Percy," she says, and his spine locks before he even processes the sound of his name. He turns his head, slow and stiff, like he’s moving through water, like something inside him is rusted and breaking apart with every shift.

His mom’s eyes are fixed on him, sharp with concern. "Did something happen last night?" She hesitates. Then, softer—more certain. "Something... with Gabe?"

The world tilts.

The car is suddenly too small, the air too thin. His lungs claw for it, but it slips through, useless. His ribs feel like they are collapsing inward, pressing against his useless heart, squeezing, suffocating.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But he can’t.

This can’t be happening.

The past is seeping through the cracks. It spills over, thick and suffocating, curling around his throat like smoke, like hands.

Gabe’s hands. The weight of them. The laughter. His breath, hot against Percy’s ear.

The way his body wasn’t his anymore.

He’s still there. He never left.

He grips his knees, nails digging into denim, into skin, grounding himself in the bite of pain, in the feeling of something real. But his hands are shaking too badly to hold on to anything.

His head is a mess of static, thick and cloying, memories tangling into the present, stitching themselves into his skin, forcing him to relive it, again and again and again.

"You think anyone would believe you, punk?"

"You keep your mouth shut, got it?"

"You know what happens if you don’t."

A sound rips from his throat, broken and desperate. He doesn’t even know if it’s real.

His mother’s hands tighten on the wheel, her knuckles whitening.

“Percy.” Her voice cuts through the static, softer now, scared—like she’s trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“Sweetheart, talk to me. Please. What happened?”

His breath is coming too fast, too shallow. His whole body is trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to press himself into the seat, to disappear inside himself, to stop the shaking, the spinning, the drowning.

He can’t.

He can’t do this.

Gabe is still too close. Percy’s insides are still too raw and his mind too bruised.

“I... I need more time,” he gasps. The words tumble out of him, raw, frantic. “I—I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise. Just—just give me today.”

Silence.

It stretches between them, thick and suffocating. His chest heaves.

In the rearview mirror, her face tightens, but she exhales slow and even, like she’s swallowing down her fear, keeping herself steady.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay, baby. You know I love you, right?”

His throat tightens, something sharp and aching blooming in his chest. God, it's been years since they did this.

"How much do you love me?" His voice is small, hoarse, like a child’s, like a version of himself he thought he’d buried long ago.

His mother’s breath hitches. She thinks for a moment, then— "I love you as much as there are raindrops in a hurricane. I love you so much, kiddo."

A hollow laugh crawls up his throat, but it never makes it past his lips.

Something inside him cracks.

It’s too much. He wants to tell her. He wants to say everything. But the words lodge in his throat, heavy and sharp-edged, impossible to push out.

And then—

His gaze drops to her hands. The way they grip the wheel, too tight. The way they tremble, just barely.

His gaze snaps to her face, and for the first time since he got back from school, he really looks at her.

Her eyes are tired. Bloodshot. There are faint bruises beneath them—the kind you get from lack of sleep. Or maybe from a careless hand.

There’s a scar on her cheekbone. He doesn’t recognize it.

The lines around her mouth, always soft, always kind, seem deeper now, heavier, carved into her skin like a wound that never quite healed.

The world tips, tilts, crashes inward.

No.

No, no, no.

His pulse pounds against his ribs, his skin prickling with cold horror. He blinks hard, trying to clear the black spots in his vision, but the realization keeps hitting, over and over, like a fist to the gut.

It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t have any proof.

But he knows.

Gabe promised.

"You keep quiet, and she won’t get hurt."

"Be a good boy, and I’ll leave her alone."

But it was a lie.

A sick, twisted cosmic joke.

Percy had stayed silent. He had endured it all, suffered in the dark, let himself be ruined—because he thought it meant she would be safe.

But she wasn’t.

His sacrifice was for nothing.

The realization slams into him like a wave, knocking the air from his lungs, dragging him under.

He was never enough to stop it.

His stomach twists violently. He grips his knees harder, nails biting into his skin, barely noticing the way his breath is unraveling again.

He should have told someone. He should have fought harder. He should have done something.

His mom glances at him again, concern etched deep into her features. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.

She knows.

And now, so does he.

Percy leans back against the seat, eyes burning, hands still shaking. He can’t breathe. Can’t think.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell her.

Tomorrow, he’ll make this right.

Tomorrow, they’ll be okay.

The car keeps moving, the world outside a blur of sand and sky. But inside, Percy feels like he’s sinking. Like the ocean is pulling him under, dragging him down, down, down—until there’s nothing left of him but waterlogged bones and silence.

- - -

The cabin is exactly the same.

Which is strange, because everything else has changed.

Percy stands in the doorway, staring at the floorboards like they might shift beneath him, like the whole house could decide at any moment that he doesn’t belong here anymore. The air is thick, pressing in on his skin like it wants to keep him in place. The place smells the same—salt and sunbaked wood, old summers and childhood memories bottled up and left to ferment—but it doesn’t feel the same.

There’s something off about it. Maybe it’s the air—too still, too heavy—or maybe it’s just him.

His mom brushes past him, humming like she’s trying to stitch the silence back together. “Feels good to be back,” she says, stretching as if shaking off something invisible.

Percy doesn’t answer. He’s watching the shadows in the corner of the room, waiting for them to shift. They don’t.

His mom unpacks like today hasn't been batshit insane, moving through the motions with the ease of someone who has decided that normalcy is a choice. When she pulls out a couple of sandwiches and hands him one, her smile is warm, careful. Like it’s an offering. Like it’s supposed to fix something.

“Maybe we could sit on the porch,” she suggests, too light, too careful. “Watch the waves.”

Percy shrugs. “Sure.”

He follows her outside, steps slow and deliberate, like the floorboards might give out beneath him. Every step feels like he's being stabbed.

The ocean stretches out in front of them, vast and unbothered, swallowing the horizon, folding in on itself over and over again. The tide keeps pulling in, keeps rolling out—like lungs expanding and deflating, like the world itself is breathing. He watches it for a long time, waiting for something in him to settle, for the quiet in his chest to feel less like an open void.

“You remind me of him, you know.”

The quiet shatters like glass.

Percy’s fingers tighten around the sandwich. “Who?”

His mom smiles, soft, far away. “Your dad.”

He scoffs. It comes out sharp, humorless. “Yeah, right.”

She doesn’t flinch, but something flickers across her face—too quick, too quiet, like a wound she’s learned to hide.

“He would be proud of you, Percy.”

A laugh claws its way out of him, something bitter and jagged. He gestures vaguely at himself—at the exhaustion hanging off him like an oversized coat, at the weight in his shoulders that makes him feel twice as old and half as real. “For what? For this?”

His mom’s lips press together, but she doesn’t snap at him. She just looks at him—really looks at him—and that’s almost worse.

“There’s a lot you don’t understand yet,” she says, quieter now. “A lot I haven’t told you. But Percy, you are so much more than what you think.”

That’s the problem, though. He doesn’t think he’s anything. Not more, not less. Just… there. Stuck in some liminal space where nothing quite makes sense, where time moves but he doesn’t.

She reaches for his hand and he fights the instinctual urge to pull away. He lets her hold on, lets the warmth of her fingers press against his skin like an anchor. It burns.

The evening slips by in a haze. His mom tells stories—old myths, the same ones she used to tell when he was little, back when the world felt bigger but less impossible. He lets the sound of her voice wash over him, lets the ocean fill in the gaps.

For a moment, he almost feels normal.

Almost.

But out of the corner of his eye, past the porch railing, someone is standing at the edge of the water.

Watching him.

Percy doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares.

The figure doesn’t move either.

The next time the waves roll in, they’re gone.

Percy exhales, slow and shaky, and decides—very firmly—that he is not dealing with this tonight.

- - -

The rain is relentless, slamming against the cabin in sheets, the wind howling through the trees, rattling the windows so hard it feels like the house is alive. Every gust makes the walls groan, the floorboards creak, as if the whole cabin is breathing along with the storm.

Sleep? Not a chance. Which is a shame, considering he’s been awake for like 40 hours straight now.

Percy lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, muscles locked so tight he might as well be a corpse. Every sound is too much—the hiss of the rain, the howl of the wind, the relentless thud of his own pulse, loud enough that he’s half-convinced something is crawling inside his skull, hammering to get out.

Every flash of lightning paints the room in jagged, flickering shadows, warping everything familiar into something wrong. The dresser? Monster-shaped. The coat hanging on the back of the chair? Absolutely a lurking horror waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Not that it really matters. The real monsters aren’t in the corners of the room. They’re already in his head.

Percy rolls onto his side, curling in on himself, his fists clenched against his chest. His stomach is a tangle of knots, too tight, too sharp. He feels sick. He wants to sleep. He needs to sleep. But every time he closes his eyes, he sees tomorrow waiting for him like an executioner in the dark.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell her.

Tomorrow, he’ll say the words, drag them out from the rot inside him, let them fester in the open air.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell his mom why his soul is decaying, why everything in him feels poisoned, why no matter how much time passes, he still feels unclean.

And she’ll know. She’ll know what he let happen to him. She’ll know how weak he was. She’ll know every awful, humiliating, disgusting thing Gabe did—

His throat tightens. He forces a breath, but it gets stuck halfway, trapped beneath the weight pressing against his ribs.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Percy jerks upright so fast he nearly concusses himself against the headboard. The knocking comes again, barely audible over the storm but definitely there.

Sharp. Urgent. Wrong.

His brain short-circuits.

Gabe?

The thought drops into his skull like a stone, dragging the rest of him under. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. If Gabe followed them—if he’s out there in the storm, waiting, watching—Percy’s stomach lurches so hard he nearly throws up.

Another knock. Then—

"Percy—it’s me."

The air disappears from his lungs.

Grover?

Except Grover doesn’t sound right. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, like he’s been running for miles or screaming himself raw.

Percy doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s at the door, yanking it open, and—oh.

Grover is drenched. Shaking so badly that water drips from his curls, from his soaked hoodie, pooling onto the floor. His pupils are blown wide with panic, breath coming in frantic, shallow gulps.

Also? He’s got fucking sheep legs, which is a fun new development that Percy is absolutely not mentally stable enough to process right now.

“We have to go,” Grover gasps. “Now.”

Percy’s brain chooses this moment to clock out.

He stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it again. “Okay, yeah, what the actual hell—”

Grover doesn’t let him finish (rude). Just grabs Percy’s arm in a grip so tight it feels like he’s about to snap something. “Pack your things,” he pants. “We don’t have time.”

Time for what? Time for why?

Percy’s brain is still buffering when his mom appears, moving so fast it’s like she already knew this was coming. There’s no shock. No hesitation. Just a sharp nod, jaw set like iron.

“Sally.” Grover’s voice cracks. “He knows. The thing—he knows Percy’s here.”

Something horrible passes across his mom’s face, draining the color from her skin. She doesn’t ask who, doesn’t demand an explanation. She just moves, grabbing the keys, yanking open the duffel bag she packed a lifetime ago—this morning, maybe.

Percy? Still stuck at sheep legs and Grover somehow knowing his mom and the fact something is apparently coming for him.

“What the hell does that mean?” His voice wavers, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Who knows? What are you talking about? Why is Grover—why do you—what—” He gestures wildly at Grover’s legs, at the absolute chaos unfolding around him. “What the fuck is happening?”

His mom grips his shoulders, hard enough to make him shut up (an impressive feat, really). Her eyes, usually so warm, are scared.

“I need you to trust me,” she says.

Which. Okay. That’s a big ask, considering he’s got about twelve different reasons to believe he’s hallucinating right now. But she’s looking at him like this is life-or-death, and Percy—Percy might not understand what the hell is going on, but he knows this is serious.

Outside, the wind picks up, screeching like a living thing, tearing at the cabin. The ocean roars louder than it should, the waves screaming as they slam against the shore with violent force.

“Mom—” he starts.

And then—

A deep, guttural roar rips through the night, so loud and earth-shaking that Percy feels it in his bones, deep in his gut.

Everything stops.

Percy’s blood goes cold. His heart freezes in his chest. The roar is wrong, unlike anything he’s ever heard, something ancient and primal, filled with rage and hunger. It feels like it’s coming from the depths of the earth itself.

His mom swears, yanking him toward the door. Grover stumbles after them, his legs barely holding him up.

“Now, Percy!” his mom shouts.

Percy moves, but it’s like wading through tar, his limbs disconnected from his brain. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Doesn’t know if this is real.

But something is coming for him.

Chapter Text

Percy’s mom yanks him toward the car, her grip bruising, desperate. Grover stumbles after them, his hooves slipping in the mud, his legs bending wrong, unnatural—

The ground shudders beneath them as another roar splits the night—closer this time, too close. The wind howls, the ocean screams, waves crashing violently against the shore, insistent, pleading.

Rain lashes against Percy’s skin, sharp and relentless, like it's trying to beat him into reality.

This isn’t real.

This can’t be real.

“Get in the car.” His mom’s voice cuts through the chaos—sharp, urgent, terrifying. No room for questions. No room for denial.

The night is thick, too thick, pressing in from all sides, suffocating. Shadows stretch and twist, shifting with each flicker of lightning, moving wrong, stretching into something monstrous—

And then—

Light.

A single, blinding bolt of lightning splits the sky, turning the world into stark, unnatural white, bleaching every nightmare into focus—

And Percy sees it.

A hulking shape at the tree line.

Too big.

Too wrong.

A beast made of muscle and hunger, something that shouldn’t exist, something that can’t exist—

And then the light dies.

And the darkness swallows it whole.

Percy’s breath stutters. His pulse slams against his ribs.

No. No, no, no.

He’s imagining things again. He has to be. This is exhaustion, stress, trauma-induced bullshit—

“Mom—” His voice barely escapes his throat before another roar splits the night, rattling his bones.

His mother shoves him into the car, slamming the door hard enough to shake the frame. She barely has time to start the engine before another tremor rolls through the ground.

The tires screech against the mud as they speed down the narrow road. Beside him, Grover is panting, gripping the seat with white-knuckled desperation like his life depends on it.

Percy twists in his seat, squinting through the rain-streaked window. The trees blur past in a mess of black and green, shadows twisting and smearing together— But there.

Eyes.

Massive.

Glowing.

Unblinking.

Watching him.

His throat closes up. His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his scalp like he can physically claw the insanity out of his brain.

“What the hell is that?” The words claw their way out of Percy’s throat, raw and uneven, like his body can’t decide if it wants to scream or choke.

Grover swallows hard. He looks sick—his face ashen, his eyes too wide, too hollow. “Minotaur.”

Percy lets out a laugh, sharp and desperate at the edges. It isn’t real laughter. It’s a sound dragged out by panic, by the way his fractured brain is trying and failing to piece this together.

“That’s not—” His breath hitches. “That’s not real.”

“It is.” Grover’s voice is like a snapped wire, frayed and trembling. “And it’s coming for you.”

Percy shakes his head, harder, like maybe if he does it fast enough, he can rattle some logic back into place. “No. No, that’s insane—”

The Minotaur isn’t real. It belongs in myths. In old, faded stories his mom used to tell him at night. In books. In history class.

Not here.

Not now.

A scream is clawing at his throat, but before it can break free—

The world explodes.

A blinding white flash. A deafening crash like the sky cracking in half.

The car is airborne. Weightless for the briefest, most terrifying second—then the ground rushes up to meet them.

Impact.

Glass shatters, sprays inward like jagged rain. Percy’s ears are ringing, his skull vibrating with the force of it. His body slams sideways against the door.

The car lands at a vicious angle, the left side buried in mud. The roof is split wide open, and the storm pours in like water through a cracked skull.

Lightning. It had to be lightning.

Percy’s thoughts are a scrambled mess, slipping through his fingers faster than he can catch them. He gasps for air, lungs burning, trying to force his brain to work, to think, but everything is too fast, too loud, too much—

A body dangles above him. Grover.

His seatbelt is the only thing keeping him up. He's breathing, but his head is slumped to the side, unmoving. Unconscious.

Percy reaches for him—

Hands grab him first. Haul him out of the wreck.

His mom.

Her arms are streaked with blood. There’s something wrong with her shoulder. But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Just hauls him to his feet.

And then—

It moves.

A shadow shifting at the edges of the storm.

A nightmare stepping into reality.

The Minotaur.

It’s there. It’s real.

A hulking shape, bigger than anything Percy has ever seen. Its fists are the size of his torso, wrapped in muscle so thick it looks carved from stone. Steam curls from its nostrils, heavy and wet in the night air.

It steps forward. Hooves sink deep into the mud, like the very earth is caving beneath its weight.

Percy can’t breathe.

His mother’s grip tightens.

“Percy, we need to run,” she says, voice low, urgent. “We’ll split up. Just get to the top of the hill, and everything will be fine.”

Percy doesn’t move as she staggers away, leaving him standing alone in the wreckage.

His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, too shallow, too fast. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

The rain slashes against his skin, cold and biting, but he barely feels it.

The Minotaur steps closer.

Percy’s chest tightens. His lungs seize.

He doesn’t see the Minotaur.

He sees something worse.

A different monster.

A shadow that never leaves, that waits in doorways, that reeks of beer and cigarette smoke.

It looms before him, nostrils flaring, massive fists clenched.

Grover groans somewhere behind him. His mom distantly screams for him to move.

The Minotaur paws at the ground. Readying to charge.

Percy should run.

He has to run.

But he can’t.

He can’t fucking move.

His limbs are heavy. His body is sinking—down, down, down—into murky water, into the past.

This is familiar. Too familiar.

A massive figure blocking the light. Wet breath on his neck. Phantom hands holding him down.

Percy shudders, vision swimming. The Minotaur is there, but so is he.

Percy is only seven years old and so small. Helpless.

His stomach twists. Nausea rises sharp and acrid in his throat. It’s too soon. It’s too much. A part of him is still in that room last night. (It will always be there. It will die over and over, as long as he lives.)

The minotaur lunges.

Percy doesn't move.

His mother does.

She throws herself between them, her arms outstretched like a shield made of nothing but desperation and love.

The minotaur’s massive hand snatches her up with terrifying ease.

"NO!"

Percy’s voice shatters the night, raw and broken. His body jerks forward, but it’s too late, it’s always too late, he’s moving through quicksand, through tar, through time itself—

She struggles. Kicks. Her eyes find his, even through the pain, even as the Minotaur’s grip tightens around her, crushing, crushing, crushing.

She still finds the breath to scream:

"Percy, RUN!"

But he can’t.

He can’t do anything.

The Minotaur squeezes.

His mother gasps—a small, wretched sound Percy will hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Then light. A fiery eruption, searing and unnatural, slicing through the storm like a blade through cord. It fills the night, swallows her whole.

And then–

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

It doesn’t make sense.

His brain stutters over it, trying to reject it, trying to find another explanation.

She was just there.

Breathing. Holding onto him. Promising him it would be okay.

Percy stares at the empty space where she was—where she should be—where she has to be. The air is still shimmering, but the light is fading, leaving only rain and silence.

His heart slams against his ribs, too fast, too hard. His chest caves inward, like the tangled fibers of his soul have been ripped apart. It's like the space she left behind is something physical, something crushing, and now he's unraveling.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow was supposed to be different.

Tomorrow, he was finally going to tell her everything. Tomorrow, they were going to leave Gabe forever and start a new chapter.

But that future is gone, too.

His stomach twists, his throat closes.

The Minotaur turns to him.

Somewhere behind him, Grover is breathing, gasping, but Percy barely hears it over the rushing in his ears.

And then—

Something inside him snaps.

It’s a jagged, raw sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, ripped from his throat like something being torn out of him.

He curls inward, clawing at the ground, fingers digging into the earth like he can pull her back.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s already halfway up, his body trembling, shaking, burning.

The Minotaur turns its dark, empty, soulless eyes on him.

(Just like Gabe’s.)

And Percy’s grief detonates.

A scream rips out of him, shaking, feral, a sound that doesn’t feel human. His numb body surges forward before his brain can catch up, muscles burning, insides tearing, feet digging into the earth as he lunges.

Percy doesn’t care that he’s small.

(He’s seven years old and being held down by someone so much bigger than him.)

He doesn’t care that he’s weak.

(He’s eight years old and his body is too exhausted to fight.)

He doesn’t care that he’s about to die.

(He’s nine years old and feels nothing but disappointment when he wakes up that morning. It didn’t work.)

He doesn’t care that his anger won’t bring her back.

(He’s ten years old, realizing nothing will ever change.)

He doesn’t care that there’s no way he can win this.

(He’s eleven years old and no one is coming to save him.)

He just wants it to hurt.

(He’s twelve years old. And he has nothing to lose.)

- - -

Distantly, as Percy lunges, he hears shouts. Sees lights flickering through the trees.

None of it matters.

The only thing that exists is the monster beneath him.

His numb fingers clutch something hard, jagged. The minotaur’s horn.

When had he torn it off?

He doesn’t remember.

His vision is static, black eating away at the edges. His breath is ragged, uneven, like something inside him is fracturing with every inhale.

The Minotaur bellows, thrashing—slamming its back into a tree so hard Percy’s bones rattle.

Pain explodes through his spine. Something cracks.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

His body doesn’t exist anymore. His soul is untethered, floating somewhere just outside himself, watching with cold, eerie detachment.

He should be afraid. His body should be screaming in pain.

He isn’t.

His fingers move, reaching forward—like someone else is piloting his body now, someone with nothing left to lose.

He drives the horn into the Minotaur’s eye.

Hard.

Deeper.

All the way to the base.

The monster screams, a sound so high and raw it hardly seems possible. It bucks, its whole body convulsing, slamming them both to the ground.

Percy doesn’t let go, driving the horn even deeper still.

Even as Percy’s skull cracks against the earth.

Even as his lungs seize, dragging in sharp, choking gasps of mud-thick air.

Even as he feels the static creeping in, turning his body into something distant, disconnected, unreal.

If he’s going down, he’s taking the bastard with him.

Somewhere, voices are screaming his name.

Somewhere, Grover is still breathing.

Good.

Let them save him.

There’s no saving Percy.

There’s nothing left to bring back.

Chapter Text

Drifting.

Percy is floating.

Weightless. Untethered.

His body is gone, stripped away, reduced to nothing but sensation—just the faintest echo of himself, adrift.

The world hums around him, a low, distant thrum, soft as sunlight on water. Warmth cradles him, golden and endless, pulling him deeper, deeper—

Somewhere, the sea roars.

Somewhere, rain hammers against the earth, the wind howls, the Minotaur bellows—

His mother screams.

Percy—!

The warmth vanishes.

He plunges back under.

- - -

A voice.

Soft. Gentle.

Impatient.

"Come on, just one more bite."

Something presses against Percy’s lips, cool and sweet. The taste hits his tongue—rich, warm, spiced like cookies, but smooth like pudding.

A memory stirs—his mother’s hands, the smell of home, something safe—

A sharp twist in his gut rips the thought away. He moans, nausea rolling over him in thick, suffocating waves.

His throat burns. He moans and forces himself to swallow.

His eyelids flutter open.

The world is wrong.

Blurry, hazy—like watercolor bled too far, edges melting into each other. Light pools golden on crisp white sheets. The air smells too clean, too bright—citrus, fresh linens, not rain, not blood, not—

He’s in a bed. A soft one.

His head pounds. A deep, pulsing ache, as if something inside him has cracked wide open. His limbs are too heavy, still half-drowned in sleep, in exhaustion, in something deeper—

For a moment, the sheer wrongness of it makes his chest tighten. He can’t be here. He was—he was—

His breath stutters.

A figure shifts beside him, blurry and golden in the afternoon light.

A girl.

She holds a plastic cup and a spoon, tilting her head slightly as she watches him. Her eyes pin him in place.

"You're awake," she says, voice careful. Measured.

Percy tries to speak. His tongue is thick and useless in his mouth. His lips barely part before exhaustion drags him back under—

"Tell me," she murmurs, her voice slicing through the fog just before he goes under completely, "what's going to happen at the summer solstice?"

Solstice?

Percy frowns. The word snags on something, like a hook catching on the edge of his mind. It's familiar.

But he’s too slow, too heavy. The thought slips through his fingers, dissolving like foam on the tide—

"Solstice," he rasps, barely there.

Before he can ask—before he can even think—

Darkness swallows him whole.

- - -

Percy wakes to warmth.

Sunlight presses against his skin, gentle and golden, but it doesn’t feel right.

The air is too light. Too fresh. It smells of earth and grass and strawberries—not the salt of the sea, not the thick smog of the city. Not rain, not blood, not her.

Percy blinks. He’s outside. Not in a hospital. Not in the wreckage of a car. Not dead.

A deck chair beneath him. A blanket draped over his shoulders like someone thought he needed comfort. A porch stretching endlessly in either direction.

Beyond it—a world that doesn’t hurt.

Rolling green hills. An open blue sky. A breeze that carries the sound of laughter, distant and weightless.

It’s beautiful. Stupidly, cruelly beautiful.

It’s wrong.

How could such beauty exist when she doesn’t?

When the last thing she saw was darkness, when her voice was swallowed by the storm, when her hands were torn from him like they were never meant to hold on at all?

The sun still rises. The wind still moves. Laughter still carries through the air, effortless, untouched.

How could the world be so full of life when hers is gone?

Percy chokes on his own breath. His ribs slam against his lungs, struggling to expand, to take in air that won’t come.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

A sound startles him—a chair creaking.

Percy turns his head, and—

Grover.

He’s slumped beside him, looking like absolute hell. His curls are tangled with bits of leaves and dirt. His eyes are shadowed, exhaustion clinging to his face like something permanent. He’s wearing blue jeans, Converse, and a bright orange T-shirt.

Just Grover. No hooves. No fur. Just him.

For half a second, Percy can almost believe it. That it was a dream. That they’re still on vacation, that his mom is just inside, humming to herself, flipping through a book, waiting for them to come back.

That any of this is fixable.

Then Grover meets his gaze, and something inside Percy locks up.

Grover swallows. Looks down. His fingers tighten around something in his hands, white-knuckled, like he doesn’t want to be holding it at all.

Then, wordlessly, he holds it out.

Percy doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows.

The horn.

The Minotaur’s horn. Jagged, heavy, real.

Percy’s stomach twists violently.

Because this means it wasn’t a dream. It was never a dream.

It means that his mother—

No.

His jaw locks. His hands curl into fists, nails pressing into his palms like he can carve reality into something else, something bearable.

But the horn sits there in Grover’s shaking grip, as solid as the ground beneath them. As immovable as the weight in Percy’s chest.

He reaches out.

The horn is rough in his hands, solid, cold. A weapon. A trophy. A reminder. His fingers curl around it, grip tightening until his knuckles ache.

“Where are we?” His voice scrapes past his throat, raw, barely there.

Grover shifts, rubbing his face. “Camp Half-Blood.” His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours. Maybe days. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word barely registers.

Nothing about this is safe.

Percy swallows. “My mom—”

Grover flinches.

The reaction is small, but Percy sees it. Feels it. Like the ground just shifted beneath him, like something inside him is caving in before he can brace for the impact.

Percy’s grip on the horn tightens until his knuckles ache. “Tell me she’s okay.”

Silence.

Grover looks down. His hands clench around the fabric of his pants. “I—” His voice breaks. He tries again. “I’m sorry.”

The words barely process.

Percy’s chest feels hollow.

The horn digs into his skin, the edges pressing sharp, grounding him in a reality he doesn’t want.

Grover sniffles. “I'm so sorry, Percy. I am so, so sorry.”

Percy wants to scream.

She’s gone.

She’s really gone.

He’s an orphan.

The word doesn’t feel real, doesn’t settle. But the only place left for him—

Gabe—

His body physically recoils at the thought. Oh god, no. He would run first. Kill himself. Anything but going back to that.

From far away, Percy can feel his mouth moving, talking to Grover. Can hear the words being said.

“It wasn't your fault.”

Grover's face crumples. “But it was, Percy. I was supposed to keep you safe.”

Percy snorts, sharp and humorless. “In what world is that your job? No one would expect that of you.”

Grover scrubs his hands over his face. “Percy, I'm a satyr. It was quite literally my job to get you here safe, and by proxy, to protect your mother. I failed you.”

Percy looks at him then, really looks at him, and sees the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the grief weighing him down like a physical thing.

"You got me here," Percy says, his voice steadier than he feels. "What else were you supposed to do? Fight a monster ten times your size with your bare hands?"

Grover flinches, but Percy doesn’t stop. “You did your job.”

Grover looks unconvinced. “Percy…”

"I'm serious." Percy’s grip on the horn tightens. “You saved me. If anyone should have done more, it was me.”

It was Percy who should have moved when his mom told him to.

He stood there. Stupid. Frozen. Useless.

A coward with a fucked-up brain that cost his mom her life.

His body had shut down instead of doing the only thing that mattered. Instead of saving her. Instead of fighting back when it actually counted.

And now?

Now he was here, alive, with her sacrifice sitting like a weight on his chest, pressing the air from his lungs, curling around his ribs like something rotten.

She had died for him.

It should have been him.

His stomach twists, nausea curling up his throat.

“That’s not true!” Grover’s voice is fierce now, raw. He leans forward, eyes red-rimmed but determined. “Percy, you killed a Minotaur. Do you get that? A full-grown, legendary monster. And you did it without a weapon or any training. You fought harder than anyone could’ve expected.”

Percy lets out a hollow laugh, sharp and bitter. “And what did it change?” He looks down at his hands, at the blood still crusted under his nails. “She still died. I still lost.”

Grover watches him for a long time, searching his face, like he knows there’s something Percy isn’t saying. And Percy knows he’s not a good liar. He’s never been.

But Grover doesn’t push—maybe because he’s too exhausted to argue, or maybe because he knows Percy won’t listen.

And the worst thing is? Percy and his mom had been so close to a better life.

He was finally going to tell her. About Gabe. About the way the apartment never really felt like home. About how tired he was of pretending. Of swallowing back the things that hurt, of forcing himself to believe that surviving was the same as living.

But the moment never came.

Now it never would.

Now there was nothing left to say.

Now all that was left of her was the ghost of a conversation that would never happen.

Grover stands, rubbing a hand over his face. “Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting.”

Percy exhales slowly, pressing the grief deeper, burying it under exhaustion and the weight in his chest. Then he rises shakily and follows.

- - -

The wooden planks creak under Percy’s unsteady steps as he and Grover move along the wraparound porch. Every step is a battle. His legs feel like lead, his steps are unsteady, and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. The Minotaur horn, heavy and jagged, drags at his arm, its weight biting into his grip.

"You sure you don’t want me to carry that?" Grover asks, eyeing the way Percy’s arm trembles.

Percy tightens his hold. “I’ve got it.”

The weight of the horn digs into his palms, sending sharp, burning aches up his arms. His muscles scream, his body protests, but he doesn’t loosen his hold.

Let it hurt.

Let it break him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t get to breathe, to move, to walk away when she never had the chance. So if his arms shake, if his body strains under the weight, if every step burns—good.

The porch curves, opening up to a view that steals his breath.

Rolling green hills stretch in every direction, dotted with marble-white buildings that gleam under the sun. In the valley below, a lake shimmers, its surface broken by the ripples of kids in canoes. There’s an amphitheater, an open-air pavilion, a circular arena that looks straight out of some ancient battlefield. Except none of it looks ancient. The columns are pristine, the structures sturdy and new, as if Olympus itself had just set them down yesterday.

There are kids everywhere. All of them wear bright orange T-shirts like Grover’s, marked with a logo Percy can’t quite make out. Some are running drills with bows and arrows, some sparring with swords in the arena. Others ride horses—no, wait—some of those horses have wings… Okay. A group plays volleyball near the cabins, laughing like this is all just… normal.

Percy sways slightly. His head spins. This isn’t normal.

At the end of the porch, three people are around a card table.

One of them is the girl from before—the one who’d fed him that weird pudding. She leans against the railing, her sharp eyes flicking toward him. Watching. Studying.

Across from her, two men sit at the table.

The one facing Percy makes his skin crawl. He’s got a bloated red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so dark it’s almost purple. The Hawaiian shirt doesn’t help. The sight of him drags Percy back to memories of stale beer and cigarette smoke, of greasy poker tables and Gabe’s heavy, impatient sighs. The man has a can in front of him—diet coke—but Percy would bet anything that this man was no stranger to alcohol.

His fingers clench involuntarily around the Minotaur horn.

"That’s Mr. D," Grover mutters, like he can sense the tension radiating off him. “Camp director. Be polite.”

Percy swallows hard, forcing himself to nod.

Grover gestures to the girl. “That’s Annabeth Chase. She’s just a camper, but she’s been here longer than almost anybody.”

Then he points to the man with his back to them. At first, all Percy sees is the wheelchair. Then the tweed jacket. The thinning brown hair. The scraggly beard. His stomach drops.

"You already know Chiron."

Mr. Brunner.

Percy’s breath hitches.

He's even more convinced that's he's dreaming or that his mind has finally snapped. Because why the fuck would his old Latin teacher, of all people, be here?

Percy hadn’t exactly left Yancy Academy on the best terms. And Mr. Brunner—Chiron—whatever his name actually was—hadn’t stopped him from getting kicked out. Hadn’t defended him. He’d just let Percy go.

Now here he is. Sitting at a card table like nothing had happened.

None of this makes any sense.

A thousand questions pile up in Percy’s throat, but they stick there, tangled with something sharp and uncertain.

Does he even want to hear the answers? Would they change anything?

Percy sways again. The weight of the horn, of everything, presses down on him.

Mr. Brunner Chiron turns, and the moment his eyes meet Percy’s, there’s no mistaking the emotions in them. Relief, yes—but also regret.

“Ah, Percy,” he says warmly, though there’s a deep sadness under his voice. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

Percy shifts under his gaze. He doesn’t know what to say. The last time they saw each other, Percy had felt abandoned, like even the one teacher who had ever believed in him had given up. Now, Chiron looks at him like he’s sorry for something—something bigger than just Yancy.

Percy’s grip tightens on the Minotaur horn. He pushes the thought away.

Chiron gestures to an empty chair to the right of the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. Percy hesitates, then lowers himself into it, trying not to groan at how much his body protests the movement.

The man beside him—Mr. D—glances over with red-rimmed eyes and sighs so deeply it seems to drain the air from the porch.

“Oh, I suppose I must say it.” His voice is flat, completely uninterested. “Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.” He flicks his wrist like he’s shooing Percy away. “There. Now, don’t expect me to be glad to see you.”

Percy blinks. “Uh, thanks.”

He shifts a little farther away.

It’s stupid. He knows this isn’t Gabe. Gabe wouldn’t be caught dead in a leopard-print Hawaiian shirt. But something about Mr. D—the dismissiveness, the lazy condescension, the way his indifference wraps around the air like smoke—that makes Percy’s skin prickle, his stomach coil tight. His instincts scream, a warning siren buried deep in his bones.

The world tilts at the edges. His fingers curl around the chair, white-knuckled. Not here. Not now.

Mr. D is watching him. Not in the casual, irritated way Percy expects. No, he’s squinting at him in a way that makes Percy distinctly uncomfortable. Taking in the way Percy sits rigid, shoulders creeping upward like he’s bracing for a blow. The way his hands tremble, knotted with too much force, as if letting go would mean unraveling completely. Mr. D’s gaze lingers, flicking from Percy’s fingers to his face, something unreadable passing through his expression. Mr. D’s jaw tenses.

“Hmph.” Mr. D says, swirling the diet coke can in his hand. “You’re wound tighter than a satyr in a trap.” His voice is still bored, but there’s something else underneath. Something sharp, knowing. “Don’t know what’s got you all worked up, but do me a favor and don’t go having a breakdown on my porch, would you? I’m not in the mood.”

Percy goes rigid. His pulse hammers against his ribs, a frantic, caged thing.

"I’m fine,” he says flatly, but the words feel thin, weightless. A paper shield against a flood.

Mr. D tilts his head, considering him. “Oh, obviously.”

Percy doesn’t answer. He stares past him, past all of it, forcing himself to focus on anything else. The rise and fall of voices from the volleyball court. The endless shimmer of the lake. The wind carrying the scent of crushed strawberries, too sweet, too sharp.

The world is steady. The world is still. But Percy isn’t.

He’s unraveling, fraying at the edges, threads pulled too tight for too long. And he knows—one wrong word, one wrong look, and it will all snap.

Mr. D leans forward, just barely. One hand drifts to the table, fingers tapping absently, but there’s a tension there, a quiet readiness. His expression is a mask of boredom, but the set of his shoulders betrays him. He exhales through his nose, slow and measured.

“Well, whatever. Not my problem.” He lifts his can, then hesitates, just for a beat. “Not yet, anyway.” The last words are muttered, almost swallowed by the lazy breeze.

Percy glances at him warily, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine, but Mr. D is already tipping back his drink, casual as ever.

“Just remember, kid,” he says, wiping his mouth. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but it’s a lot harder to fool a god.”

Percy’s fingers twitch against the arm of his chair. Mr. D’s words buzz in his head, a little too sharp, a little too pointed. He should let it go. He wants to let it go. But his mouth moves before he can stop it.

“What do you mean by that?”

Mr. D raises an eyebrow, swirling his Diet Coke. “What, the lying part? Or the god part?”

Percy stiffens. A flicker of something—irritation, unease—sparks in his chest. “The—” He hesitates. “The second one.”

Mr. D smirks. “Oh, that.” He waves a hand like it’s barely worth mentioning. “Only what I said, boy. Gods tend to notice things. More than you’d think. And when it comes to mortals—especially ones like you—it’s real obvious when someone’s head is a mess.”

Percy’s throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mm.” Mr. D takes a long sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact.

Chiron shifts in his seat, his brow creasing. “Mr. D—”

“Oh, I’m not saying anything.” Mr. D leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out lazily. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I certainly don’t care enough to pry.” His voice is thick with exaggerated boredom, but his eyes tell a different story. Something dark lingers there, something sharp and assessing, and it makes Percy’s stomach twist.

Percy clenches his jaw. Not here. Not now.

He forces a scoff, though it comes out unsteady. “Right. Because you’re a god.”

“Finally, he catches on.” Mr. D claps his hands together with mock enthusiasm. “And here I thought this one was supposed to be bright.”

Percy scowls, but his pulse is hammering. The air feels too thick. He looks to Chiron, grasping for some kind of explanation, some anchor to this terrible reality.

Chiron sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already knows how this is going to go. “Percy, I understand this is a lot, but yes—this is Mr. Dionysus. God of wine, theatre, and—” He casts a glance at Mr. D, who looks supremely uninterested. “Other things.”

Percy’s mouth goes dry. “Nope.” He shakes his head. “No way.”

Mr. D just raises an eyebrow. “I’d love to tell you I care whether you believe me, but I don’t. So.” He gestures vaguely. “Get over it.”

Percy stares at him. At his Hawaiian shirt. At his diet coke. At his bored, completely unimpressed vibe.

This guy? A god?

Percy wants to laugh. Or maybe scream. He’s not sure which.

Mr. D watches him struggle with it for a moment, then smirks. “You’ll catch up soon enough, boy.”

Percy grits his teeth. He doesn’t like the way he says that. Like he knows something Percy doesn’t.

But before he can press further, Chiron mercifully clears his throat. “Annabeth?”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

The girl leaning against the railing straightens and steps forward.

Chiron gestures between them. “This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don’t you go check on Percy’s bunk? We’ll be putting him in cabin eleven for now.”

“Sure, Chiron.”

Annabeth’s eyes flick over Percy, sharp and assessing. The braids in her dark hair catch the sunlight as she tilts her head slightly. She doesn’t look impressed. She’s probably his age, maybe a couple of inches taller, but she carries herself like she’s been training for years. The kind of confidence that says she wouldn’t hesitate to take him down if she needed to.

Her gaze drops to the Minotaur horn in Percy’s lap, then back up to his face.

Percy braces himself. A comment about how he beat the Minotaur? Condolences about his mom? He isn’t sure which he dreads more.

Instead, Annabeth just says, “You drool when you sleep.”

Percy blinks.

Huh. That… was not what he expected.

Alrighty then.

- - -

Chiron doesn’t waste time. Once Annabeth leaves, he launches into an explanation that makes Percy’s head spin.

The Greek gods? Real. Not just myths, not long gone—they never left. They’re still around, still powerful, still ruling over the world from Mount Olympus, which, by the way, is apparently floating above the Empire State Building. Because sure. That makes as much sense as anything else right now.

Percy tries to wrap his head around it. It should be ridiculous. Should be impossible. But it isn’t, is it? Not after the Minotaur. Not after Nancy Bobofit went flying into a fountain without him touching her. Not after the flashes of nonhuman figures that have followed him his whole life, things he could never explain.

Apparently, he isn’t crazy. Cool, that's fun.

And then comes the part that really makes his stomach drop.

His dad? Apparently alive and well. Also a literal Greek god. Not dead, not missing—just not there. And, according to Chiron, likely aware of him this whole time.

Percy almost laughs. It’s not funny. It’s the kind of laugh that claws its way up your throat when the universe slaps you in the face and expects you to be okay with it.

He’s wondered about his father his whole life. Spent hours as a kid imagining him—someone strong, kind, someone who had a reason for staying away. Someone who, in the moments Percy needed saving the most, would finally show up.

Kick the door down.

Shove Gabe off him.

Pull Percy into a hug, hold him together while he fell apart.

But no one ever came.

And now? Now he finds out that his father is an actual god. A supernatural being with enough power to shake the world—someone who knew about him, maybe even watched from a distance, and still never showed up.

Did he know what was happening to Percy? Did he look at Gabe and shrug? Or was Percy just never worth looking at closely enough to see?

His fingers tighten around the Minotaur horn until it cuts into his palm. His vision blurs.

Mr. D is still studying him like he’s some fascinating little bug that someone stepped on—head tilted, fingers drumming idly against the arm of his chair. His expression is bored, detached, but his eyes linger too long, sharp in a way that makes Percy’s skin crawl. Like he’s waiting for something.

The horn is rough and jagged in his hands. He wants to lift it, to drive it down and hear the table crack beneath it—needs to. Just once, he wants something else to break instead of him. He wants to see the world split open, to hear the sound of destruction that isn’t inside his own head. Maybe then, the pressure in his chest would finally give, maybe then the storm would quiet, maybe then—

“You’re wound too tight, kid,” Mr. D says, voice lazy, but there’s an edge beneath it, something almost wary. He takes a sip of his Diet Coke, watching Percy over the rim. “You should breathe before you pass out. Or combust. Either way, I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.”

Percy doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is closed up, his whole body locked in place like if he moves, even an inch, he’ll snap.

Chiron is still talking. Something about being a centaur, something about camp rules, something about dinner. Percy barely hears him. His thoughts are a tangled mess, a storm with nowhere to go.

He wants to scream. Instead, he just sits there, jaw clenched, fingers white-knuckled around his only proof that any of this is real.

The sun dips lower over Camp Half-Blood, and Percy waits for the world to make sense again.

It doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Percy isn’t sure what to do with himself.

The moment he and Chiron (who is apparently a fucking horse-man, because of course he is) step off the porch, heads start turning. Conversations falter, activities stall—kids in orange shirts freeze mid-motion just to gawk at him. Some whisper, eyes darting between him and each other like he’s some kind of zoo exhibit. A few aren’t subtle at all, pointing right at him.

At the archery range, campers lower their bows. Older kids on their way to the stables shoot him approving looks. A group of younger ones in the distance are—oh, god (gods?)—recreating his fight with the Minotaur. One clutches their eye and topples over in slow motion while another waves a stick overhead like a trophy.

Percy feels like he’s been dropped into some surreal nightmare.

They shouldn’t be proud.

He didn’t do anything right.

The Minotaur killed his mom because he froze. Because he stood there like a stupid, helpless kid, waiting for someone to swoop in and fix things. But nobody did. And now…

Now she’s gone.

He keeps walking, following Chiron, jaw clenched, pulse hammering against his ribs. The weight of their stares sticks to his skin like something he can’t shake off, pressing in on him, suffocating. He forces his breathing to stay steady.

Not now. Don’t think about it now.

Beside him, Chiron either doesn’t notice his spiraling or is too used to Percy constantly having some existential crisis or another (very possible) to comment. Instead, he launches straight into the tour, like Percy’s actually going to be here long enough for it to matter. They pass a massive forest first. “You’ll want to be careful near the tree line,” Chiron says. “The woods are stocked with monsters. Excellent for combat training, but perhaps not the best place for a casual stroll.”

Percy feels faint. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

Chiron nods, completely serious. “Of course, they’re also integral to our games of capture the flag.”

Percy stops walking. “...What?”

But Chiron has already moved on. Percy glares at his back and trudges after him.

Percy is so tired.

It’s not just exhaustion—it’s bone-deep, marrow-heavy, sinking into every muscle, weighing down his limbs. His ribs throb from where the Minotaur tossed him like a rag doll. His arms burn, his knuckles are scraped raw, and his insides burn with every step. He's much better than he realistically should be at this point (something about magical pudding?), but he's nowhere near feeling okay.

What is his life now?

Two days ago, he was just a kid with bad grades and an even worse home life. Now he’s—what? A half-blood? A demigod? A cosmic joke?

It’s like the world split open beneath him, swallowed everything he knew, and spat him back out somewhere unrecognizable. The ground under his feet is the same, the sky above him hasn’t changed, but everything else—everything else—is gone.

His mother.

His life.

The person he was before all of this.

Maybe that Percy is dead too. Maybe he died on that hill, just like she did, and whatever’s left is just a ghost, haunting a life that no longer belongs to him.

They pass the archery range (Percy is not going near that), the lake (which actually looks kind of nice if he ever gets a second to breathe), the armory (definitely not a normal summer camp thing), and the stables, where campers tend to their—wait.

Percy squints.

Are those horses with wings?

Because sure. Of course that’s a thing.

Before Percy can fully process the fact that Pegasi are apparently real, a figure steps into his path, blocking his way forward.

A girl with curly hair—broad-shouldered and at least a few inches taller than him—glares down with her arms crossed. Her camp shirt is cut at the sleeves, showing off muscular arms, and her stance is aggressive, like she’s daring him to start something.

Percy barely has time to register her before she sneers. Oh, great. Another person who hates him on sight. Why not.

“So. You’re the big deal, huh?”

Percy blinks. “Uh—”

“I mean, really?” she cuts him off, voice dripping with contempt. “One lucky shot against the Minotaur, and now everyone’s acting like you’re the next Achilles. I don’t see what’s so special.”

Percy feels the familiar tightness in his chest. Her words hit harder than they should. He wants to curl up and freeze, to make himself an easy target. But... he’s so tired of it. Tired of running, tired of shrinking back. He genuinely doesn’t have the energy for this right now.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the fact that his entire life just imploded, that nothing has made sense since he watched his mom disappear in a flash of golden light. Maybe it’s the weight pressing down on his chest, so much heavier than some girl’s bad attitude.

Either way, he doesn’t react the way she clearly wants him to.

“Clarisse,” Chiron warns, tone patient but firm. “Be nice.” Clarisse huffs, rolling her shoulders like she’s physically shaking off the command. “Whatever. Let’s see if he’s actually worth all the hype.”

Before Percy can react, she’s stepping in close, practically nose to nose. “What do you say, newbie? Let’s go a few rounds. Bet you won’t last ten seconds.”

Percy feels the automatic freeze response creep up his spine—the way his limbs go numb, the way every instinct screams at him to just shut down and take it. She's way too close for comfort here. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Not because he’s brave, but because he’s too damn tired to care.

He just fought a literal monster. He lost his mom. He’s spent years surviving so much worse than some camp bully. His body aches, his brain is fried with all the recent revelations, and if she wants him to play along, she’s going to be disappointed.

He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, and meets her gaze. “Not interested,” he says flatly. His voice is quiet, but it doesn’t shake.

Clarisse raises an eyebrow. “No? Scared?”

“Exhausted,” Percy corrects flatly. “And bored.”

Clarisse’s expression darkens, and for a second, Percy thinks she might actually take a swing at him.

Good. Maybe then, something would finally hurt as much as the rest of him.

But Chiron clears his throat, a quiet warning. “Clarisse,” he says, voice even, but there’s a weight to it now. “That’s enough.”

Clarisse’s fists tighten. She holds Percy's gaze, sizing him up like she’s debating whether or not to ignore Chiron entirely. Then, finally, with a low growl of frustration, she turns on her heel and storms away.

Percy watches her go, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

Still standing. Still breathing. Weird.

He should feel like he won something.

He doesn’t.

Percy lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and suddenly, the world tilts. Just a fraction. The edges of his vision fuzz, the heat pressing in too heavy, too thick. He locks his knees to keep himself upright.

“What was that about?” His voice comes out more winded than he’d like.

Chiron exhales, his expression somewhere between exasperation and concern. “Clarisse is a daughter of Ares, god of war. She can be… rather hot-headed.”

Percy huffs, resisting the urge to sway. He really needs to sit down, like, 10 minutes ago. “Yeah. No kidding.”

“She takes great pride in battle,” Chiron continues, as if Percy hadn’t spoken. “Your encounter with the Minotaur earned you a reputation here. Some see that as impressive.” He gives Percy a knowing look. “Others see it as a challenge.”

Percy swallows against the nausea creeping up his throat. His encounter with the Minotaur. Like it was some kind of feat, like he’d done something remarkable.

Like he hadn’t just barely survived. Like his mom wasn’t—

The ground sways. Percy clenches his fists, fingernails biting into his palms, trying to ground himself. He forces a smirk, shaky at the edges. "Fantastic. Do I get a welcome basket or just more death threats?”

Chiron just chuckles, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Come along, Percy. Let’s finish the tour.”

- - -

They eventually arrive at a massive U-shaped structure—twelve cabins, lined in neat rows. Some plain, some elaborate, all arranged around a central courtyard.

“This,” Chiron says, “is where you’ll be staying.” He explains the setup—each cabin belongs to a different god and their kids, one for each of the twelve Olympians.

Percy barely hears him. His gaze sticks to the cabins, scanning the names, the symbols above the doors.

One of them belongs to his father. One of these all-powerful, immortal beings. (Who should have known, should have saved him, maybe he isn’t worth saving—)

The thought makes his stomach churn. His father, the all-powerful, all-knowing god, has a place here. A space meant for his children, a home. But Percy doesn’t get to go there.

It shouldn’t bother him—he doesn’t even want to be here, let alone claim some divine birthright—but the rejection is like a splinter under his skin. Lodged deep. Impossible to ignore.

Cabin Eleven looms ahead, loud and chaotic, packed with Hermes’ kids, plus the kids who—if Percy’s understanding things right—don’t belong anywhere else. A place for the unclaimed. The unwanted.

Something in his chest twists.

Fitting.

A familiar figure waits at the door—Annabeth. She’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching them approach with an unreadable expression. Not unkind, but sharp, assessing, like she’s trying to fit him into a puzzle she’s already half-solved.

“So,” she addresses Chiron, pushing off the doorframe, “this is really him?”

What a greeting. Percy is really feeling the love here.

Chiron gives her a look. “Annabeth.”

She huffs in frustration, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking something off, eyes hard. “I just don’t get it.”

Percy exhales slowly. He doesn’t have the energy for this. His body still aches, his head is pounding, and there’s an awful, hollow feeling in his chest that he refuses to name. He’s too tired to pick a fight, but too stubborn to shrink under her scrutiny.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “Me neither.”

Annabeth studies him for a second longer, brow creasing. She was expecting something else. Maybe a show of bravado, maybe insecurity.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” she says, but there’s less bite to it now. She says it like she's genuinely intrigued and not intentionally being mean, but man, Percy could really do without this right now.

Percy shrugs. “Figuring that out all on your own, or did someone help?”

The corner of her mouth twitches—so quick he almost misses it. “Funny,” she mutters, tilting her head. “You’ll need more than that to survive here.”

He doesn’t answer. Yeah, he knows. He’s been surviving things way worse than this for years. And he’s somehow still here (despite his best efforts).

Annabeth watches him another second, then sighs and turns to Chiron. “I can take it from here.” She sounds exasperated by Percy already, which might be a new high score for him.

Chiron smiles warily, glancing between the two of them. “Very well. Be nice, Annabeth.”

Annabeth snorts. “No promises.”

Chiron shakes his head fondly before trotting off, leaving Percy alone with Annabeth. Percy eyes her warily as Chiron abandons him, leaving them alone in front of the cabin. He still doesn’t know what to make of her.

She studies him for a beat, eyes scrutinizing, then tilts her head. “You look better.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

“I mean, you’re still a mess,” she clarifies, like that wasn’t obvious. “But at least you don’t look like you’re about to drop dead anymore.”

“Wow,” Percy deadpans. “Flattery. I feel so welcome.”

She just rolls her eyes, his statement not even worthy of a response. They lapse into silence. Percy shifts uncomfortably, glancing past her to the crowded interior of Cabin Eleven. He’s not sure what’s waiting for him in there, but he’s not eager to find out.

Annabeth must notice his hesitation, because she sighs and steps off the porch, closer to him. “Look, it’s not that bad,” she says, nodding toward the cabin. “You’ll get used to it.”

Percy frowns. “Did you have to stay here? How long were you…?”

“A while,” she admits, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Before I moved to Athena’s cabin.”

Percy’s grip tightens around the Minotaur horn. “So… what, I just wait around in there until my deadbeat dad claims me?”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow. “You will get claimed. Eventually.”

He scoffs. “Right. Sure.”

She studies him again, more serious now. “You don’t think he will.”

Percy shrugs, looking away. “Guess I don’t really see why he’d start caring now.”

Annabeth doesn’t respond right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer. “Maybe he already does.”

Percy huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Something flickers across Annabeth’s face, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she just says, “You’re here now. That counts for something.”

Percy isn’t sure if he believes that. But… he appreciates that she’s trying.

She gives him an appraising look, tilting her head slightly. “Besides. You somehow survived your first tour. That has to count for something.”

“Barely,” Percy mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m pretty sure Clarisse was about to murder me.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. That’s Clarisse. She thinks punching things is the best way to say hello.” She jerks her head toward the cabin. “Come on, Jackson. Time to meet the welcoming committee.”

Percy exhales and follows, bracing himself.

For what, he doesn’t know. But he already hates it.

- - -

Cabin Eleven is packed. Bunk beds line the walls, covered in mismatched blankets and half-unzipped duffel bags. Campers sprawl across the floor, leaning against bedposts or playing cards on overturned crates. The whole place feels like a train station—loud, messy, crowded, and constantly moving.

Percy doesn’t like it.

There are too many people and not enough exits, too many flickering glances sizing him up before returning to their games. His grip tightens around the Minotaur horn, jaw tensing. He’s out of place, and he knows it.

“Busy,” he mutters.

Annabeth shrugs. “It’s Hermes’ cabin. He takes in anyone without a known godly parent. They have to sleep somewhere.”

Percy catches the word have to. Not get to.

The sense of being unwanted, of being stuffed somewhere out of necessity rather than belonging, sits uncomfortably in his chest.

Then one of the older campers emerges from the chaos, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

Luke Castellan is tall, tanned, and effortlessly confident. He carries himself like someone who belongs anywhere, who’s never had to second-guess his place in a room. When he reaches them, he offers a hand, his easy grin putting no pressure behind it.

"Hey," Luke says, eyes kind. "You must be Percy."

Percy hesitates. He’s so tired. He hates meeting new people, hates the small talk, the weighing of intentions. A familiar voice in the back of his head—one that sounds too much like Gabe—whispers that he can’t trust anyone.

But Luke doesn’t waver. He just waits, hand still outstretched, like it’s no big deal if Percy doesn’t take it.

Slowly, Percy reaches out. The shake is brief, but Luke’s grip is firm, steady. No rush. No expectation.

"Welcome to Cabin Eleven," Luke says, his voice warm but not patronizing.

Percy pulls his hand back, muttering, “Yeah. Thanks.”

Luke doesn’t seem put off by his lack of enthusiasm. If anything, his gaze sharpens slightly, like he’s assessing, but not in a way that makes Percy bristle. More curious than judgmental.

"You did well against the Minotaur," Luke says. “Not a lot of people could’ve pulled that off.”

Percy forces his face to remain neutral. He's always been uncomfortable with praise, having been shown in the past that he can't trust it. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

Luke nods like he understands, not pushing the subject. "Still, it's impressive."

Percy doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But Luke doesn’t push. Instead, he gestures around the cabin. “You’ll get used to it. It’s crowded, yeah, but we make it work. Hermes is the god of travelers, so technically, we’re all just passing through.”

Percy’s grip on the Minotaur horn tightens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Luke’s tone is light, but not dismissive. There’s something in his voice that makes it seem almost okay—like this whole situation isn’t as overwhelming as Percy feels it is. And Percy doesn't know what to do with that feeling.

Annabeth watches the exchange from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But there’s something in the way she stands—at ease, familiar, like she belongs here as much as Luke does.

Percy isn’t sure what to make of it. He’s only seen glimpses of her so far—sharp remarks, knowing smirks, a keen gaze that never seems to miss anything—but now, seeing her like this, he realizes she isn’t just comfortable here. She’s comfortable with Luke.

She steps forward, rolling her eyes. “You’re laying it on thick,” she tells Luke.

Luke grins at her. “Can’t have the new kid bolting first chance he gets.”

“I was thinking about it,” Percy mutters.

Annabeth smirks. “You wouldn’t make it past the strawberry fields.”

Percy scowls. “I fought a Minotaur.”

“Yeah, barely.”

Luke chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s been giving new campers a hard time since our first year here.”

Annabeth scoffs. “Oh, please. I wasn't nearly as bad as you.”

Percy blinks. They came here together. They haven’t said it outright, but it’s clear in the way they talk, the ease between them.

Luke leans back against a bunk, arms crossed. “You should’ve seen her when we first got here,” he tells Percy conspiratorially. “Scrawny little thing, ran around demanding to be in everybody’s business, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Annabeth glares at him, cheeks tinted pink. “I was seven.”

Luke shrugs. “And terrifying.”

Percy snorts before he can stop himself. The image of a tiny, bossy Annabeth storming around camp, barking orders, is way too easy to picture.

Annabeth turns her glare on him. “Oh, shut up.”

Percy holds up his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say anything.”

She narrows her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement.

Luke watches the exchange, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll be fine, Percy,” he says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Just try to keep up.”

Percy exhales, glancing around again. The mess, the noise, the sheer number of people—it still makes his skin crawl. He still feels like he doesn’t belong.

Percy shouldn’t feel safe here. He doesn’t want to trust any of this.

But for the first time since he woke up, the tension in his shoulders eases. Just a little. The thin thread Percy has been teetering on feels a little more solid. 

Luke is steady. Annabeth is familiar.

And for the first time all day, Percy doesn’t feel completely untethered.

Chapter Text

Cabin Eleven buzzes around them, a constant stream of movement and noise.

Percy tries to tune it out, focus on anything but the sheer volume of everything—campers chatting, dice rolling, the occasional burst of laughter. He's sitting on his new bunk, having been instructed by Luke to unpack and get comfortable. Considering Percy has nothing on him but the Minotaur horn and a boatload of trauma, it doesn’t take Percy long. (Yeah, he really needs to hunt down some clothes and stuff.)

The weight of Luke’s words are still lingering in his chest, that casual ‘you’ll be fine’ playing on repeat in his mind.

He’s still not sure he believes it.

The air in the cabin feels thick, the warmth of too many bodies pressed into too small a space curling around Percy like a smothering blanket. The laughter rises again, another burst of joy that feels like a language he can’t speak.

Percy flexes his fingers against his knee, grounding himself in the pressure. His whole body itches, the urge to move, to claw at his own skin, to do something just to feel real again, but he stays put.

He’s fine.

He’s totally fine.

Even if the shadows in the corners don’t seem to agree.

Before he can dwell on it too much, two figures weave through the chaos, beelining straight for them.

“Percy Jackson,” one of them says, grinning wide.

“Man of the hour,” the other adds, clapping his hands together.

The two boys look nearly identical—light brown hair, mischievous grins, the same sharp gleam in their eyes. Twins, or close enough that it doesn’t really matter. Percy doesn’t get the chance to sort out which one is which before Luke gestures toward them.

“Travis and Connor Stoll,” Luke says, sounding resigned. “Sons of Hermes and camp troublemakers.”

Travis—maybe Connor—clutches his chest in mock offense. “Rude.”

Connor—maybe Travis—nods sagely. “We prefer entrepreneurs.”

Annabeth huffs, arms crossed. “You prefer not getting caught.”

Travis (probably) winks. “Same thing.”

Percy doesn’t have the energy to follow whatever this dynamic is. He exhales through his nose, offering a halfhearted, “Hey.”

The Stolls are unfazed. They move with an ease that suggests they’ve welcomed new campers a hundred times, settling onto the bed on either side of him like they’ve known him forever.

“Dude,” Connor says, draping an arm over Percy’s shoulders. “Minotaur slayer? Instant legend. You gotta tell us how it went down.”

Percy stiffens.

He forces himself to stay still, to not react outwardly, but the contact sends a sharp, instinctive spike of tension through him. It’s fine. It’s fine. It's not like he's suddenly caged in on either side and being held down. It’s just a friendly arm around his shoulders. They don’t mean anything by it.

But he can’t help the way his stomach churns, the way his chest feels too tight, the way something deep in his brain starts to ring like an alarm.

He swallows hard, staring straight ahead, and clenches his jaw. Just breathe. Just hold still. Just don’t let it show.

Annabeth, distracted by something across the room, doesn’t notice.

Luke does.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his expression shifts. His eyes flick to Percy, reading him, and then to Connor’s arm. He takes it all in—Percy’s too-stiff posture, the way his knuckles are white as he grips his jeans like it's a lifeline, the way he doesn’t lean into the interaction like most people would.

Luke’s easygoing mask doesn’t slip, but his gaze sharpens just a fraction.

“Alright, alright,” he says, clapping a hand against his leg as he stands. “Let’s give Percy a break. First day’s always a lot. We should get some air.”

Percy doesn’t hesitate. He’s on his feet before he even realizes he’s moved, his breath coming a little too fast.

Annabeth glances over, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Luke tilts his head toward the door. “Outside.” He gives her a sharp look that Percy doesn’t quite understand but Annabeth apparently does, because she doesn’t argue.

Travis pouts. “Aw, come on, we were just getting to know each other.”

Connor—thankfully—pulls his arm back. “Fine, fine. We’ll interrogate him later.”

Percy exhales, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to be manageable. He doesn’t look at either of them as he follows Luke and Annabeth out the door.

- - -

The second they step into the evening air, Percy’s lungs expand properly for the first time in what feels like forever. The cabin’s warmth and noise are replaced by the cool quiet of the outdoors, the scent of pine and campfire smoke lingering in the breeze.

He crosses his arms and feels his heartbeat thudding in his chest. He's fine. He's totally fine.

Luke stops a few feet away, turning to face him. “You alright?”

Percy blinks. He wasn’t expecting the question.

“I’m good,” he says automatically.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Percy clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like people noticing things. He doesn’t like people looking at him like that. He shifts his weight, eyes darting toward the lake in the distance. “It’s just a lot.”

Luke studies him for a beat, then nods, like he gets it. “Yeah,” he says simply. “It is.”

Annabeth watches the exchange with mild interest, like she’s trying to figure something out but hasn’t quite cracked it yet.

Percy exhales, running a hand through his hair. A subject change feels prudent right about now. “So, what, you guys just live like that? Packed in like sardines?”

Annabeth shrugs. “Welcome to Hermes’ cabin.”

Luke smirks. “You get used to it.”

Percy isn’t so sure.

Luke rests his forearms on the porch railing and leans forward. He seems lost in thought, his eyes fixed on a marigold bush growing stubbornly by the stairs. "Anyway. Stolls are harmless. Annoying, but harmless.”

Percy doesn’t answer. He knows they didn’t mean anything by it. But knowing that doesn’t make his skin stop crawling.

Percy's panic is interrupted by a loud horn blasting through camp. He jumps, heart thudding in his chest as he glances around. Damn it, at this rate Percy is about to have a heart attack. Annabeth and Luke look unconcerned, which calms him down a bit.

Luke pushes off the porch railing, casual as ever. “Dinner time.”

Percy forces himself to take a step forward, his chest tight, breath uneven. He follows, but each step feels like he’s carrying more weight than he can handle. Each breath feels like a lie. Just keep walking. Don’t stop. Don’t think about it.

But the panic’s not gone. It’s just waiting. It’s always waiting.

- - -

Annabeth and Luke lead the way down the hill, and Percy forces himself to focus on the path, the way campers spill out of their cabins, all heading in the same direction.

“Dining pavilion’s up ahead,” Luke says, glancing back at him. “You’ll like it—best part of the day, if you ask me.”

Annabeth scoffs. “That’s because you think with your stomach.”

Luke grins easily. “And I’m never wrong.”

Percy watches them, still thrown by how easy they are with each other. Annabeth, who’s been nothing but sharp edges since he got here, is relaxed around Luke. Comfortable.

Percy is confused. He doesn’t know what it's like to trust someone like that. The thought makes him uncomfortable.

As they get closer, Percy is hit with the smell of food—roasting meat, fresh bread, something warm and spiced that makes his stomach ache with how long it’s been since he’s had a real meal.

His body is running on empty. He barely remembers eating anything since… since before.

They step into a wide clearing, where a massive, open-air pavilion sits on a hill overlooking the lake. Long stone tables stretch across the space, each one marked with a different emblem. Campers are already settling in, laughing and chatting like this is just another normal dinner.

Percy slows, taking it in. The sunset bathes the entire camp in pink and orange, reflecting off the lake in the distance. For a second, just a second, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. It smells delicious.

His stomach suddenly twists—not just with hunger, but with the sudden thought of Grover. Percy's best friend would absolutely lose his mind over this feast. He can already picture Grover piling his plate high, eyes wide with delight. The thought makes his chest ache. He wasn’t looking too hot the last time Percy saw him, wracked with guilt as he was.

Oh gods. Percy is the worst friend ever for forgetting about him until now. “Where’s Grover?” he asks, looking around.

Annabeth glances at him and looks away. “He's with Mr. D, last I heard. He probably got in trouble for failing his assignment.”

Percy frowns. “His assignment?”

Annabeth finally meets his eyes, her expression unreadable. “You.”

The words sit heavy in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with that. But before he can ask more, Luke nudges him toward a table.

“Eat first,” Luke says lightly. “Think later.”

The table is full of kids Percy vaguely recognizes from Cabin 11, and Percy’s attention is pulled in every direction as he takes a seat next to Luke. It’s a bit awkward, though. He’s not used to this kind of normalcy. Not used to the ease these people have with each other. Annabeth leaves to sit at another table– apparently they’re separated by godly parents.

The pavilion smells amazing—roasted meats, fresh bread, warm cheese, and sweet strawberries. Platters of food line the tables, and for a moment, Percy forgets how exhausted he is, how raw everything feels, how terrified he truly is. His stomach growls.

For a split second, he lets himself believe he might actually enjoy this.

But before he can dig in, everyone grabs their plates full of food and starts standing up.

Percy hesitates, confused, as campers move toward the central fire with their plates. He glances at Luke. “Uh—did I miss something?”

Luke nods toward the fire. “Offerings.”

Percy blinks. “Offerings?”

“To the gods.” He picks up his plate and gestures for Percy to follow.

Oh, right, thank you. Because that clears up so much.

As they get closer, Percy watches the others approach the fire, taking a portion of their meal and dropping it into the flames. Not scraps or leftovers, but real pieces of food. The ripest strawberry, the juiciest cut of meat, the warmest, most buttery roll.

Luke must catch the look on his face because he says, “The more you value the offering, the stronger the prayer.”

Percy watches as the fire hungrily consumes the food, smoke curling toward the sky. “You’re telling me the gods want burnt food?”

Luke laughs, but it doesn’t sound right. “It’s symbolic. The gods don’t need food, but it’s about respect, about connection.”

Percy watches a little kid from Cabin Nine step forward, lips moving in a whispered prayer, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He looks so earnest. So hopeful.

Percy doesn’t know what that feels like.

Next to him, Luke tosses a handful of food into the fire and says, “Hermes.” His voice is even, but his jaw is tight. His eyes flicker, like there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t.

Then he looks at Percy and offers him a small smile, nodding toward the golden flames.

Percy grips his plate. His heart pounds.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Was this all it took? Was this all he had to do, all those years growing up—burn food and whisper a name? Was the key to getting his father’s attention really just a sacrificed cookie away?

How stupid. How pathetic.

And if the gods did notice, then what? Their attention wasn’t protection. It wasn’t love.

It was a consolation prize.

Percy stares at the fire, the heat licking up toward him, the smoke curling into the night sky. Around him, campers murmur names of their divine parents, casting their offerings into the flames like it’s second nature. It should feel reverent. It should feel meaningful.

It just makes him sick.

Percy swallows hard. His fingers tighten around his plate. His father—whoever he is—has been out there this whole time. Watching. Ignoring. Never once stepping in when it actually mattered.

Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he had no idea what Percy went through; all those years. But he could have saved Percy. He had the power, had he cared enough to look into him. God, he could have spared Percy’s mom. From Gabe, from the minotaur, from the pain of even being Percy’s mom in the first place.

And now, Percy is supposed to thank him? Pray to him? Beg for his attention?

He glares at the food on his plate, then scrapes off a portion into the fire. The scent of smoke and charred meat fills his lungs as the flames consume his offering.

His hands clench into fists. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

But still, the words come, and they echo in his mind as he thinks them with a vehement heat.

‘Whoever you are, I hope you choke on it.’

The fire crackles, sparks flying up into the sky. The scent of the burning offering intensifies.

Percy waits. For a sign. For something.

Nothing happens.

Of course not.

He exhales sharply, shoving the rest of his plate into Luke’s hands. “I’m not hungry.”

Luke studies him for a second, then nods like he understands.

Percy doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel. But whatever it is, he’s pretty sure it isn’t peace.

- - -

Percy leaves after that. The smell of food turns his stomach. His hands curl into fists and his jaw aches from clenching it too hard. He barely mumbles an excuse to Luke before walking away.

“I just need some air,” he says.

Luke frowns slightly, like he wants to say something, but he just nods. “Alright. Just don’t get lost.”

Percy sees the look Luke sends Annabeth across the room. She’s watching closely, eyes sharp and searching.

Percy can’t find it in himself to care about their concern as he steps into the darkness, leaving laughter and light behind.

The camp feels too big and too empty all at once. The dark sky looms over him, the paths stretching out into nothing. Percy walks without a destination, letting his feet drag.

What is wrong with him? He was fine just a few minutes ago.

The trees shift in the breeze, but the sound is wrong. It doesn’t rustle like leaves; it whispers, low and insidious, curling into his ears like voices just out of reach. Percy doesn’t look. He knows if he looks, there’ll be nothing there. Or maybe there will be, and that’s worse.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching with an energy he doesn’t know what to do with. He wants to move, to run, to fight—but there’s nothing to fight, no enemy except the storm in his own head.

He squeezes his eyes shut, dragging in a breath that tastes like fire and ash. His nails dig into his palms, grounding him in the sharp bite of pain. He’s here. He’s at camp. This is real.

But it doesn’t feel real.

It feels like a dream, like he could wake up any second to the smell of cigarettes and stale beer, to Gabe’s voice in his ear, to a world where none of this ever happened.

His thoughts spiral, and he doesn’t fight it.

Gabe. His voice. His smell. Cigarettes thick in the air. The way he would grab Percy by the scruff of his shirt and yank him back like a dog on a leash. “You think you’re special, punk? You think you’re worth something?”

Percy’s mom.

Oh gods, his beautiful mom. If anyone deserved the world and more, it was her.

Instead, she got Percy.

And he’d ruined everything.

And now, she’s gone.

He pictures her in the car, how scared she was as she tried to get him to safety.

The Minotaur charging toward them as Percy froze.

The fear in her voice as she begged him to run.

And he had just stood there.

Frozen.

Useless.

He failed her.

And his father? The god who was apparently supposed to care? Who was supposed to be something more than a name Percy never got to say?

Where was he?

But Percy knows this anger is misplaced. His father wasn’t even there to mess up.

That was all Percy.

His anger at his father is a mere shroud covering the seething hatred directed at himself.

His stomach churns, and he swallows hard. His throat feels raw, but he keeps walking, keeps his head down, lets the weight of everything press him into the dirt.

Percy drifts through the dark, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts, barely aware of where he’s going. The world feels distant, muffled, like he’s moving through water. He doesn’t notice the figures ahead, doesn’t register the voices, not until he’s already too close—until it’s too late.

A hand grabs the back of his shirt and yanks.

Percy stumbles, barely catching himself before he hits the ground. His pulse spikes, panic flashing through him like ice water—but it dies just as quickly as it came.

What's the point?

“Oh, look,” Clarisse sneers. “Lost, little hero?”

Of course. Of course it’s her.

Percy blinks at her, sluggish, detached.

He knows he should be mad.

Should brace himself.

Should care.

But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the ache in his bones. The exhaustion dragging him down.

She shoves him. He barely moves.

It’s not worth it. None of it is worth it.

Percy exhales, slow, shaky, feeling the last thread of tension slip from his body.

He’s done.

He just doesn’t care anymore.

Chapter Text

“Oh, look,” Clarisse sneers. “Lost, little hero?”

Percy doesn’t react. He barely lifts his head.

Clarisse and her friends—four of them—stand in a half-circle around him, their grins sharp and eager. Like they’ve been waiting. (He’s cornered, outnumbered, and there’s bodies pressing in all around him, hands touching–)

“You disappeared from dinner,” Clarisse says mockingly. “What, not a fan of the food?”

Percy doesn’t answer.

Clarisse’s smile widens. “That’s fine. We’ve got something else for you.”

She grabs his arm. Her fingers dig in, nails pressing bruises into his skin. She yanks him toward the bathroom building.

Clarisse’s grip burns, but the pain feels far away, like it belongs to someone else. The world around him blurs at the edges, shapes smearing together in the dark, voices warping into meaningless sound.

He knows he could fight.

Knows he could twist out of her hold, shove her back, do something.

But he doesn't.

He’s hollow. Stripped down to the bone.

This is different from when Percy froze with the minotaur. He is completely in control.

He just doesn’t care anymore.

They shove him through the door, hands bruising, and Clarisse slams it shut behind them. The sound is too loud. It echoes, reverberates inside his skull like the crack of thunder before the world splits open.

His ears ring. Or maybe it’s the pipes. Maybe it’s his own heartbeat, thudding against his ribs like something trapped, something clawing to get out.

He can’t tell.

Percy blinks, but the space doesn’t settle. It shifts, sways, tilts too far to one side like the ground isn’t solid, the lights blurring gold, like reality itself is coming loose at the seams.

The air presses against his skin, thick and wet and cloying, like it’s seeping into his lungs, trying to fill him up, drown him from the inside out.

His breath turns shallow. But he doesn’t move.

He deserves this.

He deserves this.

He deserves this.

Clarisse steps in, crowding his space, her voice a sharp, mocking thing that barely reaches him.

“You didn’t even try to run,” she says, sounding oddly disappointed. “Didn’t even try to fight. What happened to all that bravado from earlier?” She snorts. “What a joke.”

The words mean nothing, floating past him like dead leaves on the surface of a lake.

“A fluke,” Clarisse decides. “That’s all it was. You got lucky with the Minotaur. You’re weak.”

The word slides through his ribs, settles somewhere deep.

Weak.

Percy closes his eyes.

Clarisse grabs him by the collar and shoves him toward a toilet.

“Let’s see if you’re lucky now.”

Percy doesn’t exist.

And he doesn’t care.

He just doesn’t care anymore.

He wants it to be over.

Percy’s knees burn on the tiles.

(Gabe pushes him to his knees so hard that his knees bruise, but it’s nothing to the pain he knows is coming.)

Harsh hands are holding his head down in the toilet.

(Gabe’s jeans don’t feel right against his chin as he chokes, Gabe's rough grip in Percy’s hair holding him in place.)

Percy gives up.

Wholly and utterly, he decides he’s done with it all.

No fight. No fear.

Just the quiet relief of surrender.

But then—

Water.

It doesn’t rise—it detonates. A raw, furious thing, slamming into the world like it’s trying to tear it apart.

Percy doesn’t feel it coming. There’s no pull in his gut, no rush of energy threading through his veins. Just the same hollow, leaden weight pressing into his bones. The numbness is absolute, wrapping around him like fog, thick and suffocating.

He has nothing to do with this.

A blast from the toilet hurls Clarisse backward, her body slamming against the stall with a crack. Water surges from the pipes like an open wound, cold and violent, flooding the space in an instant. It seizes her friends, shoving, tossing, tearing them from their feet. They hit the walls, the floor, skid across the tile, coughing, choking.

It doesn’t stop. The water rages, howling through the room like it has a mind of its own. Hands unseen grab hold, drag them, force them back, back, back—until the door bursts open, and the current hurls them into the dirt outside.

Then, just as suddenly as it started—

The water cuts off.

Silence presses in, heavy and absolute.

Percy is alone again.

He kneels in the wreckage, the tile slick beneath his palms, the scent of damp stone and seafoam curling in the air.

The only sound is the slow, uneven drag of his breath.

He should stand up.

He notices absently that his hands are trembling, unsteady and weightless.

Like they don’t belong to him at all.

The room is warping like a bad dream, shapes slipping in and out of focus.

A sound behind him—a soft step.

Percy lifts his head and watches with dull eyes as Annabeth fades into existence next to him, dry as a bone.

Percy exhales. He doesn’t have the energy to be surprised.

Invisibility. Sure. Why not.

He swallows, throat tight. “How much of that did you see?”

Annabeth doesn’t answer.

Instead, she steps forward, her expression unreadable.

And then, softly, she asks, “Why didn’t you fight back?”

Percy doesn’t answer.

Annabeth studies him, her eyes narrowing. “I saw the end of your fight with the Minotaur. I know you're strong. So why didn’t you fight?”

Percy stares at the floor.

His fingers curl against the tile.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky.

He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to pick apart the truth buried underneath Annabeth’s question.

He just wants the pain to be over.

So he shrugs. Forces a tired smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and allows some measure of truth to shine through. “Guess I was just too tired to care.”

Annabeth doesn’t react right away. She just watches him, eyes sharp, calculating. Like he’s a puzzle with missing pieces, and she’s trying to fit them together, trying to figure him out.

Percy looks away, running a hand through his (weirdly dry) hair. His fingers shake. “Whatever. It’s over.”

Annabeth doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, after a long pause, she just sighs. “Come on.” Her voice is quieter than usual. “We should get you back.”

Percy nods, pushing himself up off the floor. His legs feel stiff, his hands clammy.

Annabeth falls into step beside him, but she doesn’t say anything else.

She doesn’t have to.

Because Percy can feel her eyes on him.

Watching. Thinking.

Trying to figure him out.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

- - -

Percy is drowning.

The water is thick and murky, wrong. It tastes like cigarettes and cheap beer, clinging to Percy’s skin like oil, seeping into his lungs, his bones, until he’s full of it–until he is it.

He kicks, tries to swim, but the riptide yanks him down. His limbs aren’t working right. They feel small and weak, like a child’s. He flails uselessly, choking on salt, on flesh, on the taste of something bitter—gold and nicotine and him.

A hand closes around his ankle.

No, not his ankle. Fingers too thick, too rough, digging in too deep, bruising down to the bone of Percy’s hip.

“ You know better than to fight, punk.”

Percy stops kicking.

The ocean floor isn’t there anymore. It’s a mattress. It’s his bedroom.

A touch against his side. Too soft for the way it incinerates his bare skin.

He gasps, but there’s no air, and the thick sludge invades his throat, choking him. The water presses in from all sides, crushing, suffocating.

A voice in his ear, a moan. Cigarettes on his breath and cherry candy on his tongue.

“ Good boy.”

Percy twists, tries not to move, but the current shifts—it’s not water anymore, it’s him, pinning Percy down, pressing him into the sheets—no, the ocean floor—no, the bathroom tile—

He can’t move.

He can’t breathe.

His ribs creak under the weight, collapsing and crushing his heart.

His throat burns. 

"Your mom wouldn’t want to know the truth, would she? How her darling baby begs so beautifully for it.”

“You wouldn’t want her to suffer, would you?” 

"You wouldn’t want her to end up like you.”

The hand slides lower.

The ocean rises, swallowing him whole.

And Percy chokes.

- - -

Percy jerks awake with a sharp gasp.

He’s still suffocating. The air in the cabin is thick, cloying, wrapping around his throat like unseen fingers. His chest heaves, lungs screaming for breath.

Get out get out get out GET OUT—

He stumbles over the rough wooden floor, hands desperately held over his mouth to stifle the panicked whimpers clawing up his throat. He narrowly avoids waking anyone up as he staggers to the door. He shoves forward, nearly tripping as he finally reaches it, pushing out into the night.

Percy stumbles onto the porch, his breaths still coming in uneven gasps. His skin is clammy, sweat sticking his shirt to his back despite the cool night air. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He grips the wooden railing, sucking in air, trying to push the memories dream out of his head. But it lingers, the scent of cigarettes still thick in his nose, the ghost of Gabe’s fingers still pressing against his skin. His stomach churns. He wants to rip off his own skin, scrub it away, but he just clenches his fists and presses his forehead against the railing, forcing his body to stay still.

“Bad night?”

Percy jerks back violently with a sharp inhale, heart thundering painfully against his ribs.

There, on the porch steps, sits Luke.

He’s not looking at Percy, just gazing out at the dark, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. The dim light from the cabin’s porch light casts shadows over his face, making the bags under his eyes look even darker. He looks just as exhausted as Percy feels.

His expression is calm, unreadable—but Percy doesn’t miss the tension in Luke’s shoulders, the way his fingers are digging into his skin.

Percy swallows hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. His voice is rough when he finally catches his breath enough to answer.

“Yeah.”

Luke nods, like that’s all he expected. He shifts slightly, patting the step beside him. “Sit.”

Percy hesitates. He really doesn’t want to be around anyone right now. His skin still burns from his nightmare, still feels wrong, and the idea of talking—of even existing next to someone right now—feels impossible.

But Luke’s not looking at him. He’s not expecting anything. Just sitting there, tired and quiet, like he gets it.

And maybe he does.

Percy exhales shakily and moves to sit down beside him.

For a long time, neither of them say anything. The silence isn’t comfortable, not exactly—but it isn’t heavy either. It just is. The cicadas hum in the trees, the wind rustles the leaves, the waves crash against the shore in the distance. The faint, peppery scent of marigolds drifts on the breeze from the bush near the steps.

The camp is still, the rest of the world asleep.

Finally, Luke speaks. His voice is quiet, almost too soft for Percy to hear.

“My mom went crazy.”

Percy turns his head slightly, but Luke still isn’t looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, like he’s staring at something only he can see.

“She tried to become an Oracle,” he continues. “To take on a prophecy that wasn’t hers. And it broke her.”

Percy doesn’t know what to say. He stays silent, watching as Luke’s fingers clench against his knee.

“She wasn’t always gone,” Luke murmurs. “Some days, she’d be there, like everything was normal. And then, just as suddenly, she wouldn’t be. She’d… forget where she was. Who she was.”

Luke exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Sometimes, she didn’t even recognize me. She’d look at me and see someone else.” His jaw tightens. His hands are shaking now, but he keeps them pressed firmly against his knees.

“And she’d touch me like I was someone else.”

Percy’s breath catches in his throat.

Luke’s voice doesn’t waver. He says it like it’s just another fact, just a piece of his past, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Percy sees the way his muscles have gone rigid, the way his fingers are digging into his skin so hard they might bruise.

Percy knows that feeling.

“She wasn’t trying to hurt me,” Luke says, his voice quieter now, barely more than a whisper. “She didn’t know she was hurting me.” He swallows. “But I was just a kid. And I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head again.

Percy sits frozen.

Luke lets out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair. “So I ran away. Because I had to.”

He finally turns his head, looking at Percy for the first time since Percy stepped outside. His eyes are sharp, piercing in a way that makes Percy feel like he’s being seen—really, truly seen—for the first time.

“I can tell,” Luke says. His voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it. “You’re the same.”

Percy’s mouth goes dry. He can’t feel his hands.

Luke doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. He just looks back into the darkness of the trees and waits.

And Percy…

Percy’s stomach twists.

No one knows.

No one can know.

Percy’s throat closes. He shakes his head to deny it. “I–”

The words catch, strangled before they can escape.

Oh god someone knows and now Gabe is going to kill his mom—

His mom is gone.

There’s no one left to protect.

His stomach churns, sharp and nauseating.

He’s never said it. Not out loud. Not even in his own head, not fully.

Even thinking about it makes his skin crawl, makes his lungs shrink, makes every instinct scream at him to shut up, to hide, to make himself small and invisible and—

But Luke–

Luke understands.

So Percy forces the words out, syllables scraping his throat like glass.

“My stepdad,” he murmurs. It doesn’t sound like him. His voice is raw, hoarse. Like something is caving in inside him, something that was already fractured beyond repair.

“Gabe.”

The name tastes rancid, thick and syrupy like cherry candy melting in the back of his throat. He swallows bile. His vision swims.

Luke doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just watches, his face unreadable.

Percy’s hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into fists so tightly his nails carve into his palms. He’s drowning in it, the filth of what he is, of what’s he's done, and it clings, it seeps, it rots—

“I never wanted it,” he whispers. His breath stutters, catches, barely making it past his teeth. “I never wanted it. I swear, he—I didn’t—”

Percy takes a breath. And another, faster and faster, trying to force air into his lungs. It’s like trying to breathe through water, thick and suffocating, but somehow, the words slip through.

“He—” Percy cuts off, his nails digging deeper, breaking skin. He's slipping, weightless and lost. His vision blurs at the edges.

He doesn’t want to say it.

He has to say it.

“He comes into my room at night.”

His voice breaks.

He shakes his head, violent, as if he can shake the demons out, scrape him off, tear the memories from his skin.

But it’s inside him. It’s part of him.

“He lets his friends use me.”

The words hang in the air, rancid and raw. Percy feels them settle into his bones, thick like sludge, crawling through his veins.

He is filthy. Rotten from the inside out.

“He'd tell me—” Percy stops. His jaw locks so tight it aches.

If you ever tell anyone—

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up—

He shakes his head. “Tell me that if I ever said anything, he’d—”

The sentence splinters, unfinished. His breath shudders, lungs seizing.

Luke doesn’t move. Percy can't look at him.

Percy swallows violently against the lump in his throat. His whole body is trembling, a terrified, feral, full-body shudder that he can’t stop.

Percy is cracking. Fracturing down the middle.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have said anything.

Luke knows now.

He knows and is repulsed and he hates him now and he's going to tell everyone how disgusting and worthless he is–

But—

Percy dares to look up.

Luke’s eyes are wet. His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back. He inhales, slow, painful. Exhales, shaky.

Percy blinks, stunned.

“Percy,” Luke says, sounding absolutely wrecked. His voice cracks like something fragile being crushed. “I am so sorry. That you went through this, that you’ve been dealing with it all on your own.”

The words ache. They press into him like something sharp, like something real.

Luke swallows. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Luke’s tears fall, slow, steady. But it’s not pity. It’s understanding. The kind of grief that belongs to those who have survived the unspeakable.

Percy feels it settle between them, like something shared, something unspoken, something he never thought he would find.

Luke is crying.

For Percy.

Percy doesn’t understand.

Luke doesn’t blame him. Doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t see it, the thing inside him that Percy has always known was wrong.

For the first time in his life, Percy is truly seen.

And accepted.

“Gods, man,” Luke mutters, glancing away for a moment, his hand scrubbing over his face. “No kid should have to go through that.”

His voice is rough, weighted, like the words hurt to say.

Percy wants to tell him it’s okay. That it doesn’t matter.

But the words don’t come.

For once, the familiar lie feels foreign in his throat.

Because what could he say? That he’s fine? He’s never been fine. He never will be fine. And no matter how much he tries to push it down, to swallow it whole, to pretend it didn’t ruin him, he knows—

It’s never going to get better.

But Luke—

Luke sees him. Sees the pieces Percy has spent years trying to bury, the cracks he’s filled with silence and rage and everything except the truth.

And for the first time—

Someone else is carrying that weight with him.

And it doesn’t feel like pity. It feels like… relief.

Luke exhales shakily. “I—I need you to know that you did nothing wrong, Percy.” His voice is quiet now, breaking under the weight of something fragile, something devastated. “You did what you had to do to survive. And that’s incredible. What happened to you, it wasn’t your fault.”

Percy flinches.

Luke shakes his head, another tear slipping free. “You’re not broken. And I’m sorry if you ever felt like you were.”

Something in Percy cracks.

A sob tears out of him, raw and desperate, before he can stop it.

He can’t stop it.

He doesn’t know how to process any of this—the kindness in Luke’s voice, the way Luke is breaking for him, the way he cares about something so rotten and unfixable that even thinking about it makes Percy want to claw his way out of his own skin.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Luke.” Percy’s voice is unsteady, shaking apart like his ribs can’t hold it in. “I just— I feel like I’m drowning. And every time I think I can finally breathe, it pulls me under again.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, then find his face.

He presses his nails into his skin, digs hard like he can scrape it off, like he can purge himself of it, like he can make it stop—

It doesn’t stop.

His hands tangle in his hair, yank too hard, but the pain barely registers, barely matters, because the hurt is inside him, deep and rotting and permanent, and he can’t dig deep enough to tear it out.

Luke doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t try to fix it.

He just looks at Percy—sees him, in all the ways Percy has always tried to make himself unseen.

And slowly, carefully, he opens his arms.

Percy freezes.

Luke’s eyes are sad. Mournful. Gentle. Patient.

For once, Percy’s instincts don’t scream at him to run.

For once, he doesn’t flinch.

He lets himself fall forward.

Luke catches him, holds him tight, warm and steady and real.

Percy feels Luke’s tears in his hair.

Feels Luke breathing, shaking, existing beside him, like this pain isn’t his alone to carry anymore.

It feels like Luke is putting all the broken parts of Percy back together, and for once, Percy allows himself to fall apart.

He knows that Luke will be there to pick up the pieces.

The tears finally come, but they’re different.

They don’t feel like suffocating waves. They don’t feel like drowning.

They feel like... release.

And, for a moment, he just lets himself cry.

Luke doesn’t pull away. He’s still there, holding Percy, letting the sorrow consume them both. The quiet settles between them, not empty, but full—of grief, of understanding, of something shared.

There’s no rush to make things better. They don’t have to fix it.

Percy feels Luke’s chest shake as he lets out a bitter, hollow laugh.

“The gods never helped us.”

Percy’s stomach twists as his own thoughts are echoed back to him.

Luke squeezes him tighter. “The gods don’t really care about us, Percy.” His voice is soft, exhausted. “We’re on our own.”

Percy doesn’t argue.

Because, deep down, a part of him agrees.

They sit there for a long time.

And for the first time since he was seven years old—

Percy doesn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

Percy wakes up feeling like he’s still floating somewhere between dreams and reality. His eyes are heavy, his body sore in that deep, exhausted way that sleep doesn’t quite fix. For a moment, lying in the tangle of borrowed blankets on his bunk, he forgets where he is.

He’s warm. Comfortable, even. It’s almost enough to let him believe he’s back home in his apartment or Montauk, the smell of his mom’s blue pancakes drifting in from the kitchen.

But then someone unfamiliar laughs across the cabin, a low, muffled chuckle, and the illusion shatters.

Percy opens his eyes to the dim morning light filtering through the cabin windows. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and too many bodies crammed into a small space. The voices of campers getting ready murmur around him, bags rustling, footsteps thudding across the floor.

The weight of reality crashes over him.

Right. Camp Half-Blood.

Shit.

The memory of last night crashes into him all at once. The things he said, the way he broke open in a way he never has before.

The way Luke had listened. Had understood. Had stayed.

Panic coils tight in Percy’s chest. He can feel the terror building—what if everything’s different today? What if last night was just some weird, fleeting moment, and Luke regrets it? What if he pulls away, treats Percy like he’s too much, like he shouldn’t have let himself need anything at all?

What if he's disgusted and wants nothing to do with Percy?

Percy doesn't know how to navigate this. He’s used to keeping people at arm’s length, to relationships that are lopsided, where he gives more than he gets. But last night, he let himself reach out.

And that’s dangerous.

Now that the rawness of the night has settled into something quieter, Percy is terrified.

His heart is hammering before he even sits up. He forces himself to move, stretching stiff limbs, trying to shake off the tension crawling up his spine. His gaze flickers across the room, landing on Luke.

Luke is already awake, perched on the edge of his bed, lacing up his sneakers. He hasn’t noticed Percy yet. Or maybe he has and just hasn’t acknowledged him.

Percy’s stomach twists. The panic is right there, clawing at the edges of his mind, whispering all the ways this could go wrong.

Then Luke looks up.

And he smiles.

Not forced. Not awkward. Just an easy, familiar grin, like nothing’s changed.

“Morning, big guy.”

Percy exhales. The knot in his chest loosens, just a little.

“Hey,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. His eyes feel puffy, dried out, like he barely slept.

Luke rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms behind his head with a yawn. “Hope you’re ready for another day of camp nonsense.”

Percy snorts, shaking his head. “Doubt it.”

Luke chuckles, standing up. As he passes, he claps Percy on the shoulder—a quick, gentle squeeze. It’s light. Barely anything.

But it’s solid. Real.

Like last night wasn’t some accident. Like Luke isn’t going anywhere.

Luke grins. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, things feel normal. Or—whatever normal is for them now.

Percy breathes in, then out.

Maybe this place won’t be so bad. Maybe—just maybe—he’ll be okay.

- - -

Percy isn’t okay.

The next few days pass in a blur. He drifts through them, moving on autopilot, like he's a spectator in his own life. His muscles ache in places he didn’t even know existed. The exhaustion is a constant, pulling him down, threatening to swallow him whole.

But he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say a word. If he keeps himself busy enough, maybe the thoughts won’t catch up. Maybe the memories won’t come crashing in.

But it doesn’t help.

Percy doesn’t get it. He’s safe now. He’s not stuck in that hellhole with Gabe anymore. And, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to carry that trauma alone.

He’s here, at Camp Half-Blood, with people who don’t look at him like he’s a violent delinquent or a problem to be fixed. He should be feeling better. He should be grateful. He should be happy.

So why does he still feel like he's rotting from the inside out?

It’s been days, and he still can’t stop the ache that gnaws at his ribs, the one that burrows in deep like it’s been there for years. The one that tells him something is fundamentally wrong with him. That he doesn’t deserve to be okay.

The sun rises and falls and rises again, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s running in place—getting nowhere, sinking deeper, drowning.

Despite it all, Percy keeps going. And he learns three things very quickly:

1. Ancient Greek makes zero sense, and Annabeth has absolutely no patience for stupidity.
2. He is abysmally bad at archery. Like, dangerous-to-himself-and-others bad.
3. The only thing he’s remotely good at is canoeing. Which, unfortunately, isn’t necessarily a very heroic activity.

Everywhere he turns, he’s failing.

Annabeth drills him relentlessly in Greek, her exasperation growing with every mistake he makes. He mixes up tenses until she groans, dragging a hand down her face. “No, seriously dude, that’s the future tense. Are you trying to get it wrong?”

Percy scowls at his worksheet. “I don't know, I think it takes skill to mess up this much. You really should be impressed.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes and mutters something about lost causes but doesn’t walk away. She stays, repeating the conjugations until they’re almost sticking in his brain.

Archery is even worse. The first time he fires an arrow, he somehow manages to send the arrow behind himself and nearly impales a poor satyr strolling by. The second time, Chiron visibly flinches when Percy picks up the bow. After the third near-disaster, he’s pretty sure the other campers are placing bets on when he’ll get banned from the range entirely.

Combat training doesn’t go much better. He’s first paired up with Clarisse (who thought that was a good idea?), and he barely lasts ten seconds before Luke calls the fight, stepping in before she can beat him into the dirt. Percy doesn’t argue. He’s already winded, already aching, just staring up at the sky and trying to ignore the weight pressing down on his chest.

The dirt is cold against his skin.

He stays down longer than he needs to.

He wonders if his mom would be disappointed if she saw him now.

- - -

Nights are still hard. The kind of hard that settles deep in Percy’s bones, dragging him under the moment he closes his eyes.

Luke’s sleep schedule is apparently just as messed up as Percy’s, so somehow, he’s always there when Percy jolts awake, heart hammering, throat tight. Luke never says anything about it—just watches silently from his bunk as Percy stumbles out to the porch like he can outrun whatever ghosts are clawing at his mind. Then, after a few minutes, Luke follows.

Sometimes they talk. About Gabe, about life, about the kind of things that are easier to say when the rest of the world is asleep. And somewhere between the late-night conversations and the shared silences, Percy learns something unexpected: he’s the only one Luke has ever told. Not even Annabeth—who Percy’s learned is essentially Luke's sister in all but blood— knows the truth of what he went through.

Percy doesn’t know what to do with that. Trust is a foreign thing to him, something sharp-edged and dangerous. But Luke hands it over like it’s nothing.

Like Percy is someone worth trusting.

And on the worst nights, when Percy wakes up trembling, full of too much anxious energy and nowhere to put it besides clawing at his own skin, Luke doesn’t ask questions. He just nods toward the training grounds.

And Percy follows.

On one such night, the arena is quiet, the only sounds the rhythmic clack of their wooden swords and the distant hoot of an owl. Torches flicker along the edges of the sand, their light stretching and twisting into jagged shadows. The darkness doesn’t bother Percy. He barely registers it.

He’s too tired to care.

It's not the good kind of tired—the cozy kind that settles into sore muscles after a long day, heavy but comforting, inviting sleep. No, this is frustration and agony. Bone-deep, burning, clawing at his insides. The kind of tired where breathing feels like tremendous effort and it seems like his lungs might crumble from the weight of his chest.

Luke had wanted to stop half an hour ago, noticing Percy’s increasingly unsteady grip, the sluggish movements, the way Percy’s body was folding in on itself. But Percy had refused, his voice edged with something desperate. And when Luke had started to soften his swings instead, trying to go easy on Percy, Percy’s voice had cracked. “Don’t do that. Don’t pull your hits. I—I need this.”

Keep moving.

Percy needs to keep moving.

His muscles scream, his lungs fight for air, but he ignores them. The pain keeps him grounded. As long as he’s moving, as long as he’s fighting, he doesn’t have to think. Doesn’t have to feel.

But it’s not enough. It never is.

Something festers inside him, thick and cloying, like rancid oil seeping into his bones. He could scrape himself raw, peel away every inch of skin and muscle and sinew, and it still wouldn’t be enough. The filth is deeper than that, buried in the marrow of him, poisoning everything he touches.

The phantom hands are there, always there, pressing too hard, gripping too tight, dragging him under. His breath stutters. He knows they aren’t real. Knows he’s here, at camp, standing on solid ground. But his body doesn’t care. His body remembers.

He can smell cigarettes and stale beer in the breeze, the stench thick and nauseating, winding through his lungs like smoke from a dying fire. It lingers in his clothes, in his hair, in the back of his throat like an old wound that won’t close.

And he can hear Gabe's voice, breath hot and wet against Percy’s ear.

"No point fighting, punk. Give it up already."

The press of lips too close, the scrape of unshaven skin, the weight of something worse than hands—something invisible but all-consuming.

Percy grits his teeth, shifting his stance. His body is screaming at him to stop—his arms ache, his legs shake, his lungs burn—but he can’t. He won’t. He needs to keep moving. Needs to keep fighting. If he stops, if he lets himself breathe, the restless energy will eat him alive.

Luke lunges. Percy barely lifts his sword in time. The impact rattles through his bones, jarring, too much. He blocks—kind of—but it’s weak, sloppy. Luke twists, and Percy’s sword goes flying, clattering uselessly against the dirt.

Percy doesn’t pick it up.

Doesn’t move.

The world feels too sharp and too distant all at once. His breath saws in and out of his lungs, but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting any air. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but the anger—the frustration, the exhaustion, the everything—just keeps building, pressing down on him like it wants to crush him.

The urge to let go—to stop trying, stop caring, stop being—claws at him, relentless.

It would be so easy.

Maybe the restless, screaming thing inside his chest would finally go quiet.

His vision blurs at the edges, the world warping, stretching, like reality itself is fraying along with him.

Luke stands a few feet away, arms crossed, sword lowered. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, eyes sad. Like he sees it—that Percy isn’t just losing a fight.

He’s losing himself.

Percy swallows hard. His throat is dry. His heart is too fast. The world tilts, just a little.

“I can't do this,” he mutters. The words feel too heavy in his mouth. Like they mean more than just swordplay.

Luke tilts his head. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, careful. Like he’s waiting for something.

Percy exhales sharply, but it doesn’t help. His chest is too tight, his hands too unsteady. His skin feels too small, stretched thin over something raw and fraying.

"You don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” he mutters, voice flat, like he’s already given up. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, useless. "I can’t get my stance right. I keep leaving my side open. And every time I go for a hit, you knock me down before I even blink.”

Luke hums, stepping forward. “So?”

Percy’s stomach twists. He scowls, but it’s weak. Broken. “So, I’m never gonna be able to do this.”

The words taste like failure.

And it’s not just about the sword. It’s everything. His mom. His life. This world. He’s been here for days, and he still feels like an intruder. Like a mistake. Like he was never meant to make it this far.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he wasn’t.

Luke sighs. He bends down, picks up the fallen sword. He hesitates, then presses it back into Percy’s hands, wrapping his trembling fingers around the grip like he’s daring Percy to hold on.

“A hero isn’t the one who always wins,” Luke says quietly. His voice is steady. Careful. Like he knows exactly how close Percy is to slipping, how dangerously close he is to letting go. “It’s the one who refuses to lose.”

Percy stares at him. His throat tightens.

He wants to say it doesn’t matter, that it’s already too late, that he’s already lost. But the words don’t come, and Luke—Luke just looks at him like he sees him, all the way down to the part of Percy that he's been trying so hard to pretend doesn't exist.

Luke smirks, but it’s soft. There’s something unshakable in his expression, something that makes Percy feel like he’s actually standing on solid ground.

“And you, Percy Jackson, are the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

His grip tightens over Percy’s for a single, grounding second before he steps back. “There’s gonna be ups and downs. You’re going to fail sometimes.”

His face is deadly serious. “But whatever you do, don’t you dare stay down.”

Percy exhales. His knuckles are white around the sword hilt.

He could let go.

It would be so easy to just… let himself fall, to stop fighting. Stop trying.

But if he does—if he gives up now—then what was the point of surviving at all?

He owes it to his mom.

He owes it to his younger self.

Percy grips the sword tighter.

Luke grins, stepping back. “Now, come on. One more round.”

They fight until Percy’s arms shake with exhaustion, until there’s nothing left in his head but movement, instinct, forward. Until the noise in his skull quiets and he doesn’t feel like he’s losing himself.

And when he finally collapses onto the ground, breathless and spent, he feels something strange, something he thought he’d lost.

A flicker of wanting to keep going.

It isn’t much. But it’s enough.

He doesn’t stay down.

- - -

The lake shimmers in the afternoon sun, the rippling water catching the light in flashes of gold and blue.

Percy stops at the edge of the trees, heart still pounding from today's camp-sanctioned combat training. His chest aches from the last fight—he’s pretty sure Annabeth bruised his ribs with her shield—but that’s not why he’s here.

A little ways down the shore, Grover sits hunched on a boulder, staring at the lake with his hooves tucked beneath him. His posture is tense. He looks exhausted.

For a second, Percy just stares at him. It’s the closest they’ve been in days. He’d gotten used to Grover always being there. During their year at Yancy, he was quite literally Percy’s only lifeline. He's seen Percy pretty near his lowest. He might not understand exactly what's wrong with Percy, but he was always there for him.

Then everything happened—the storm, the minotaur, waking up in a world that doesn’t make sense.

And just like that, Percy's best friend was gone.

Not physically—Percy still saw him in passing, darting between cabins, always looking away too fast—but in every way that mattered.

Percy should be mad. He should demand to know why his best friend left him alone with his own thoughts, why he's been avoiding him and suddenly acting like they barely know each other.

Instead, he steps forward, kicking up pebbles as he stops beside the rock. Grover looks startled to see him, then resigned.

And ouch, that hurts more than Percy would like to admit.

Grover hesitates. Then, slowly, he scoots over, hooves scraping the stone, silently inviting Percy to join him.

For a while, neither of them speak.

The lake laps at the shore. The wind tugs at Percy’s shirt.

Grover’s fingers twist together. He clears his throat. "I, um… I thought you’d want space."

Percy huffs a weak laugh. "That’s a terrible excuse."

Grover winces. "Yeah."

Percy glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The guilt is written all over his face—the way his shoulders hunch, the tightness in his knuckles like he’s bracing for a hit. It reminds Percy too much of himself.

His chest tightens. He swallows hard and forces his voice to stay even. "You don’t have to avoid me, you know.”

Grover lets out a breath, slow and careful, like he’s picking his words. "I just… I thought you blame me."

Percy stiffens.

Something sharp lodges itself in his throat.

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to think about her, doesn’t want to touch the wound that still feels too raw, like it’ll tear open and never stop bleeding.

But this is Grover.

And Grover is more important than Percy's pain.

So Percy shoves the grief down, forces his fingers to unclench, and says, "Well, I don't.”

Grover shifts. "You should."

"Not going to happen." Percy’s voice is firm. "Blame the Minotaur. Blame the gods. But not yourself."

Blame me.

Grover is quiet. His fingers pull at a loose thread on his jeans. His mouth presses into a thin line, like he’s keeping something locked behind his teeth.

Percy frowns. "What?"

Grover’s fingers twitch. He's always been terrible at keeping secrets. He glances around like he’s checking if anyone is listening. His fingers tap against his knee, and he takes a breath like he’s about to speak—

Then he shakes his head. "Never mind."

Percy narrows his eyes. "That’s not suspicious at all."

Grover lets out a nervous laugh, but it’s forced. "Just—" He rubs his arms like he’s cold, even though the sun is still warm. "I dunno. There’s a lot I wish I could tell you, man."

Percy’s chest tightens. "Then tell me."

Grover meets his eyes for a split second, and there’s something there—something big, something gnawing at him. But then he looks away.

"I’ve been trying to get my searcher’s license," he blurts out.

Percy blinks at the sudden shift. He suspects this isn't really what Grover wanted to say, but he goes along with it. "Your what?"

Grover huffs a tired laugh. "It’s… a thing for satyrs. We can apply to go looking for Pan, the god of the wild."

Percy frowns. "And you need a license for that?"

"You need to prove yourself first." Grover rubs the back of his neck. "I was supposed to get you to camp safely. The council was going to decide if I passed or failed, but Mr. D said it’s still undecided." He pauses.

“He said I hadn’t failed or succeeded with you yet, so our fates are still tied together.”

Percy’s fingers tighten around the edge of the rock. Our fates are still tied together. That doesn’t sound ideal for Grover.

“So…” He hesitates, trying to piece it together. “What can I do? If I’m integral to making your dream come true, there’s gotta be something, right?”

Grover shifts uncomfortably. He kicks a loose pebble into the water and watches the ripples spread.

“It’s stupid,” he mutters.

Percy nudges him with his elbow. “Yeah, well, humor me.”

Grover hesitates. Then, finally, he sighs.

“If you got called on a quest…” He scratches at his wristbands. “And you took me with you and I got you back alive… Mr. D says he might consider the job done.”

Percy blinks. “That’s it? You just need to go on a quest with me?”

Grover waves his hands frantically. “No, no—don’t worry about it, man. That’s not happening.”

Percy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you getting a quest?” Grover lets out a nervous laugh. “Those are so rare and like never happen. Especially not to new campers. And if you ever did get a quest, you wouldn’t want me.”

The words hit Percy like a slap. He opens his mouth to protest, but Grover barrels on.

“You’d need people who could actually protect you. People who are strong. Who are good at this stuff. You’d pick a real fighter, or a smarter strategist. And I wouldn’t blame you,” he rushes out. “That’s what you should do. You’re my best friend, Percy, but quests are life-or-death, and I know where I stand.”

Percy’s chest tightens. “Grover—”

“I mean, look at everything that’s happened so far!” Grover’s voice cracks. “I couldn’t stop her from getting hurt. I couldn’t even get you here on my own! You think Chiron hasn’t noticed? You think Mr. D hasn’t noticed?”

Grover grips his knees like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “If it were up to them, I wouldn’t even be allowed near another quest.” His voice is thick, like he’s holding something back. “So don’t worry about it, okay? It won’t happen.”

Percy stares at him, heart pounding. Grover looks so resigned. Like he’s already made peace with the idea that he’s not good enough. The thought makes Percy’s stomach clench.

He wants to argue. He wants to shake Grover, tell him how wrong he is. But he knows that Grover wouldn't listen right now, anyway.

The lake laps at the shore. Wind stirs the trees, rustling the leaves above them.

Percy finally exhales, nudging Grover’s arm. “You’re my best friend. I don’t care about quests, I don’t care about licenses—if I have to be stuck in this world, I’m just glad I have you with me.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “And if I ever do get a quest? I’m dragging your furry ass along, no matter what the gods or anyone else says.” Percy swallows. “Because I’d rather face everything with you than survive it alone.”

Grover doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Percy sees the way his shoulders loosen, the way his breath shakes as he lets it out. He sees the wetness in Grover’s eyes, how he blinks hard and turns his face toward the water.

They sit in silence and just watch the wind blow gentle patterns over the surface of the lake. The sun casts shadows of gold in the water.

The weight in Percy’s chest doesn’t disappear, but with Grover beside him, it feels a little easier to bear.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Percy is still there, still staring at the water like it might have answers if he just searches long enough.

The lake shimmers under the late-afternoon sun, waves lapping lazily at the shore. The sounds of camp—clashing swords, distant laughter, the steady clomp of Chiron’s hooves—feel like they belong to another world. One where he isn’t. One that keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that his has stopped.

Percy's sitting on a smooth rock by the water, knees drawn up, arms loosely wrapped around them.

Grover had left a while ago, off to do some work for Dionysus. Percy would've offered to help, but to be entirely honest, he's been avoiding the god. He doesn’t like the way the dude looks at him, like he can see right through him, like he sees every crack in his mind, every jagged edge, and is unimpressed by all of it.

Yesterday, a satyr Percy didn't know had told him that Mr. D wanted to talk to him. Percy had politely thanked the kid for letting him know and promptly walked the opposite direction. Maybe not the smartest idea to ghost a literal god, but Percy honestly just can’t deal with that conversation right now.

Percy would much rather stay here where he can pretend none of it exists. So here he is.

Exhaustion clings to him, heavy and unshakable. For the first time in days, Percy’s alone. Free to think.

And that's never good.

The lake stretches wide and endless, a mirror of sky and sorrow.

His mom would have loved this.

She always knew how to find beauty in the smallest things.

If she were here, she would point out the way the sunlight dances on the water. How the breeze pushes leaves across the surface of the lake, like miniature boats racing.

She would see the beetle stuck on its back on the rock in front of him, little legs wiggling, and she would help it right itself, gently tucking it into the cover of a bush.

Percy watches the bug struggle, but he can’t find it in himself to stand up.

If she were here, she would pull Percy to her side, hugging him close, all warm and safe. She would laugh at nothing at all, just pure delight in the world around them.

Her effortless joy always made the world seem a bit softer. Kinder.

But now she’s gone.

The weight of it sinks deep, threading through his ribs like roots, curling tight around his lungs, thick and suffocating.

He curls in on himself, arms locked around his knees, as if sheer force alone could hold him together, keep him from unraveling.

His mom is dead.

It still doesn't feel real.

She’s not at work. Not in the kitchen, humming under her breath. Not waiting for him to come home with soft eyes and a lopsided smile, a plate of blue food in her hands like a promise that things would always be okay.

She's gone.

Percy doesn’t get it. Why did the universe allow something like that?

How could the gods let this happen?

How could a person so bright, so full of warmth and laughter, flicker out like a dying ember? How does the world keep spinning, indifferent, as if she never existed at all?

Someone so vivid, so fierce, so full of life—here one moment, gone the next.

Like smoke unraveling into the sky. Like a breath exhaled into the cold.

His heart stutters.

She deserved better. A better life. A better ending. A better son—one strong enough to save her. One who didn’t just stand there, helpless, watching everything he loved get torn away.

One who wasn’t so pathetic, sitting here glaring at the water like it might bring her back.

His breath shudders through him, sharp and uneven. He digs his nails into his arms, pressing hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, grounding himself in the sting. In the proof that he is still here.

That she isn’t.

The thought is a knife, sliding clean between his ribs, twisting deeper with every beat of his heart.

He exhales, slow and shaky, and wonders—not for the first time, not for the last—if he even wants to be here at all.

The thoughts in his head are so loud and all-consuming that it takes him a second to register the sound of pounding footsteps behind him.

Percy barely has time to turn before someone skids to a stop behind him, kicking up a spray of dirt and pebbles.

“Oh gods,” Luke pants.

Percy blinks up at him, and his stomach twists with anxiety.

Luke’s face is flushed, eyes darting over Percy like he’s checking for injuries. His whole body is tense, like he’s ready to fight something.

Percy straightens. “Uh. You good?”

Sure, he was spiraling, but only the usual amount. Nothing that should warrant this level of concern. Nothing that would have Luke looking at him like that, like he just narrowly pulled Percy out of a burning building.

Something’s wrong.

Luke doesn’t answer. His hand drags through his hair, and for a split second, there’s pure relief on his face. Like he’s just dodged something really, really bad.

Then it’s gone, and Luke’s jaw sets tight.

“You haven’t seen it yet,” he murmurs.

Percy’s pulse jumps. “Seen what?”

Luke hesitates.

“Seen what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke’s fingers curl into fists at his sides. He looks like he wants to say something—needs to say something—but instead, he exhales sharply and pulls something from his pocket.

He reluctantly holds it out.

A folded newspaper sheet.

“Someone spread copies around camp. When I couldn't find you–” He cuts himself off.

Percy’s hands are numb before he even reaches for it. From this angle, he can just make out the grainy photo.

Him. And his mom.

He remembers the day the picture was taken. It was last summer, one final adventure before Percy left for school. Percy and his mom had gone out for ice cream, and she had bullied a tourist into taking a picture for them. In the photo, Percy is beaming at his mom, and she's giving him bunny ears behind his head.

He'd gotten blue raspberry, and his lips were stained for hours.

His hands shake as they take the paper, moving without permission.

The words swim before his eyes, twisting together, too much, too fast, and he impatiently shakes his head, trying to make it make sense.

"Missing Delinquent Boy and Mother Presumed Dead—Stepfather Speaks Out."

The ground tilts sideways.

Blurry words leap out at him, sharp as shattered glass.

‘Left in a rush under mysterious circumstances.’

‘Presumed foul play.’

‘Blood at the scene, no bodies found.’

His breath catches. His stomach twists. But still, his eyes are dragged lower, down to the quoted interview. The text swirls dizzily in his eyes.

"I always knew there was something wrong with the kid."

Gabe’s voice seeps through his skull like burning oil, thick and suffocating, coating every thought, every breath.

"You want the truth? He’s always been trouble. The kid's violent and unruly, he never listens, never follows the rules. I tried to be strict with him, teach him some respect, but I guess it wasn't enough."

"Now look at what he’s done. He’s the reason she’s gone, I know it.”

The world lurches sideways.

Percy’s hands tighten, the newspaper folding in his grip, but the words are already burned into his brain.

The worst thing is?

The article isn’t wrong.

Gabe isn’t wrong.

It was his fault.

He did kill his mom.

Didn't he?

No.

No, that isn’t—

His chest locks up. His breath is coming too fast, too shallow, but no matter how hard he tries, it won’t come fast enough.

They all saw this. Everyone in camp.

Clarisse. The Hermes kids. Annabeth.

Percy’s fingers tighten until his knuckles turn white, the newspaper crumpling like dead leaves in his grip.

"Percy." Luke’s voice slices through the roaring in his ears, sharp and steady. But distant. So distant.

Percy can’t look up. Can’t move.

The newspaper might as well be fused to his skin, the ink bleeding into his veins, seeping into his bloodstream like poison. His heartbeat slams against his ribs, wild and erratic, the ground tilting beneath him as if the world itself is rejecting him.

It was his fault.

The thought curls around his throat like barbed wire. He aches to let go—to shred the newspaper, drown it in the lake, erase every letter of Gabe’s words—but his hands won’t obey. They stay locked in place, crushing the paper tighter, as if holding on will somehow keep the truth from swallowing him whole.

His nails are biting into his palms, breaking the skin, beads of crimson glistening in the sun as paper collapses in his hands.

"Percy, hey.”

Luke steps forward, and before Percy can flinch away, warm hands wrap around his wrists, firm but steady.

"Hey, big guy, I need you to look at me."

Percy doesn’t. He can’t. His gaze stays locked on the wretched paper, on the photo warped beneath his shaking fingers, on the jagged, black letters still clawing their way through his skull.

There's blood on the photo now, smeared across her beautiful face. How did that get there?

Luke’s grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor. He taps his fingers on the backs of Percy’s hands, trying to get him to release his clenched fists. The sensation feels a world away. "This is garbage. You know that, right?"

The words barely register. They bounce off the walls of Percy’s fractured mind, meaningless.

"She’s dead."

The words scrape out of him like glass dragged over a raw nerve.

"It’s my fault."

Saying it out loud feels like setting fire to an open wound.

His chest tightens, breath thinning into sharp, broken edges. The words—his own voice—don’t sound like him. Don’t feel like him.

Percy wants to scrape his nails up his arms, to feel something, but Luke's grip on his hands is unrelenting.

His lungs won’t expand properly.

The world is too loud.

His heart is thundering in his chest, and every beat feels like an explosion.

Like the world’s breaking apart from the inside.

Luke curses under his breath, his voice barely cutting through the fog, but it feels like it’s happening in someone else’s story.

Luke's hands shift, holding Percy’s shoulders now, shaking him—not roughly, but just enough to make Percy blink.

"Nope," he says, and Percy notices hazily that he sounds scared. That's odd. Why would he be scared? "We’re not doing that right now. Come back. I need to show you something.”

Percy barely processes the words, far away as they are. His breath is still coming too fast, his thoughts still churning in circles, but Luke is already moving.

Slowly, carefully, the newspaper is gently pried from his unfeeling fingers. The paper crinkles, rips at the edges, and then—it’s gone.

And Percy's being steered away from the lake, from the article, from all of it.

Percy lets himself be pulled along, his body moving without him, like a puppet with severed strings.

His limbs feel distant, foreign—like he’s watching himself from somewhere far away, detached from the broken boy stumbling through camp on numb, unsteady feet.

The sounds of camp return in broken fragments—swords clashing, laughter, the distant calls of campers in the archery range.

Normal sounds.

Like nothing in the world has changed.

Like the ground isn't actually shaking, crumbling apart under their feet.

Luke doesn’t speak as they walk. Just keeps his grip steady, his pace careful, like he knows Percy’s legs might give out if they stop.

Percy doesn’t ask where they’re going. Doesn’t think to care.

Moving is easier than thinking.

They’re passing the cabins when a familiar voice calls out.

"What are you guys doing?"

Annabeth.

Percy barely manages to lift his head. She’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn together in suspicion.

Luke sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression is exhausted, but his voice stays quiet. "Going to see Thalia."

Annabeth blinks. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that. Her arms uncross, and the suspicion fades, replaced with quiet understanding.

Then she nods, quick and decisive. "I’m coming too."

Luke looks like he might argue, glancing at Percy as though to gauge his mental state (he's clearly doing great, thank you very much), but he doesn’t say anything. Just nods and keeps walking, leading Percy along.

Annabeth falls into step beside them, close but silent, like she understands that whatever’s happening, Percy isn’t able to talk.

She knows it’s his fault, she saw the paper.

He doesn’t know who Thalia is, or why they're going to see her.

He doesn’t know if he cares.

But he keeps walking.

Because Luke hasn’t let go of his arm yet.

And because if he stops moving, he might drown in the weight of everything he can’t outrun.

- - -

It turns out Thalia is a tree.

A very nice pine tree on the edge of camp, but Percy is confused as to why he's being shown this.

Luke stops a few feet away from the tree, his hand still on Percy’s arm, steadying him. Percy thinks absently that he usually hates being touched. But Luke is okay.

Luke and Annabeth are just staring at the tree, a strange kind of sadness in their eyes. Percy’s not sure what's going on, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to figure it out. He notices Luke reach out and squeeze Annabeth's hand.

After a moment, Luke sighs and lowers himself down to the ground, and gently tugs Percy down next to him. After a brief moment, Annabeth joins them, and then they're all sitting in the grass, looking at a tree.

It would have been a pretty day, had the world not decided to break apart at the seams.

Percy notices the way the early evening sunlight shifts through the pine needles. He can feel warmth where the dancing shadows of light touch him.

His mom would like that.

He can feel the grass clutched in his fists and he jerkily opens them, releasing his hold on the ground.

He stares at his shaking palms. One has a leaf attached to it, stuck to the flakes of dried blood.

Somewhere above them, a mourning dove is cooing.

Luke is the first to break the silence.

“You know how Annabeth and I found each other on the run a few months before we came here?” His voice is steady, but there’s something raw beneath it, something worn thin.

Percy nods, sluggish and unfocused. Annabeth blinks, like she hadn’t known Luke had shared that much.

Luke exhales. “Well, it wasn’t just us. A few years before I met Annabeth, I ran into another demigod, and we stuck together. Thalia. A forbidden child.”

Percy's blinks tiredly, brow creasing. “Forbidden?”

Annabeth answers this time. “There was a prophecy a while ago. That said a child of one of the Big Three would have the power to destroy Olympus. Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades swore an oath to never have children again.”

“So Thalia is…”

“She was a daughter of Zeus.”

Annabeth’s voice is quieter than usual, reverent in a way Percy doesn’t quite understand. She looks at the tree like it’s more than just wood and needles, like it’s something alive, something that still matters.

“She was powerful,” Luke adds, staring at the branches swaying in the breeze. “Brave. The kind of person who would throw herself in front of a monster without thinking twice if it meant saving someone else.” His lips press together for a moment, his jaw tight. “And she did.”

Percy watches the bird hopping in the branches above them, a fuzzy little blob of grey and brown. Percy wonders idly if it has a nest up there. A family.

It coos again, the melodic sound mixing with the wind.

"We were all on the run," Luke continues. His voice is rough at the edges. “Me, Thalia, and then Annabeth. And later, Gr–our satyr. We were just trying to survive, to get somewhere safe. We fought monsters. Starved. Nearly froze to death a couple of times. But we had each other. We were a team.” He glances at Annabeth, and for a second, his expression is devastated. “A family.”

Annabeth swallows, staring at the grass between her fingers. "We were so close," she murmurs. “We made it all the way to the border of camp. We could see the hill, see the protection waiting for us.”

“But we weren’t fast enough,” Luke says. His voice is bitter, but not at her. Not at Thalia, either. Just at the unfairness of it all. “Thalia held the line. She fought so we could make it.”

Percy watches as Annabeth’s hands curl into fists. Luke stares at the horizon, gaze distant, haunted.

“She should’ve made it too,” Annabeth whispers.

The wind shifts. The dove coos. The world feels muted, like Percy is hearing it all through deep water.

He swallows. The story—the frantic race to camp, the sacrifice, someone not making it—it sits heavy in his chest. The weight of something too familiar, too close to what he’s barely even begun to process.

He looks at the tree again.

"She died," he says, the words blunt, his voice barely more than a breath.

Luke shakes his head. "She should have. But Zeus…" He exhales, gestures toward the pine. "He couldn’t let her go. He turned her into this. Thalia’s tree. It protects the camp now, the way she would’ve if she were still here.”

Percy doesn’t know what to say to that.

He stares at the rough bark, at the way the sunlight catches on the needles. He tries to wrap his head around the fact that somewhere in there, someone is still part of this world, still rooted to the place they fought to reach.

His fingers dig absently into the grass again.

The whole world feels off-balance. Tilted. Like maybe he’s the one caught between two forms, not quite solid, not quite here. The ground is too firm beneath him, too real, but if he lets go—

If he lets go, he might fall.

He thinks about his mom, about Gabe’s words, about the way everyone must be looking at him now. He wonders what it would feel like to not be Percy Jackson anymore, to just—

He exhales sharply and presses his palms against his knees.

The mourning dove is still cooing.

Luke watches him for a long moment, his expression drawn tight, like he’s bracing for something painful. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful.

“Was it my fault? That Thalia didn't make it?”

Percy lurches back, stunned. “What? Of course not. You–”

Luke interrupts. “But maybe I could have fought harder. I didn't argue with her when she told us to run. I could have stayed with her.”

Percy’s throat is dry. “But then the monsters would have–”

Luke doesn’t let him finish. “Then it was Annabeth's fault? Thalia's gone because of us.”

Percy glances at her through blurry eyes. She's silent, just watching. “That's not true–”

Luke pushes on without mercy. “Do you think Thalia would resent Annabeth for making it to safety when she didn’t? Would she be mad that Annabeth's let herself be happy again?”

“Of course not, that's what she–” Percy’s voice breaks.

That's what she would have wanted.

Luke hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it should have been me, then. Maybe none of us should have made it, not if we weren't able to save Thalia. Would it have been better if I died before I could meet you?”

Percy’s whole body locks up. “No,” he chokes out. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

Luke holds his gaze, unflinching. His voice doesn’t waver. "So, if I don’t deserve to suffer for surviving when she didn't, why do you?"

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Percy’s mind stutters, grasping for something, anything to throw back, but Luke doesn’t give him the chance.

"You said it wasn’t my fault. That it wasn’t Annabeth’s fault. That Thalia made a choice, and that choice wasn’t on us."

He leans in slightly, holding Percy’s gaze. Percy can't move. He's frozen.

"So why is it different for you?" Luke asks, voice razor-sharp and impossibly gentle all at once.

"Why is it your fault?”

Percy opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

His brain trips over itself, scrambling for an answer that doesn’t exist.

Luke exhales slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

"You loved her."

Percy flinches.

"And she loved you."

His breath shudders.

"And she chose you.”

The words dig in deep, tearing through the fragile walls of self-hatred he’s built around this wound.

He wants to shove the words away, to fight back, to say something that will make it all make sense again—but he can’t.

Because Luke is right.

His shoulders tremble under the weight of it. His chest aches like something inside him is breaking.

Annabeth shifts on the other side of Luke, silent but close. When Percy glances at her, she’s watching him with that same quiet understanding, her expression open, sad.

“She wouldn’t want this for you,” she whispers.

Percy swallows hard. His hands are curled into fists in the grass, nails biting into his palms again. He forces them open, fingers trembling against the earth.

She would hate to see Percy like this.

The guilt.

The self-destruction.

The endless cycle of blame and punishment.

His mom wouldn’t have wanted this for him.

Just like Thalia wouldn’t have wanted it for Luke and Annabeth.

Percy has spent every waking moment drowning in guilt for something that was never his to carry.

His breath comes shakier now, but lighter, too—like something inside him is finally cracking open, letting air in for the first time.

Luke watches him carefully, waiting. Not pushing, not forcing, just letting the weight of the truth settle.

It lingers, gentle and worn.

Like an old wound that was picked open over and over and over again finally allowed to close.

To begin healing.

Percy scrubs at his eyes, sniffing hard. He halfheartedly punches Luke's arm. “You’re really annoying, you know that?”

Luke smirks, leaning back on his elbows. “It’s been mentioned once or twice.”

Annabeth huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Trust me, he used to be worse.”

Percy snorts, and just like that, something shifts.

The tension eases.

The air feels lighter.

Luke exhales, tipping his head back toward the sky. He nudges Annabeth. “Thalia would be so mad if she knew we were sitting here being sad over her.”

Annabeth hums in agreement. “She’d call us losers and tell us to go do something cool instead.”

“Or illegal,” Luke adds.

“That too,” Annabeth admits.

Percy blinks, lost. “Wait, tell me you guys didn't actually break the law.”

Luke grins, and Annabeth pointedly looks away. “Laws are such ambiguous things, really,” Luke says innocently.

“Oh my gods,” Percy mutters.

Annabeth picks at the grass, but she's smiling. “She was wild. But she was also the one who kept us safe. She always acted like she didn’t care about anything, but she did. She cared a lot.”

Luke nods at Percy. “You remind me of her, actually.”

Percy swallows, warmth curling in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely. Scrawny, angry at the world, and stubborn as hell.”

Percy snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

They lapse into silence again, but this time, it’s comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

But Percy blurts out–

“My mom and I had this inside joke with blue food.”

Luke and Annabeth glance at him, intrigued. Luke’s soft eyes give him the courage to keep going.

“She loved proving people wrong,” he continues, a small smile pulling at his lips. “One time, my stepdad”—a quick glance at Luke—“told me that there's no such thing as blue food. I don't even remember how the argument got there, but it made me so mad. I eventually told her about it, and she just… decided to make everything blue. Blue pancakes, blue candy, blue fucking meatloaf.” He huffs out a laugh.

Luke snickers. “Blue meatloaf? That’s dedication.”

Annabeth wrinkles her nose. “That sounds disgusting.”

Percy grins. “Oh, it absolutely was. But that wasn’t the point.” He pokes a stick in the dirt, eyes distant. “She did it for me. Just to prove that she could. Just to make me laugh.”

Luke watches him for a moment, then nods. “That’s actually really cool.”

Percy shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. I guess.”

Annabeth tilts her head. “Do you still do it?”

Percy hesitates. “Not really. Haven’t had the chance.”

Luke leans forward. “You should.”

Percy glances at him. “What, just start making everything blue again?”

“Why not?” Luke grins. “Your mom sounds awesome. If blue food was her thing, seems like a solid tradition to keep going.”

Annabeth smirks. “So, what? We all start eating blue food now?”

Luke shrugs. “I mean, I’m down. Blue cookies, blue pasta—I could make it work.”

Percy eyes him skeptically. “You’d get sick of it in two days.”

Luke gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. “You underestimate my commitment.”

Annabeth snorts. “No, I think he understands it perfectly.”

Luke points at her. “Okay, now you’re both doubting me? Fine. I’ll prove you wrong. Three days. All blue food.”

Percy smirks. “Make it a week.”

Luke narrows his eyes. “Five days.”

“Bet,” Percy says, shaking on it before Luke can change his mind.

Annabeth groans. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing this.”

Percy just grins, something warm settling in his chest.

Maybe this is what moving forward feels like.

Somewhere above them, the dove finally takes off, wings whistling as it soars into the sunset. The fading sun catches the edges of its wings, turning them gold for just a moment before it disappears beyond the treetops.

And Percy decides:

If that damn mourning dove can still sing, he can too.

- - -

A few days later, as Percy and Luke are settling in for dinner, Annabeth strides up to them, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

"You’re on our team for Capture the Flag," she announces, leaving no room for argument.

Percy blinks. "What?"

She just smirks. "Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”

Luke claps a hand on his shoulder as he hands him their little bottle of blue food dye. (Percy still has no idea how he'd smuggled that into camp, and at this point, he’s pretty sure it's best not to ask.)

"Translation: try not to die," Luke adds with a wink, his grin infuriatingly relaxed.

Percy sighs, shaking his head—but he’s smiling, too.

He’s not sure what comes next, but for now, this is enough.

Grief still lingers, heavy in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

But so does the love.

Chapter Text

Percy is about 85% sure he’s about to die, and Annabeth looks way too excited about it.

The woods hum with restless anticipation as he stumbles after her, his armor shifting awkwardly and his helmet persistently slipping down over his eyes. He nearly faceplants over an exposed root, barely managing to catch himself before he eats dirt. Or impales himself on his sword. Real smooth, Jackson.

Meanwhile, Annabeth moves like a shadow ahead of him, silent and sure-footed, as if she was born wearing battle gear. She doesn’t even look back to check if he’s keeping up—just assumes he’ll manage. Because of course she does.

Percy still isn't quite sure he understands what this game entails. Sure, he knows how to play regular Capture the Flag, but something tells him this will be a bit different. The weapons, for one, but Luke had also casually mentioned something about landmines before abandoning him to Annabeth’s mercy, and Percy would really love some elaboration.

By the time Percy stumbles up beside Annabeth, he’s already out of breath. “So, uh… what’s the plan?”

Annabeth doesn’t break stride. “Your job is simple. Stand by the creek and watch the border.”

Percy blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Huh. That actually doesn't sound too bad. 

“Great,” he says, trying not to sound too relieved. “I can stand real good.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. She jerks her chin toward the water ahead, a shimmering creek that cuts through the trees, its surface rippling in the filtered sunlight. “This is the border. You stay here. If the other team tries to cross here, don't let them.”

Percy nods slowly. “Okay. And… how exactly am I supposed to stop them by myself?”

Annabeth smirks. “You’ll figure it out.”

That is so not the reassuring answer he was hoping for, but before he can protest, she’s already slipping away into the forest, leaving him alone.

Percy exhales sharply and turns back to the water. Right. Just stand here. Watch for enemies. Don’t die.

Should be easy.

Famous last words.

The distant blare of horns cuts through the trees, a sharp, ringing call to war. A heartbeat later, the forest erupts with sound—battle cries, the clash of metal, the crunch of boots tearing through undergrowth. 

The game has begun.

- - -

For a long while, nothing happens.

Percy shifts from foot to foot, adjusting the straps of his shield even though there’s absolutely no reason to. The creek gurgles along, blissfully unaware that there is an epic battle unfolding somewhere in the trees. Birds chirp. A dragonfly zips by his face.

He kicks a rock into the water and watches the ripples spread.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screams in a way that is definitely not playful. Percy winces and pointedly does not think about it. 

Instead, he hums under his breath, tapping his fingers against his leg. A song his mom used to sing plays in his head, something soft and slow, completely incongruent to the apparent battle around him. He sings a few lines just to fill the silence, his voice half-lost in the rustling leaves.

After another minute, he squats down to poke at an interesting-looking mushroom growing on a tree root. It's orange and kind of wobbly. Grover would probably know what it is. Percy considers eating it for about half a second before deciding that would probably be a terrible idea.

Still no enemies.

The wind rustles through the branches, and Percy glances at a squirrel watching him from a nearby tree. “You see anyone?” he asks.

The squirrel chitters. Percy takes that as a no.

Then, just as he's starting to think this might actually be the easiest job ever, the air shifts. 

A prickle runs down his spine. The forest goes too quiet, like everything is holding its breath.

Then comes the growl. 

Low.

Deep.

And way too close.

Percy tenses, every instinct screaming at him to run. He turns toward the sound—

But before he can do anything, there’s a war cry across the stream, loud and guttural, and suddenly the forest erupts into chaos. 

Clarisse La Rue explodes from the underbrush like a wrecking ball with legs, her armor gleaming and her spear crackling with electricity. And she’s not alone.

What seems like half of Ares Cabin barrels across the creek, weapons raised, heading straight for him.

“Oh, come on,” Percy mutters.

He barely has time to think before he’s scrambling backward, yanking his sword from its sheath, his shield clunky and awkward on his arm. A branch smacks him in the back of the head, and he staggers, blinking stars from his vision. 

Great start.

Clarisse lets out another bellowing war cry, and Percy swears the trees themselves shake in fear. She swings her spear in a wide arc, the crackling electricity making his skin prickle.

“Hey, Jackson!” she shouts, grinning like she’s having the time of her life. “Hope you're ready to die!”

“Not currently, ask again later!” Percy yelps, throwing himself to the side as her spear nearly skewers him.

He lands hard, knees slamming into the dirt, but there’s no time to recover. The Ares kids are on him like rabid wolves, their weapons flashing in the dim light. He barely gets his shield up in time to block an incoming strike from a guy built like a brick wall. The impact rattles down his arm, nearly knocking his shield clean off.

This is fine. He’s fine.

“Guys, I don't even have the flag!” he yells, ducking just in time to avoid getting his head taken off.

Clarisse cackles. “That's not what we're after.”

Fantastic.

Percy barely dodges another strike, twisting on instinct and rolling to his feet. His armor shifts uncomfortably, and his helmet, which has been zero percent helpful this entire time, nearly slides over his eyes again.

Annoyed, he rips it off and hurls it at the nearest Ares kid. The guy ducks with an unimpressed grunt.

Worth a shot.

Percy doesn’t even have time to regret his life choices before another Ares kid lunges at him, sword aimed for his ribs. He barely manages to twist away, feeling the blade scrape against his breastplate.

He stumbles back, breath coming fast, barely keeping his footing. This is ridiculous.

“What did I ever do to you guys?” he demands, dodging a wild swing from another attacker. He tries to sound flippant, but there’s a hysterical edge to his voice, a real question buried under the sarcasm. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Clarisse snarls. “Because someone needs to put you in your place.”

That really doesn't answer his question, but thanks.

He narrowly avoids a dagger thrown at him—that’s new—and has just enough time to mentally thank Luke for never going easy on him. If not for those brutal training sessions, he’d already be on the ground, bleeding out.

A glint of bronze—then searing pain.

Whoops. Spoke too soon.

Percy swears as a sword slices across his right forearm, the pain like a fire burning deep into muscle and bone. Blood wells up instantly, hot and thick, running down his fingers in sticky rivulets. He gasps—more in shock than anything—but when he tries to tighten his grip on his sword, his fingers don’t respond.  The weapon slips from his grasp, thudding into the dirt.

Oh. That’s not good.

A sick, electric numbness spreads down to his fingertips, like his nerves are misfiring. He tries to wiggle his fingers. Nothing. 

That's probably not ideal.

He doesn’t dare look at the wound, but he knows it’s bad.

His shield is still strapped to his other arm. That’s all he has now. He grips it tighter, his breath coming in uneven gasps, and holds his injured arm to his chest like it might stop the bleeding. When he raises the shield, it’s not much of a defense—more a last-ditch effort than a real threat.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he says, his voice raw, almost pleading. “Just leave me alone.”

Clarisse steps closer, slow and deliberate, her grin like the edge of a blade.

“What’s wrong, Jackson?” she taunts, tilting her head in mock concern. “I’d tell you to make your mother proud, but—” she shrugs, her voice dripping with cruel amusement—“too late for that, huh?”

The words hit harder than any weapon could and he staggers.

Clarisse doesn’t wait. She lunges, jabbing her sparking spear straight into his armored stomach before he can block.

The world goes white.

Agony explodes through him, a live wire of electricity that floods every nerve, locking his muscles and setting his brain on fire. His vision splinters, his body convulses, and there’s nothing but the blinding, burning force of it. 

Sharp, overwhelming, endless.

His breastplate betrays him, the metal amplifying the shock and sending it ricocheting through his bones. His knees buckle. His thoughts shatter.

And then—gravity wins.

The world tilts, and he topples backward—straight into the creek.

The water swallows him whole.

Warmth rushes over his skin, seeping into his bones, wrapping around him like an embrace—like home. The water does not punish him for falling. It does not bite or steal his breath. It holds him, cradles him, pulls the pain from his limbs like a mother soothing a crying child.

The agony vanishes, washed away in a current older than the earth itself. Every bruise, every ache, every ounce of exhaustion—gone, like footprints erased by the tide. 

He draws in a breath, and it is crisp and cool, filling his lungs with something pure. Strength surges through him, effortless, endless.

Here, he is whole. Here, he is untouched.

But not untouched enough.

Because beneath the comfort, beneath the steady pulse of the tide, something else moves in his mind.

A darkness stirs. It coils in his chest like a second heartbeat, one that has always been there. One he has never let himself acknowledge.

It whispers for Percy to let go.

And for once, Percy doesn’t fight it.

It’s like fire and ice at once, a force bigger than him, stronger than him—something deep and ancient, something that has always been there, waiting.

Waiting for this moment.

Clarisse has done nothing but hurt him since he got here. 

She made sure of it.

She's hurt him.

Humiliated him.

Threatened him.

And now—now, when she sneers at him, when she throws his mother in his face like she’s nothing, like she’s just another weakness to exploit—

Something inside him breaks.

The dam shatters.

The darkness that’s been clawing at the edges of his mind, the pain he’s buried under sarcasm and forced indifference, erupts.

Clarisse wants a fight?

Fine.

She’ll get one.

Rage surges through Percy’s veins like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain, the doubt, the restraint. His body moves before his mind can catch up, before reason can drag him back.

‘Whatever you do, don't stay down.’

He erupts from the water, a force of nature made flesh—unstoppable, undeniable. 

The water clings to him like armor, droplets glinting like gold in the sunlight as they trail from his body. 

His breastplate flashes in the light, his shield raised like a promise of violence.

Clarisse barely has time to react. Her eyes widen, surprise flickering across her face as she jerks her spear up in a desperate block. 

Too late. 

Percy slams his shield into her ribs at full force, and the impact shudders through both of them. She staggers back with a pained cry.

Good. 

Make it hurt.

Percy rolls to the side—dodging someone's sword swinging towards his face—and scoops his own sword off the dirt where he'd dropped it. 

He yanks the shield off his arm and it clatters to the ground. 

He doesn't care if he gets hurt. 

It's only going to slow him down.

The other Ares kids close in, but they’re nothing more than shadows in his periphery. Irrelevant.

This is about her.

His attacks are relentless, fueled by something primal, something deeper than thought. 

His movements are clumsy and unpracticed, but he makes up for it in sheer brutality.

Strike after strike, he forces her back.

Merciless. 

Her eyes are wide and scared. 

Percy doesn’t care.

He needs to see her to break. 

He is distantly aware of the tears streaming down his face.

His arms are shaking.

Clarisse braces desperately against each blow, but he doesn’t stop. “What the f—” 

Percy doesn’t let her finish. 

He twists, sidesteps, and in a single motion fueled by the weight of a thousand injustices, brings his sword down, slamming it against the shaft of her spear. 

Her weapon shatters, the crack of celestial bronze splitting the air like a thunderclap.

The forest stills.

Clarisse stares at the broken weapon, disbelief and pain twisting her features.

Her friends don’t move. No one speaks.

Then Clarisse screams, a sound full of rage and hurt. 

She falls to the ground, gripping the broken remnants of her weapon like she can will it back together.

Percy’s chest heaves, his heart pounding like war drums in his ears. 

He tastes salt and iron on his tongue, feels the charge in the air. 

He is a thing of violence now, a cruel, unstoppable tide. 

And she still needs to feel the pain she caused him.

Clarisse meets his gaze.

She looks afraid.

Good.

He stomps forward, sword raised, heart pounding with something dark and undeniable.

And Clarisse flinches. 

The movement is small—barely there—but it slams into Percy like a punch to the gut. 

He staggers back, suddenly sick with himself. 

The rage, the power, the heady rush of fury—it all vanishes. Gone in an instant, leaving nothing but cold, empty horror in its wake.

Because he knows that flinch.

He’s felt it in his own muscles, trained into him over years of knowing exactly when to brace for impact. 

He’s felt it in the way he’d stare at Gabe, trying to pretend he wasn't waiting for the next blow. 

And now Clarisse is looking at him like that.

No, no, no.

Oh gods, what has he done?

He had wanted to hurt her. To make her feel small. To make her suffer.

And he'd enjoyed it.

Gabe used to say it was an accident, that he didn't mean it, that it wouldn't happen again. 

Percy swore— swore —he’d never be like him.

But in that moment, he was.

It doesn’t matter what she did first. It doesn’t matter.

He is not Gabe.

He refuses to be.

Percy swallows hard, the taste of iron lingering on his tongue. The world around him is too sharp, too bright, every sound too loud, every breath too thin. His heart hammers against his ribs, a sick, frantic rhythm that has nothing to do with the fight.

His trembling fingers lower the sword.

Slowly, carefully, he moves toward Clarisse. She watches him from the dirt, shoulders hunched, wary, her breath uneven. Her eyes flick between him and the blade still clutched loosely in his hand.

She’s waiting for him to hurt her.

The thought makes his stomach churn.

He bends down and extends his free hand.

For a long moment, she doesn’t take it.

Then, hesitantly, her fingers curl around his, rough and calloused and shaking just the slightest bit. He pulls her up, steady, careful, trying not to make any sudden movements. 

Trying not to be a threat.

"I—" The words stick in his throat, thick with something he doesn’t have the strength to name. He forces them out anyway. "I’m so sorry."

Clarisse stiffens, like she wasn’t expecting that, like the very idea of an apology is foreign. Her grip tightens before she yanks her hand away, her expression hardening, something closing off behind her eyes. 

“Tch.” She turns her face away. “Whatever, Jackson.”

And then she limps off, back toward her friends, back toward the trees.

They glare at him as they disappear, like he’s the villain.

Maybe he is.

Clarisse doesn't look back.

Percy’s knees hit the dirt. His arms feel useless, his body too heavy, his stomach a hollow pit of sickness.

He wants to throw up.

Movement catches his eye downstream—

Luke.

He bursts through the trees on the other side of the creek like a golden streak, his armor glinting in the fading light, his expression sharp, determined. The red banner flutters wildly in his grasp.

Right.

Capture the Flag.

Percy watches through dull, exhausted eyes as Luke weaves through his pursuit like it’s effortless. Gods, it looks like a third of camp is after him.

Then, with one last push, Luke leaps—effortless, fluid—across the creek, boots landing on friendly territory.

The conch horn blows. The game is over. For a second, there’s only silence.

Then the woods erupt.

Campers spill from the trees downstream, cheers ringing through the air, laughter bursting from grinning mouths. Helmets are thrown, backs are clapped, victory is celebrated.

Luke stands at the center of it all, flushed with triumph, a golden beacon of everything Percy isn’t.

Percy just kneels there.

Far away.

Alone.

A shimmer in the air shifts beside him, and then—just like that—Annabeth steps into view. “You did well.”

For fuck's sake. 

He slowly pushes himself to his feet, every movement stiff, controlled. “You were there,” Percy realizes, voice hoarse. “The whole time.”

Annabeth presses her lips together, her chin lifting slightly. “Yes.”

He lets out a sharp breath. “And you just… watched?”

A muscle in her jaw tightens. “We needed a distraction. You were an easy target and kept them occupied.”

Percy laughs, but it’s a broken, humorless thing. “Occupied?” He takes a step forward, shaking his head. “I was getting beaten into the ground, Annabeth. That’s not a distraction. That’s a bloodbath.”

Annabeth's expression doesn’t change, but her fingers twitch at her sides. “I knew you could handle it.”

Percy recoils, something inside him twisting. “You knew I’d—are you hearing yourself? What if you were wrong?” His breath shudders. “What if they had actually—”

“I wasn’t wrong,” she cuts in, too quickly.

Percy stares at her. She says it like she believes it, like she needs to believe it.

Like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as him.

The realization makes his stomach churn.

She knows she messed up. She just won’t say it.

“You left me,” he whispers. “You left me with them.”

Annabeth’s expression wavers—just for a second, just long enough for him to see the regret in her eyes. But then her pride slams down over it like a shield, locking it away.

“It wasn’t personal,” she says, and even she sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it.

Percy’s vision blurs.

“Not personal,” he repeats, voice hollow. He swallows hard, something thick and awful lodging in his throat. “You sound just like them.”

Annabeth inhales sharply. “That’s not—”

Percy shakes his head. “Clarisse and Ga–her friends don’t see me as a person. Just some dumb kid to push around, something to take their anger out on. And you…” He meets her eyes, his own burning. “You just see me as a pawn in whatever stupid game you're playing.”

Annabeth stiffens, but she doesn’t argue.

She doesn’t have to. He already knows the truth.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through him. He had trusted her. He had actually thought…

No. He won’t make that mistake again.

“They could have killed me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Then his fists clench, jaw locking. “And I—I could have killed Clarisse.”

Annabeth swallows, her mask slipping just enough for him to see something raw beneath it. She looks like she wants to say something—maybe even that she’s sorry.

But then her eyes flicker to his forearm.

Her brows furrow. “Your arm—”

Percy blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Annabeth ignores him. “Your arm,” she repeats. “You were bleeding. You—” She reaches for him. “How did you—”

Her fingers brush against his skin, and Percy wrenches away from her touch. “I don’t care about my goddamn arm!” His voice shakes, raw and ragged. His pulse is still racing with the phantom weight of his sword swinging down, of Clarisse flinching. “I care that you left me to—”

His voice cuts off.

His arm is fine.

In the chaos of it all, he'd forgotten about the wound to his forearm.

He remembers the deep slice, the way his hand had gone numb, the way the sword had hit the dirt, useless in his grip. The pain had been very real. He had felt it.

But now? There’s nothing.

No blood. No gaping wound. Not even a scar. No sign he’d ever been hurt at all.

Annabeth curses under her breath, her voice tight. “This is not good.”

Percy’s chest tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

Before she can answer—

The same low, guttural growl he'd heard earlier rumbles through the trees.

The air shifts.

The victory cheers vanish. Campers turn, eyes darting toward the sound.

Then, a howl—deep, bone-rattling, close.

Shouts erupt from downstream, panic spreading like wildfire. Armor clinks, swords unsheath, but Percy can barely register it over the sudden, overwhelming sense of wrongness pressing in on him.

Chiron’s voice cuts through the chaos. "My bow! Now!"

The undergrowth parts—

And the hound steps out.

Black as midnight, its fur seems to absorb the sunlight. Muscles ripple beneath its massive frame, bigger than any dog should be—bigger than a rhino. 

Ember-like eyes burn into Percy, locking onto him with terrifying precision. Its lips curl, revealing teeth longer than his fingers, dripping with something viscous and dark.

Annabeth moves without hesitation, stepping in front of him, her sword flashing. "Run," she orders.

Percy doesn’t get the chance.

The hound lunges, leaping over Annabeth.

Instinct takes over—he barely manages to dive to the side and avoids the teeth aimed at his throat, but it doesn't matter. The creature is too fast, too strong. 

Claws like daggers tear through his breastplate like tin foil, raking across his chest.

White-hot pain explodes through him and he falls to the ground. The world narrows to the agony burning across Percy’s torso.

Then—

Arrows whistle through the air.

The hound jerks.

A final, shuddering growl rattles through its body before it collapses, dead, inches from Percy’s head.

The world tilts. Percy’s vision swims, dark at the edges.

Pain.

Blinding, searing, all-consuming.

Percy gasps, but no air comes.

His lungs won’t work. Won’t move.

A sharp, wet rattle shudders deep in his chest. Wrong. Something is wrong.

The pressure builds, crushing him from the inside.

Blood. There's so much blood.

Hot and sticky, pooling beneath him.

Hands press against his chest, and he screams.

The sound barely makes it past his lips. 

His breath catches on something wet and awful and suddenly he’s choking.

Drowning—

Suffocating —

He claws weakly at his chest, his body desperate to expel whatever’s filling his lungs, but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to fix.

Somewhere above him, voices are shouting.

“…lung…punctured…”

“...someone—nectar!”

“…gods, so much blood—”

“…stay awake!”

The voices blur together.

Percy’s world is narrowing, shrinking down to pain and the awful, wet pressure in his chest.

Then—Luke.

His face appears above him, pale and horrified. Terror is carved into his features, raw and wrong. His eyes are wild, his cheeks streaked with tears. 

He’s saying something—begging. Percy can’t hear it, not really, just the shape of the words on Luke’s lips.

“Gods, please—”

“Not like this—”

“Save him—”

Luke is praying.

That can’t be right.

Luke doesn’t pray.

Percy’s lips part, but no sound comes out.

He wants to say something. Tell Luke it's okay.

Luke grips his face, his hands warm and shaking. “Hold on, big guy,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “Just—hold on, okay?”

Percy tries.

He really does.

But everything is slipping. 

Drifting.

Somewhere to the side, Annabeth is yelling.

Her voice cuts through the haze, frantic and sharp. 

Water . 

She’s shouting about water.

Why?

Percy can’t make out the words, but she sounds desperate.

Strong arms slide beneath him, careful, gentle.

He barely feels them.

That should scare him, but he’s too far gone.

The world tilts.

Luke holds him close, pressing Percy’s head against his shoulder.

Luke’s shaking.

Then—cold.

Water .

Percy barely notices the moment Luke sinks down with him, letting the creek rush over his body.

It’s everywhere—soaking through his clothes, lapping at his wounds, covering every inch of him.

Percy gasps—and breath floods his lungs.

Not blood. Not pain.

Air.

Pure and clean and real.

Something surges through him.

Power.

It burns through his veins, sweeping away the pain, the weakness, the tightness in his chest.

He sucks in a breath.

Luke chokes on a sob.

The water cradles Percy like something alive, wrapping around him, pulling him back from the brink. His chest expands freely, no more blood clogging his lungs, no more stabbing pain with every breath.

He’s healed.

The world rushes back in all at once.

Luke’s arms are still around him, tight, like he’s afraid to let go. His whole body is trembling, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts against Percy’s hair.

Annabeth is there too, her bloodstained hands hovering, her face wet with something she’d never call tears.

Percy exhales, his breath steady. Whole.

The world makes sense again. The water rushes around him, cool and fresh, the current humming against his skin like a second heartbeat. Sunlight spears through the canopy above, golden and dappled, catching in the ripples, making the creek shimmer like liquid glass. The scent of pine and damp earth fills his lungs, crisp and clean, and when he blinks, the sky above is endless and impossibly blue.

Percy realizes that it's quiet. Too quiet. Only then does he notice everyone else.

The entire camp stands at the edge of the creek, faces pale and in varying states of shock. Eyes are wide, hands are pressed to their faces, and some campers look like they might be sick. No one moves. No one speaks. It’s like the whole camp is holding its breath, waiting—watching.

Percy follows their gaze, his stomach twisting. His breastplate is absolutely shredded. There’s still blood in the water, swirling in thin, crimson ribbons around him. His blood. 

A younger camper lets out a choked sob, and just like that, the moment shatters. Whispered voices rise in the crowd, some frantic, some awed, some scared. Because this wasn’t just a game or a sparring match—this was real. He should be dead. 

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he's still here.

A strange, twisting weight settles in his chest.

He shifts, trying to sit up. It takes some convincing, but Luke finally releases his hold, shaking hands steadying him, guiding him upright like he’s something fragile.

Percy sways but stays upright, the water still lapping around him like it refuses to let him go. His body feels whole. Stronger than it has any right to be after what just happened. But the weight in his chest lingers, coiled tight.

And then—light.

It catches his attention first as a shimmer in the air, an impossible glow that ripples like sunlight dancing on water. It flickers at the edges of his vision, glinting against the stunned faces around him. Someone gasps. Another camper stumbles back, their spear slipping from their fingers with a dull clatter.

Percy frowns. “What—?”

Then he sees it.

Above his head, clear as day, a trident blazes in the air, glowing an impossible blue.

The breath leaves his lungs all at once.

Annabeth inhales sharply, something between a curse and a prayer slipping from her lips.

Luke’s hands, still braced against his shoulders, turn to stone. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

Chiron is the first to speak. He steps forward, his expression unreadable, his voice carrying over the stunned silence.

“Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of Poseidon.”

Shit .

Chapter Text

Percy Jackson was nine years old the first time he tried to kill himself.

He didn't want to die, not really.

But he couldn't see another way out.

He had begged, first.

Had begged the world for someone, anyone, to rescue him from the nightmares that weren’t nightmares at all, from the hands that gripped too hard, that held him down, that took without asking. He had stared up at the sky, whispered cries into the wind, voice small and broken and pleading.

But the sky was empty.

The ocean did not rise for him.

The wind did not whisper his name.

The rain just kept pouring, sliding down his cheeks until he couldn’t tell where it ended and his own tears began.

Percy had screamed into the void until his throat was raw, until his voice cracked and bled, until his throat burned and his lungs ached and his own cries felt like betrayal. 

Until silence was the only answer left.

Did Poseidon see him that day? 

Did he hear the silent prayers, the ones that went unanswered for so long that Percy stopped believing in prayer at all?

Did he look down from his kingdom and watch his son unravel? 

Did he trace Percy’s pain in the salt on his skin, in the tremor of his hands, in the way he tore himself apart and called it survival?

Did he see?

Did he care?

Where was he?

Now the name—father—tastes foreign, bitter. It tastes like salt and blood and broken promises. It sits wrong in Percy’s mouth, in his chest, in the hollow spaces where something should have been.

It is a title Percy will never say with reverence, never whisper with hope. 

For what kind of father watches his child drown and doesn’t reach for them?

What kind of god could see a child harm themselves, believing they deserve it, and do nothing?

Percy had once believed in heroes. He doesn’t anymore.

At least, not until he met Luke.

- - -

The night breathes around them, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the ghost of summer heat still clinging to the ground beneath their backs. The sky stretches wide above them, deep and endless, a canvas of stars flickering in and out of wispy clouds.

The world is asleep. But not them.

Percy lies sprawled in the dirt of the training grounds, dust clinging to his skin, the ache of the day settling deep in his bones. His body still remembers the weight of the hellhound, the way its claws tore through him, the cold certainty that he wasn’t going to get back up. The feeling lingers, raw and real, long after the battle has ended.

He tries not to look beyond the flickering torchlight, at the malicious shadows his mind conjures in the darkness.

He exhales.

Beside him, Luke lies just as still, hands folded over his stomach, gaze fixed on the sky. But Percy can feel it—the tension wound tight beneath his skin, the way his breath is a fraction too measured, too controlled. Luke tenses every time a branch snaps in the woods, even though they both know it’s just the wind or some harmless creature passing through.

He’s been like this all night, hovering at Percy’s side, sticking so close it’s like he’s afraid Percy might disappear if he looks away. 

Luke has sat stiffly at dinner, barely eating, too busy scanning the pavilion like he expected another attack at any moment. He sat beside Percy at the campfire, silent and tense, eyes flicking to every shadow beyond the flames. And when the campfire songs started, Percy couldn’t bring himself to join in, his mind too tangled to find the words. But Luke didn’t sing either. He just sat there, eyes troubled, and glared at anyone who dared approach.

They really should be sleeping. The camp has moved on from today’s fight. (Or yesterday's fight, technically, Percy thinks they passed midnight about an hour ago.) And Percy had been granted one last night in the Hermes cabin before he moves to his dad's cabin his new place, which he really should take advantage of. 

But Percy knew his dreams would not be kind to him tonight, so he gave up entirely on the idea of sleep. Luke also seemed too worked up to rest, antsy and watching Percy like a hawk.

So here they are.

They didn’t even spar at all like they usually do during their midnight outings, both too exhausted to move. Instead, they just plopped down in the dirt and lay looking up at the sky.

The air is thick with summer warmth, but the night is cool, the breeze threading through the trees, rustling the leaves like whispers. Somewhere in the distance, the lake laps at the shore, slow and steady, and the frogs sing in harmony with the crickets. 

Percy’s voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks.

“Luke?”

A soft hum. “Hmm?”

Percy studies the constellations, tracing them with his eyes, wondering if his father is watching. Wondering if he cares.

“Did you…Have you ever met your dad?” The word feels wrong in his mouth, too human for the gods they’re discussing, too real for something so distant.

Luke’s breath catches, just for a second. It’s subtle, but Percy hears it.

“Once,” he says, voice low, like the words are heavy in his throat. He shifts slightly, the sound of his body moving in the still night air. “One time.”

Percy frowns. “Once?”

Luke exhales a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s more than most of us get.”

Percy hesitates, then, “Did he—” He stops. The question he really wants to ask lodges in his throat, cold and hollow. He isn’t sure he wants the answer.

Luke answers anyway.

“He knew,” he says simply, jaw tense. And that's all he has to say.

“Oh.”

The silence that follows is heavier than the air, thicker than the shadows stretching long across the ground. The stars above him seem endless, distant, and unreachable, just like everything else in his life.

Then Luke exhales, slow and measured, and Percy turns his head to look at him. Luke's eyes are closed, his face pinched, and he looks absolutely exhausted. Seeing Percy nearly bleed out seems to have really shaken him up, and Percy wishes he could do something to help. 

“You okay?” Percy whispers.

Luke meets his eyes but doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The torchlight flickers across his face, casting his scar in shadow, and the golden light catches in his eyes. Somewhere to his right, Percy can hear a particularly loud frog croaking its little heart out.

Finally, Luke takes a shaky breath. He's stiff, almost looking like he's in pain. “They don’t—They don’t really care about us, Percy.” His words come out sharp and choppy, and Percy wonders when he last had a full night of sleep.

Luke’s fingers dig into the ground beside him. “They don't care about you, don't care about me, they don't—They don’t care about any of us.” 

Percy’s throat tightens as he hears the thoughts he's never dared to vocalize. He thinks about his own father, all the times Percy cried out desperately for help as a kid. 

Where was he?

Luke's voice is a hoarse, choked whisper, and his eyes are squeezed shut. “They just sit up there on their thrones, Percy, watching, taking what they want, tossing us aside when they’re done. And we’re—we're supposed to be grateful for it.” 

A beat of silence, no sound except the roaring in Percy’s ears and the distant chirps of crickets. Then Luke lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head jerkily. “The gods don’t deserve our loyalty.”

Percy swallows. He doesn’t know what to say, what to think. So he just quietly reaches out, his fingers brushing Luke’s arm.

Luke blinks once, then finally meets Percy’s gaze. He drags in a long, shaky breath and lets it out slowly, air hissing through his teeth. 

When Luke speaks again, his voice is steady in a way that sounds a bit forced. His face is pinched and tight, but his expression is focused and startling in its sudden intensity, his brown eyes pinning Percy in place.

“But that doesn’t mean we have to stop caring.”

Percy blinks. “What?”

Luke presses on, still looking at Percy like this is the most important thing he's ever said. “They don’t get to decide who we are. They don’t get to take everything and leave us with nothing. We care because we choose to, because we’re better than them.” 

Luke’s voice dips lower, almost pleading. “You don’t owe them anything, Percy. Not your loyalty, not your pain, not a damn thing.”

Percy swallows. The words hit deep, settling into something old and aching inside him. “Then why do I still want him to care?” The admission slips out before he can stop it, and he hates how small he sounds.

Luke’s gaze softens, just a little. “Because you’re a good person,” he says simply, his eyes sad. “Because you still believe people should love their kids. Because you haven’t let them turn you into something bitter and empty.”

Percy shifts uncomfortably, turning away to look up at the stars again. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He doesn’t want to admit that it hurts, that it still burns, even after everything.

But Luke doesn’t let it go.

“Percy,” he says, quiet but persistent. “I know it hurts. I know you want to stop feeling it, to shut it off so it doesn’t weigh you down anymore. But don’t. Don’t let them take that from you.”

Percy frowns. He's lost the thread of this conversation. Are they still talking about the gods? “Take what?”

Luke doesn’t hesitate. “Your compassion. Your hope. Your ability to care, even when no one cares about you.”

Percy lets out a breath that tastes like salt and bitterness. “I don’t—” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I have much of that left.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Luke giving him a look—steady, knowing. “Yes, you do.”

Percy exhales sharply, shaking his head again. Apparently Luke doesn't know him as well as he thought. “You don’t know that.”

Luke shakes his head fiercely, like he knows exactly what Percy’s thinking. “It’s there,” he insists. “Even if you don’t want to admit it. You wouldn’t be this angry, this frustrated, if you didn’t still believe things should be better. That people should do the right thing. That the gods should care.”

Percy swallows hard, unsure why Luke’s words are making his chest feel so tight. “Maybe,” he mutters.

Luke looks away, staring up at the sky like he’s searching the stars for the right words.

When he speaks again, it's careful. Deliberate.

“Not everyone keeps that part of themselves, Percy,” he says slowly. “A lot of people—when they get hurt enough, when they get tired enough—they decide it’s not worth it anymore. They let the anger take over, and they think it makes them stronger, but really, it just changes them.” 

He pauses, jaw tight, like he’s measuring every word. “And once you go down that path, it’s hard to come back.”

Percy glances at him. There’s something too cautious about the way Luke is speaking, too controlled. Like he’s saying one thing but meaning another.

“Luke?” Percy asks, unsure why his stomach suddenly feels heavy.

Luke inhales slowly. “I just need you to remember something,” he says, voice quieter now, but intense. “No matter how much it hurts, no matter how angry you get, you still have a choice.”

Percy frowns. “A choice?”

“To hold on to the things that make you you.” Percy meets Luke’s gaze, and he feels like he's missing something. “To not let them take you away from yourself.”

Percy swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”

Luke clears his throat, running a hand through his hair and staring blankly up at the sky. “The gods don’t care, Percy. But that doesn’t mean you have to stop caring too.”

There's a moment where neither of them say anything. The gentle breeze blows through the trees, leaves fluttering in the darkness. Somewhere in the woods a branch snaps, and Luke jumps. Then he looks back at Percy, his eyes tired and kind, and looks at him like he’s trying to burn the image into his memory. 

“You’re not like them, Percy,” Luke says, his voice steady, but there’s something in it now—something fierce, something protective. 

“You still care. You still give a damn, even when it’s easier not to. Don’t let anyone— anyone —take that from you.”

- - -

The sun is already up when Grover finds him.

Percy is sitting on the steps of Cabin Three, arms slung over his knees, staring at the lake. He doesn't know how long he's been there. He hasn't gone inside, yet. Hasn't even opened the door. 

Footsteps crunch on the gravel path. A hesitant pause. Then—

“Hey, uh… you good?”

Percy doesn’t bother looking up. “Take a wild guess.”

Grover sighs and sits down next to him, hooves scuffing against the wood. He fidgets with a dried up leaf that had blown onto the porch at some point. “Chiron and Mr. D want to see you.”

Percy exhales slowly. “Yeah? What if I don’t go?”

“Then Mr. D will probably turn me into a shrub for not making you go.”

Percy tilts his head. “A shrub?”

Grover nods grimly. “It’s happened before.”

Percy presses his lips together. He’s exhausted, sore, and the last thing he wants to do is deal with Dionysus, but Grover doesn’t deserve to get stuck in the crossfire.

“Fine,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s get this over with.”

Grover stumbles after him, looking relieved, and they start toward the Big House. The morning air is crisp, the scent of pine thick in the breeze.

Then, halfway there, they round a corner and almost run straight into Annabeth.

She stops short, eyes widening. “Oh.”

Percy clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to deal with this. Not now.

Annabeth hesitates, then squares her shoulders. “I was looking for you.”

Percy doesn’t respond. He just stares at her, face purposefully blank.

Annabeth shifts her weight, glancing at Grover before looking back at Percy. “I—” She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize. For yesterday.”

Percy crosses his arms. “Oh, you mean for setting me up as bait? Letting Clarrisse and her friends jump me while you stood there and watched?”

Annabeth flinches. “I didn’t—” She stops, exhaling sharply. “I wasn’t thinking. I just—” She hesitates, frustration flickering across her face before she forces herself to continue. “It wasn’t fair. What I did. I shouldn’t have used you like that. And I'm really sorry.”

Percy’s fingers twitch at his sides. He clenches them into fists.

Annabeth shifts under his gaze. “I don’t expect you to be okay with it,” she says after a moment. “I just—I needed you to hear it.”

Percy exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight. He can tell she means it. Her voice is steady, her eyes unwavering. And he knows how hard this must be for her, to admit she was wrong.

But her regret doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t erase the feeling of betrayal, sharp and cold beneath his skin.

“That’s great, Annabeth,” he says finally, voice flat. “Really. But I don’t take my trust being broken lightly.”

Annabeth closes her eyes and lowers her head. “I know.”

“Do you?” His voice is sharper than he means it to be, but he doesn’t take it back. “Because it sure didn’t seem like it yesterday.”

Annabeth folds her arms across her chest, shoulders curled inward like she’s bracing for a fight. But she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to justify it. 

He exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You’ve got your camp, your strategies, your plans. But I’m not a piece on your stupid chessboard, Annabeth. I’m a person.”

Her expression twists, like the words sting. She nods stiffly. “I know.”

Percy shakes his head. “Yeah. Sure you do.”

Silence stretches between them. The morning wind picks up, rustling the leaves. Annabeth doesn’t move. Neither does he.

Then, finally, Percy shakes his head, stepping past her. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters.

Annabeth stays where she is, but he can feel her eyes on him as he walks away. She doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t call after him.

Grover hurries to catch up, his hooves scuffing against the dirt. He shoots Percy a sidelong glance, like he’s debating whether to say something, but in the end, he just sighs. The quiet between them stretches, thick and heavy, but Percy doesn’t try to fill it. He doesn’t have the energy.

- - -

The Big House looms in front of them, blue and weathered, its wraparound porch creaking in the morning breeze. The last time Percy was here was his first day at Camp (or technically the day he woke up, he's still not entirely clear on that timeline.) 

He had barely been conscious and was on the brink of losing it completely. He'd been so overwhelmed and out of his depth that he hadn’t been able to process much beyond the strangeness of it all. Now, stepping up onto the porch with Grover at his side, it feels more surreal than ever.

Mr. D and Chiron are already waiting at the same table as before. A can of diet coke sits in front of Dionysus. He’s watching Percy. Percy keeps his gaze fixed somewhere over Mr. D's shoulder, ignoring the way his eyes seem to dissect him, as if he already knows what’s going on inside Percy’s head.

Percy hates this. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this. 

“Sit,” Chiron says, polite but firm.

Percy sits.

Chiron turns to Grover. “Go inside, please.”

Grover shifts uneasily, looking between Percy and the two figures at the table. His hooves scuff against the wood. “But—”

“Now, Grover,” Chiron says, not unkindly.

Grover hesitates for a beat longer, then nods, shooting Percy a worried look before stepping inside. The door swings shut behind him, leaving the porch silent except for the wind and the distant clang of swords from the arena.

Percy crosses his arms. “So what’s this about?”

Chiron exhales. “I wanted to see how you were doing, after yesterday.”

“Fine,” Percy says shortly.

Chiron studies him, like he doesn’t quite believe it, but doesn’t push. 

“Percy, I won’t sugarcoat this. Someone purposefully let that hellhound into camp. From the inside.”

Percy stiffens. “What?”

Chiron nods grimly. “Monsters can’t just enter camp on their own. The protective barrier prevents that. Which means someone summoned it. Likely to target you.”

Percy’s pulse spikes. The memory of the hellhound’s claws sinking into him is too fresh, the pain still too real. He grips the arm of his chair, his nails pressing into the wood. “Why?”

Mr. D exhales loudly, like this conversation bores him. “Oh, just get to the point.”

Chiron shoots him a look, then turns back to Percy. “The master bolt was stolen.”

Percy blinks. “What?”

“Zeus’s master bolt,” Chiron clarifies, like that should mean something to him. “His most powerful weapon. It was stolen from Olympus during the winter solstice. And Zeus believes you took it.”

Percy stares at him. “That’s—” He almost laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”

Chiron’s expression remains serious. “He believes you stole it on your father’s orders.”

Percy’s stomach drops. “My—” He swallows. “My father.”

“Now that Poseidon has claimed you, Zeus sees it as an act of defiance. An act of war.” Chiron’s tone is calm, measured, but Percy feels the weight behind his words. “Zeus has demanded the master bolt be returned by the summer solstice, or there will be conflict on a scale we haven’t seen since the Titan War.”

Percy grips the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles ache.

He was never anything to Poseidon. Never worth acknowledging, never worth saving. And now, the second it’s convenient for the gods, suddenly he matters? Is that why he was claimed? Not because Poseidon cares, but because he needs someone to do his dirty work?

His stomach twists with something bitter, something furious. “So what am I supposed to do? I don't even know where the fucking thing is.”

“Language,” Chiron chides softly, and Percy resists the urge to scream.

“Regardless, I do believe we can help you out there. We have… a lead, of sorts. Think, Percy. Who would benefit when two of the strongest gods are occupied in a war? Who would be next to rise to power?”

Percy can't believe this guy used to be his favorite teacher. “You think Hades took it,” he says flatly.

Chiron nods. “That is my suspicion, yes. If you wish to clear your father’s name, you will have to go to the Underworld and retrieve it.”

Percy can't believe this. “You want me to go to the Underworld.”

“Yes.”

“And fight a god to get a lightning bolt.”

“Very likely.”

“To clear my father’s name.”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

“And you do realize I'm twelve, right?”

Chiron just looks at him blankly, like he doesn’t see the absolute lunacy in this reasoning. 

It's official, Percy actually died with his mom in a car wreck and this is his personal hell. Because there's no way this is real.

In what world does this make sense? Why would Percy even care about a stupid lightning bolt? And his father can go rot as far as Percy is concerned. The guy never gave a damn about Percy, so why should Percy care? 

Percy lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. 

Mr. D clears his throat uncomfortably, glancing at Percy in a way that almost looks concerned. “Chiron, perhaps we should—”

Percy cuts him off. “You know what, no, you're all crazy. This is crazy. Let the gods have their pissing contest. Zeus can go fuck himself, I don't care about a stupid lightning bolt.”

Chiron freezes, staring at Percy in horror as thunder rumbles in the distance. Percy flips the bird in the general direction of the sky, chest heaving. Percy swears he sees Mr. D facepalm in the corner of his eye.

Chiron leans forward, looking concerned, his hands clasped. “Percy, I know this is a lot to ask—”

“Then don’t ask it,” Percy snaps. “I’m not doing it. You can find someone else.”

Silence.

Chiron’s face remains calm, but Percy can see the tension in his shoulders. “Percy—”

“No.” Percy pushes himself up from his chair. “Find someone else to fight your stupid war.” He turns, intent on leaving before he does something he’ll regret.

The door of the house slams open, and Percy barely has time to jump before Grover steps out with determination.

Percy had forgotten he was inside. Grover had once told him that satyrs have excellent hearing, and he would bet anything that Grover had been listening in.

“Percy—”

Mr. D is already on his feet, his expression darkening. "Shut your mouth, goat.”

Grover flinches, but he doesn’t stop. "This might be your only chance—"

Mr. D moves faster than Percy has ever seen him move, snatching Grover’s arm with an iron grip and yanking him back toward the house. Grover stumbles, nearly losing his footing, his hooves scraping against the wooden porch.

"Silence, you fool," Mr. D hisses, his usual boredom replaced by something almost like fear. "You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Chiron is up, too, stepping between Percy and the chaos, his expression calm but his posture tense, bracing. "Grover, enough."

But Grover is fighting. This is the satyr who wouldn't even stand up to Nancy Bobofit. 

And now he's directly disobeying the god he's terrified of.

Percy has no idea what's going on, but he's sure as hell not about to leave his friend on his own. "Let him go!" Percy shouts, shoving past Chiron. But Chiron’s hand finds his chest, holding him back with surprising strength. Percy resists the urge to kick him in his stupid horse leg.

"Stay out of this, Percy," Chiron says, his voice warning, his eyes pleading.

“Fuck you,” Percy says, and wrenches out of his hold.

Grover twists violently in Mr. D’s grip, dislodging the hand over his mouth, his face contorted with effort. His voice comes out raw, a desperate, broken cry—

"Percy, your mom is alive!”

The world stops.

What?

No.

It's not possible.

Percy’s stomach lurches. His vision tunnels.

No, no, it can't be true.

She's dead. He was there.

But he sees the way Mr. D looks resigned as he releases his grip on Grover, the way Chiron is glaring at the satyr.

The porch feels like it’s tilting beneath Percy’s feet. His heartbeat is a drum against his ribs.

She's alive.

His mom is really alive.

Then the anger hits.

It surges through him like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. His whole body tenses, every muscle coiled so tight he might snap. His hands curl into fists so hard his nails bite into his palms, but he barely feels the pain. It’s drowned out by the sheer heat boiling beneath his skin, something deep and ancient, something that belongs to the sea itself—a force that could level cities, tear down mountains, and drag entire armies to their graves.

“You knew.” He glares at Chiron and Dionysus, his voice low, trembling with barely restrained fury.

Chiron exhales heavily. “Percy—”

“You knew.” He slams his fist onto the old decorative wooden porch railing, and it shudders with the impact. A crack splinters through the surface beneath his hand. “You’ve known this whole time.”

The world feels too bright, too sharp. Every sound, every movement is like a knife against his skin. 

“Where. Is. She.”

He's done playing their games.

“She was taken,” Chiron says quietly. “By Hades.”

The name alone sends another shockwave of fury through him. His mom—his kind, selfless, incredible mom—stolen away like a piece of treasure, like she was nothing more than a bargaining chip in some godly war Percy never asked to be part of.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracks, raw with emotion.

Chiron looks tired, the weight of centuries pressing into his shoulders. “Because I feared how you would react. And you didn’t need the distraction.”

Percy lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, you worried about how I’d react? And what, you thought keeping it from me would make me less angry?” He takes a step forward, and Chiron actually takes a step back. “You let me think she was dead. You let me grieve her.”

Grover shifts uncomfortably beside him, not looking at Mr. D, who is staring at Percy with an unreadable expression. The satyr speaks softly, like he’s afraid of setting him off more. “Percy… you can’t leave Camp unless you’re on a quest.”

A quest.

A fucking quest.

The realization slams into him like a freight train.

He has to play by their rules. They won’t let him leave to save her unless it benefits them.

The rage in his chest turns cold, sharp, crystallizing into something far more dangerous than blind fury. He straightens, and his voice is deadly quiet when he speaks.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go. But let’s get one thing straight.” His gaze sweeps over Chiron, Mr. D, and the entire gods-damned Camp itself. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m not doing this for Poseidon, or for Olympus, or for whatever petty war the gods are trying to start.” 

His voice hardens, ringing through the air like the crash of a wave against jagged rocks. “I’m going to get my mom. The rest of them can burn.”

Chiron sucks in a breath, but wisely doesn’t say anything. He just nods gravely, accepting the terms, not breaking eye contact. Percy returns it with a glare, not backing down. He can do this all day.

Then Mr. D claps once and breaks up whatever staring contest Percy and Chiron have going on. (Percy totally would have won, though, just for the record.) Dionysus grabs Grover's shoulder and says, “Well, as fun as this has been, goat-boy and I are due for a little chat .” 

Grover stiffens.

Percy remembers how Grover was already on thin ice after he didn't get Percy to camp safely. How he'd casually joked about being turned into a shrub. He’d risked everything, his life, his career, just to tell Percy the truth. 

Percy moves before he can think, closing the distance between him and Dionysus in a few furious strides. He jabs a finger into the god’s chest, his entire body practically vibrating with energy.

“You are not touching him."

The air around them stills.

Grover’s breath hitches. Chiron’s expression darkens. Mr. D’s brows shoot up, apparently startled by Percy's audacity and lack of self-preservation.

Percy doesn’t back down. He won’t.

“Grover’s coming with me,” he says, voice like stone. “If you really need me to go on this quest so badly, you’re going to leave him the fuck alone.”

Silence stretches between them. For a long, tense moment, Percy thinks Mr. D might actually do something—turn him into a dolphin, smite him where he stands, something.

Then, to his utter shock, Mr. D laughs.

Not a loud, boisterous laugh, but a quiet, knowing chuckle. He looks at Percy like he’s finally seeing him. Like Percy has passed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking.

“My, my,” Mr. D murmurs, smirking. “You have changed.” His gaze flickers with something unreadable. Almost soft. “Your mind is much more… stable than when I last saw you.”

Percy doesn’t know what the hell that means, and frankly, he doesn’t care.

Mr. D waves a lazy hand. “Fine. Take the goat.” He glances at Grover. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Then, just like that, the tension shatters. Mr. D and Chiron turn, stepping off the porch, leaving Percy and Grover standing in the aftermath.

For a moment, they just stand there, staring at Chiron and Mr. D's departing figures. Processing everything that just happened.

Then Grover exhales shakily, looking down. “I—I wanted to tell you sooner. I was scared.” He swallows. “For some reason, Mr. D really didn't want you to know.”

Percy forces himself to take a deep breath, shoving the residual anger deep, deep down. He turns to his friend, voice softer now. “I don’t blame you.” He places a hand on Grover’s shoulder, squeezing it. “I mean it. You risked everything to tell me. I’ll never forget that.”

Grover looks up, eyes wide. Percy gives him a small, grateful smile.

Then, without another word, Grover pulls him into a tight hug.

“We’re gonna get her back,” Grover promises. “No matter what.”

Percy closes his eyes, gripping the back of Grover’s shirt like a lifeline.

No matter what.

Chapter Text

The attic is a hot mess, just like everything else in Percy’s life.

Percy mutters a curse as he swats yet another cobweb out of his face, then gets even more frustrated when the damn thing gets stuck to his hand.

Stupid cobwebs. Stupid spiders. Stupid quest, stupid lying centaur, stupid manipulative gods, stupid, stupid, stupid.

His foot catches on something—an old, rotting cardboard box—and he barely catches himself from face planting into the dust-covered floor.

Because, of course, of course, they couldn't have put the super important prophecy ghost somewhere normal. Like, say, an air-conditioned office. With chairs. Maybe a vending machine. 

But no. Let’s make everyone crawl through cobwebs and piles of mouse droppings before they can hear their fate. It probably builds character or some bullshit like that.

Really, if Grover hadn't been the one to show him where to go, Percy would have assumed this was just Chiron or Mr. D being petty and getting back at him. (Because, let's be honest, that's probably what Percy would have done in their position.

Chiron doesn't seem to be a big fan of Percy anymore, for some reason. Fancy that. Luckily, the feeling is entirely mutual. 

When Chiron had approached him only a few hours after Percy had more or less told him he could take his stupid quest and shove it, Percy had just glared at the man. 

Centaur. Whatever.

And when Chiron had resignedly informed him that he could seek advice from the Oracle about his quest, Percy had instinctively wanted to refuse—out of spite, if nothing else. But the rational (and most ignored) part of his brain had recognized that he needs all the information he can get if he wants to save his mom. 

His mom. 

Gods, it still doesn't feel real.

His mom, who he’d thought was gone. His mom, who is still alive, still trapped, still waiting for him. The thought hits him again, sharp and electric, like lightning straight to his ribs. 

He still doesn’t know how to process it. That she’s there, somewhere in the underworld, waiting. Suffering. Because of him.

So here he is. 

Trying to navigate this messy, disgusting attic that feels like the inside of a convection oven.

He’s still muttering under his breath—he's moved on to something about stupid dads—when he finally notices it.

Percy stops.

Huh.

He tilts his head. “Well. That’s horrifying.”

Because sitting right there, slumped in a chair like she’s just hanging out, is a whole-ass corpse.

The Oracle of Delphi, in the decayed, mummified flesh.

She’s got that freshly dug-up aesthetic going on. Her skin is shriveled tight over her skull, eyes dull and sunken, teeth just barely visible between cracked lips. 

And she’s wearing a tie-dye shirt, which is somehow the worst part of all this.

Percy inhales. Okay. Sure. Why not. They made the all-powerful future-seeing oracle a hippie.

He doesn’t think anything can faze him anymore. 

So, like the completely normal, well-adjusted kid that he is, Percy steps forward and says, “Um, hello? Ms. Oracle lady?”

No reaction.

She just sits there. Blank. Staring.

Shit. What is he supposed to do? He wasn't trained for this. Is he supposed to say a magic word or something? Tap on her shoulder and pray her head doesn't fall off?

He’s about to turn around and head back downstairs to bother Grover and get better instructions when it happens.

The corpse moves.

Her back straightens, vertebrae creaking like an old door. Her jaw unhinges, and green mist pours out, curling around him. 

Percy instinctively holds his breath. Is this stuff safe to breathe in? Wouldn't that just be a fun way to go. 

Then, inside his skull, her voice speaks—layered and ancient, like a thousand women speaking together.

‘I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.’

Right.

Percy steps forward. “Hey, uh, what's up. What do you got for me?” 

Maybe he should have practiced that. 

The mist surges, churning violently, and Percy has just enough time to think about how he's going to go down into history as the kid who broke the Oracle by asking her ‘What's up.’

Oopsie.

But then it shifts, the mist coalescing into shapes, into figures.

Familiar shapes.

Familiar figures.

Percy's heart drops.

Because right in front of him, clear as day, is a poker table.

That poker table. The one that lives in that godforsaken apartment.

And there, lazing around it, watching him with knowing smirks, sits a group of men.

Percy’s still here. Still standing in the dusty old attic with a corpse.

But he's not. 

No.

No, no, no, no no—

Gabe leans back in his chair, smirking around a cigarette. Percy swears he can smell it, the ash burning his throat. Around him, the others are there, the same men from before, from that night, from those nights Percy doesn’t let himself think about.

Percy can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Gabe sneers at him, his mouth opening, and Percy braces for the words, for the disgust, for the sting that always, always comes.

But it’s not Gabe’s voice.

‘You shall go west, and face the god who has turned.’

Percy feels faint. 

Prophecy.

Right.

He digs his nails into his palms and forces himself to stay present, to not shut down like he longs to. 

He needs to listen. Memorize. He'll only hear this once, and it might be the key to getting his mom back.

She is more important than his pain.

The blond one, the one who had laughed as he— no, stop, don’t go there —leans forward, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

‘You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.’

Percy trembles, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

The man beside him turns— those dark eyes that had watched hungrily as Gabe tore his clothes off —and Percy’s knees nearly buckle.

‘You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend.’

Percy can't feel his hands. Is he supposed to feel his hands?

Then the last one. The one who had held him down, choked him—

‘And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.’

The mist vanishes. The attic returns.

Percy is still standing, but he doesn’t know how. His lungs aren’t working right. His hands are shaking. He’s here, but he’s not.

He falls to his knees.

His hands go to his hair, clutching, pulling, grounding, but he can't feel anything. His breath is too fast, too loud, but also too far away, like it belongs to someone else.

Frantically, he repeats the words to himself, the only thing currently keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

He will not let this be for nothing.

— You shall go west —

The shadows shift in the corners of the attic. They’re going to grab him. They’re going to—

— Face the god who has turned —

Luke.

He needs Luke.

Percy's moving now, tripping over things, he can't feel his feet, he's not real, none of this is—

— Find what was stolen —

The rickety ladder is there, but it shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t remember finding it. Then the attic is gone, then the apartment, then—

— See it safely returned —

Grover. Grover is here. His hands are on Percy’s arms, his mouth is moving, but Percy can’t make out the words because Percy isn't actually here he's back at that apartment with Gabe and— 

— Betrayed by one who calls you a friend—

They're walking now, and Percy's legs are moving, and he's lost in the blur of sound, of color, of movement that doesn’t make sense—

— Fail to save what matters most in the end—

Then warmth.

Arms around him. 

Familiar. Steady. Safe.

Luke.

The tears finally come and Percy collapses and Luke goes down with him and squeezes him tight—

Somewhere, far away, Percy can hear Luke saying something to Grover.

—And Percy clutches at Luke's shirt because Luke can never leave him because he'll die without him and—

Percy’s being carried now, held close, face tucked against Luke's shoulder.

—And Gabe was here and Percy was supposed to be safe here and now he's not and he'll never ever be safe from him—

A gentle hum, a soft, comforting song vibrating through Luke’s chest. 

—But that's not right. Percy is safe here, with Luke. 

Luke can protect him from all the monsters that haunt him.

Percy is distantly aware that he's being rocked, held tightly to Luke's chest as he hums. They're inside now, somewhere Percy doesn’t recognize.

But it doesn’t matter, because Luke's here, and so everything is okay.

Percy can hear Luke talking. Saying things like “You're gonna be okay, big guy. It's okay, I promise. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Percy’s safe.

Luke's here.

It's going to be okay.

Percy is exhausted and utterly drained. 

So he doesn't fight the darkness and lets the sweet embrace of sleep take him gently.

Here, in Luke’s arms, Percy finally sleeps.

Percy’s safe.

- 

-

-

-

-

Percy wakes up slowly.

-

That in itself is strange.

-

He’s used to waking up fast—ripping himself from nightmares with a thundering heart, gasping for breath. A fight-or-flight reaction before he even knows where he is.

But this?

This is soft. 

Warm. 

His body feels heavy, not with fear, but with something close to comfort. His mind is still. 

He blinks his eyes open.

The room is dimly lit, unfamiliar. His mind struggles to place it, but then his gaze lands on Luke, sitting on the ground by the foot of the bed.

Luke’s leaning back against the bed frame, his head tilted against it, staring blankly up at the ceiling, arms resting on his knees. He looks deep in thought, brows slightly drawn together, but his expression smooths when he notices Percy stirring.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives a soft, gentle smile. "Hey," he murmurs.

Percy drags a hand down his face. "Hey," he echoes, his voice rough from sleep.

He’s still groggy, limbs heavy. His mind feels like it’s swimming, like if he closes his eyes, he’ll drift right back under.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like when you wake up? No adrenaline. No panic. Just… cozy?

Huh. Weird.

Luke glances at his watch, correctly guessing what Percy is about to ask. "It’s almost 8 p.m. You slept for a good five hours. Dinner should still be going for a bit longer if you want to try to eat something."

Five hours. That’s… way longer than he usually sleeps in one stretch.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position and looks around. The bed beneath him is the only one in the room, and it feels out of place. Everything else feels untouched, sterile, like a display in a museum. The walls look pretty cool though, all shiny and shimmery. It reminds him of the abalone shells he used to collect on the beach.

“Where are we?” Percy yawns, rubbing his eyes. Man, he could still fall right back asleep if he tried. 

Luke clears his throat. “This, uh. This is Cabin Three, Percy.”

“Oh.” The place suddenly looks a whole lot less pretty.

Luke grimaces. “I’m sorry, I know. It’s just—you were freaking out, and I didn’t know where else to take you. You needed a bed, and I didn’t think you’d want the whole Hermes cabin seeing you like that. Or other campers in the infirmary. I didn’t know how out of it you’d be or if you might say something that—" He cuts off his rambling. "I just couldn’t think of anywhere else."

Percy exhales. "Oh. Okay."

Luke looks relieved that Percy isn’t upset. But the explanation leaves another question lingering in Percy’s mind.

"How did I…?" He frowns, trying to piece things together. "How did I get to you?"

His memories toward the end there are choppy, blurred at the edges. 

Luke drags a hand through his hair and exhales. “Grover brought you to me. Apparently, you kept saying my name. Thankfully, I was on my way to archery, and he found me pretty quickly. At that point, you were still able to walk on your own, with a little direction from him.”

Now that he thinks about it, Percy thinks he can remember Grover's “little direction” as being something more like Grover frantically tugging him along and holding him upright as his body tried to shut down.

Gods. He owes Grover so much. A gift basket. A lifetime supply of enchiladas. Something.

"Percy…" Luke hesitates. His voice is careful. "What happened? Grover caught me up about the quest and your mom, about you seeing the Oracle, but he wasn’t sure what actually happened up there." 

Luke's expression says that they will definitely be talking about the rest of that later, but this is the most pressing concern.

Percy swallows, pulling his knees to his chest.

"The Oracle, uh, did this thing with the mist," he says slowly. He picks at his fingernail, pulling on a hang nail. It starts bleeding, oozing slowly. He stares at the bead of crimson.

"It made Gabe and his friends appear. The ones that—yeah." He doesn’t finish, he doesn’t have to. Luke knows. "They gave me the prophecy. I guess I just… I wasn’t expecting to see them."

Luke looks like he’s going to be sick. His whole expression darkens, eyes blazing with something sharp and furious. "What the fuck," he breathes. His hands curl into fists. "That’s—that’s so beyond messed up. It shouldn’t have done that. I'm so sorry, Percy.”

Percy shrugs, looking down. “It's whatever.”

Luke looks like he wants to argue that statement, like there's more he wants to say, more he wants to ask, but he seems to know that Percy needs to be done for now.

So Luke just sighs, standing up from his spot on the floor, groaning quietly as his knees pop—had he really sat there the whole time?—and offers Percy a hand. 

“Come on. Let's get you some food.”

- - -

You shall go west, and face the god who has turned,

You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned,

You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend,

And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.

Percy stares at the words swimming disorientingly on the paper in front of him, his own messy handwriting seeming to mock him. 

The flashlight in his hand flickers slightly, the beam catching on the uneven dips and scratches of the page. Around him, the crickets hum their restless song, and a moth flutters too close, drawn to the artificial glow. He waves it away absently.

He could do this inside Cabin Three. It would certainly be a lot easier than sitting in the dirt outside the building, hunched over the crinkled paper with a flashlight. But he really doesn't want to go back in there.

But sitting out here alone feels wrong too.

Percy’s fingers tighten on the paper as he wonders what Luke is doing right now. Probably not sleeping.

Luke had been the one to bring him the paper and pencils when he asked, no hesitation. Now that Percy thinks about it, he probably got the supplies from Annabeth. She seems like the kind of person that would just have loose-leaf paper on hand. 

He ignores the sudden impulse to burn the papers out of spite and focuses on the task at hand.

You shall go west, and face the god who has turned.

That one seems simple enough. He'll find Hades somewhere to the west. Get his mom back. It seriously couldn't have been more specific, though?

You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.

That has to be her. It has to be.

You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend.

His stomach twists.

That one is a bit more damning, hard to rationalize away.

It's definitely not talking about Grover, he refuses to even entertain the thought. So it has to be whoever he chooses for his second companion.

Percy clenches his jaw. He wishes he could take Luke, someone else he knows will always be firmly on his side, but Luke had once confided in Percy about his failed quest. He'd sworn to Percy that he was never going to go on one again. He probably would still agree to come, if Percy asked him, but Percy can't make him do that.

So he's left with the current conundrum.

The obvious loophole is to take someone who isn't his friend. Someone who could never be his friend. Can you work around a prophecy like that? Do they always come true? Percy has no idea, but he's gonna try.

But who would fit that criteria?

His first thought is Clarisse, but he immediately discards the idea. Nope, that would be going a little too far in the wrong direction. 

Maybe a random Ares kid? They don’t like him, sure, but they don't seem to intrinsically hate him on the same level as Clarisse. 

But Percy doesn’t think he would be able to trust a stranger with something as important as this.

He needs someone he knows. Someone he can trust—to a degree. Someone who would be invested in helping him get his mom back. Someone who he isn't friends with, but wouldn’t actively sabotage his mission.

And then it hits him.

Wait…

Fuck.

There’s only one person who makes sense.

And he doesn't like it.

Annabeth.

She's the perfect option here. She's someone who he can never see himself really being friends with, not anymore, not after everything that went down. But Luke trusts her, and she would be a great asset and wealth of knowledge on a quest. 

And Percy remembers that day at Thalia's tree, when he, Luke, and Annabeth had sat around and talked about their grief. She had been different that day, soft and understanding, and seemed to really care about how his mom's death was affecting him. If he plays this right, he bets he can get her on his side.

Annabeth's a strategist. She wouldn't hesitate to shove him down a flight of stairs if it meant succeeding in the bigger picture. That had been the whole problem, the cause for their argument, the catalyst for his grudge. 

But that's exactly what he needs right now. 

If it comes down to saving him or saving his mom, Annabeth wouldn't let emotions get in the way of success. 

And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.

Percy's hands tighten into fists. He refuses to think too deeply on that one, on the implications there.

He’ll get her back. He will. He doesn’t care what the Oracle says. He doesn’t care if every god in Olympus lines up to smite him. He’ll fight a million monsters if he has to. He's going to get her back.

His mom is going to be fine.

It probably just means the stupid lightning bolt anyway. 

Yeah, that's definitely it.

- - -

The next morning, Percy spots Annabeth walking toward the dining pavilion, nose tucked into a book. He snorts. Of course.

At the sound, she looks up, startled. When she sees him approaching, her brows lift in surprise before her expression smooths into wary neutrality. She slides a bookmark into place and closes the book, holding it against her chest like a shield.

“Hi,” she says, guarded. Suspicious.

Right. The last time they talked, she had tried to apologize, and he’d refused to accept her apology.

Percy ignores the awkward tension and gets straight to the point. “I got a quest, and I want you to come.”

Her grip tightens slightly on her book, but she doesn’t say anything, just waits.

“My mom—she’s still alive.” The words still feel foreign in his mouth, and he swallows against the tight lump in his throat. “Hades has her. And now the gods think I stole Zeus’s lightning bolt because of Poseidon, or something, but we're pretty sure Hades has it too, and I'm supposed to find it and return it by the summer solstice. And all the prophecy told me is that Hades is somewhere in the west.”

Annabeth blinks as takes in his rambling explanation. She studies him, eyes sharp and calculating. “You’re only going so you can save your mom, aren’t you?”

Percy crosses his arms. “Is that a problem?”

She exhales through her nose. “The gods are going to kill you, you do realize that?”

He shrugs. As long as he can save his mom first.

Her lips pinch, like she wants to say something, but she just shakes her head instead.

“Why me?” she asks after a moment. “I thought you hated me.”

“No comment.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. Great answer.”

Still, she doesn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll help.”

Percy lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Grover’s coming too.”

Annabeth nods, like that makes sense. “When do you plan on leaving? And how are we traveling?”

Percy opens his mouth—then closes it. “…Uh.”

She sighs, already exasperated. “Right. I’ll talk to Chiron, see if I can get us train tickets or something. We should probably leave today, if we can. The solstice is in, what, like a week?”

Percy feels a spark of appreciation that someone else is handling the logistics of transportation. Then he immediately shoves it down. No. He doesn’t like her.

Annabeth turns to leave, but before she can take more than a few steps, the words burst out of him. “I—This doesn't mean we're friends, by the way.” He needs to be clear on that.

She stops. A flicker of something crosses her face, but it’s gone in an instant. “I never said we were,” she says simply.

“I haven’t forgotten what you did.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “I am well aware.”

She turns away again.

“Annabeth?”

She pauses, glancing back.

“Thank you.”

For a moment, she just looks at him, like she’s trying to decipher something. Then she gives a small nod and walks away.

Percy exhales, running a shaky hand through his hair.

One step closer. One step closer to her.

He can’t fail. He won’t fail.

Mom, just hold on.

- - -

Percy packs in silence, dragging reluctant hands through the pile of his things that someone had dumped in Cabin Three. 

Annabeth had found him and Grover earlier and let them know that they have bus tickets to leave this afternoon. It feels like things are moving too fast, but at the same time, not moving nearly fast enough.

The air inside is thick with dust, swirling in the afternoon light that filters through the open door. He’d propped it open for air, but it barely helps. The cabin still feels suffocating, like the walls are pressing in. He clenches his jaw. Just keep moving.

A knock on the doorframe.

Percy turns to see Luke leaning against it, a shoebox tucked under one arm. Percy’s relief at seeing him—he had been worried he wouldn't be able to track Luke down before they needed to leave—is immediately replaced with concern.

Luke looks… bad. Worse than Percy has ever seen him. His face is pale, drawn tight with something more than exhaustion.

Percy straightens, eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, come in.”

Luke steps inside, but before he makes it more than a few feet, he stumbles. He catches himself on the wall, pressing a hand to his head, wincing like someone just drove a nail through his skull. His whole body twitches as he breathes through gritted teeth.

"Whoa, you okay?" Percy asks, jumping up before he even realizes he’s moving.

Luke exhales sharply and waves him off, blinking hard like he’s trying to clear his vision. “Yeah, sorry. Just—just a bad headache. Stress. Gimme a second.”

Percy watches him, stomach twisting. He recalls what Luke had once told him about his failed quest. One of his teammates was brutally killed in front of him. Luke hadn't said, but Percy got the impression that he had been close friends with her. 

The realization suddenly strikes him. Oh gods, how hard must this be for Luke to watch Percy and Annabeth leave? If this were for anything besides his mom, Percy would have decided then and there to stay. Instead, Percy can only watch, helpless, as Luke falls apart.

Luke straightens, pulling himself together with a thin, forced smile. His hand trembles as he holds out the shoebox. “Don’t worry about it. Here. I—I have something that might help you.”

Percy takes it hesitantly. He wants to press, to make sure Luke's okay, but he knows that Luke doesn't want to talk about it. So instead, Percy opens the box. Inside, a pair of red high-tops stare back at him.

"Uh. Thanks?"

Luke snorts, but his smile is wobbly. "Maia."

The shoes in Percy’s hands sprout wings.

He yelps, dropping them as they flap wildly, fluttering around for a few moments before settling onto the floor. The wings fold back into the fabric like they were never there.

“Whoa, cool!”

Luke huffs out something like a laugh, but it sounds strained. “Gift from my dear old Dad. For my quest.” He rubs at his temple, voice thin. “Figured they might—they might help you.”

Percy looks down at the shoes, then back at Luke, who still looks vaguely like he might throw up. This is probably the only thing Luke ever got from his father. Which, yeah, Luke hates the guy, but it's still significant.

Percy swallows. “I’m sure they’ll come in handy. Thank you.”

He reaches for his bag to shove them inside, but Luke’s hand suddenly shoots out, grabbing his wrist.

Percy freezes. Luke’s skin is clammy, his fingers trembling. Luke searches his eyes.

“Listen,” he says, voice rough. “If something feels off… trust your gut. Don’t use anything you don’t absolutely need.”

Percy blinks, concerned. "Um. Okay." That advice was probably related to something that went wrong on Luke's quest.

Luke stares at him. His mouth parts like he wants to say something else, something more, but his fingers twitch, and his whole body goes rigid for half a second.

Then, just as suddenly, he lets go.

"Just saying," Luke mutters, his voice hollow.

Percy's worried about Luke. He had been fine just a few hours ago when he'd last seen him. But Percy knows better than anyone how memories can hit without warning, how sometimes they creep up and sink their claws in before you even realize they’re there.

Percy tosses the shoes onto the bed and pulls Luke into a hug.

Luke is shaking.

“Hey,” Percy murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

Luke’s arms tighten around him, his breath shuddering against Percy’s shoulder before he finally pulls away.

His hands rest on Percy’s shoulders, and Luke searches his face like he’s trying to commit it to memory. His eyes shine, wet, but he doesn’t let it spill over.

Then, abruptly, Luke let's go and scrubs his face, forcing a weak smile. “What time do you need to leave, anyway?”

Percy glances at the clock. “…In about ten minutes.”

Luke lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “And you just let me ramble about those damn shoes?”

Percy snorts and shoves him. "Hey now, we were having a moment! That's important."

Luke just shakes his head fondly and ruffles Percy’s hair. "Come on, big guy. I'll walk you there."

They make their way up to Half-Blood Hill, where Grover and Annabeth wait beneath Thalia’s tree, their faces tense with anticipation.

Luke pulls Annabeth into a long embrace, murmuring something too quiet for Percy to hear. He claps Grover on the back, his grip lingering. Then he pulls Percy in one last time, and for a moment, Percy allows himself to sink into the familiarity of it.

It feels like home.

Luke steps back, clearing his throat. "You guys take care of each other out there, okay?"

Annabeth steps forward, glancing at Percy before answering. “We will,” she promises firmly.

Luke nods, his expression unreadable. 

Luke watches as they load their things into the car that will be taking them to the bus station. 

It still feels surreal to Percy, how fast this is all happening.

As they drive away, Percy cranes his head back, watching through the window as Luke grows smaller and smaller.

They leave Luke standing under the tree, looking defeated.

Alone in the shade of his oldest friend.

Percy watches Luke fade from view, ignoring the way his chest aches. 

He will come back. He will see Luke again. Everything will be okay. 

Percy’s heart pounds, his stomach twists with nerves. But beneath the fear, beneath the anger, there’s something else—something sharper.

Determination.

He doesn’t care if the gods are against him. He doesn’t care if he’s walking into a death trap.

His mother is alive.

And no matter the cost—no matter what it takes—

He is going to save her.

Chapter Text

They're only about thirty minutes into the Greyhound ride, and Percy’s already questioning every life decision that brought him to this point.

The bus rattles along the highway, its shocks squealing with every pothole it hits. The overhead lights flicker now and then, casting a pale, sickly yellow glow over the cramped interior. The air smells like old upholstery, fast food, and the vague but persistent scent of someone’s unwashed socks.

Grover sits beside him, squished into the window seat with his hoodie pulled up and a threadbare backpack clutched to his chest. They're crammed together on the left side of the aisle, two to a seat. Grover by the window, Percy on the aisle. Across from them, Annabeth has staked out her own row, legs tucked underneath her, a folded highway map resting on her knees and a mechanical pencil poised like she’s strategizing a war.

The bus jostles around a curve, making his knee knock against Grover’s. Most of the other passengers are slouched in their seats, scrolling on phones, flipping through paperbacks, or just staring blankly out the foggy windows. One guy in the back has been snoring since before they even left.

That’s when Percy realizes, with the kind of cold, creeping dread usually reserved for pop quizzes and monsters, that he is an absolute dumbass.

Now, this is not a particularly unfamiliar revelation for Percy, having come to the same conclusion time and time again. However, this time is an impressive amount of idiocy, even for him.

Percy Jackson forgot to bring a weapon. 

On his quest to fight the god of the freakin’ Underworld. To save his mom. 

Big stakes. No sword. Not great.

Percy shifts in his seat. The cushions are thin and lumpy, and the air is stuffy enough to make him lightheaded. Somewhere in front of them, a baby lets out a wail. 

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh. So, funny story…”

Grover groans before Percy even finishes the sentence, leaning forward to thunk his head gently against the window. “Oh gods. What now?”

Which—yeah, fair.

Percy jiggles his knee, which bounces Grover’s bag with every twitch, and explains, sheepish and rambling. As he talks, Grover slowly slides his face into his hands, muttering something that sounds like a prayer or possibly a curse.

Across the aisle, Annabeth doesn’t even look surprised. “Oh yeah, that,” she says calmly, like she expected this exact moment of failure.

She digs through her backpack and pulls out… a ballpoint pen. She tosses it at him and it clatters into Percy’s lap.

He blinks at it.

It takes him a second, but then he recognizes it. It's the same pen Chiron had thrown to him the day Ms. Dodds turned into a fury and tried to kill him. (Ms. Dodds, who, as it turned out, was actually Alecto. One of the Kindly Ones. Which sounds nicer than it is.) Honestly, Percy’s just glad he only got one Fury and not the full set. Small mercies, right?

Percy had honestly forgotten about that fight. To be fair, at that point he had been running on about 2-3 hours of sleep a night and a shit-ton of caffeine. Reality and nightmares kinda blend together at that point. Even still, he honestly hadn't been sure if that thing with the pen actually happened, or if that had just been his brain doing weird stuff again.

Percy turns the pen over in his hands, examining it closely, pretending not to notice how his hands are shaking slightly. His knee continues jostling Grover's bag as he continues bouncing his leg. (He wonders idly if his mom is in any pain, wherever Hades is keeping her.)

Percy is careful to not uncap the pen, remembering what that did last time. Percy’s dumb, but not that dumb, thank you very much. "Where did you get this?"

“Chiron gave it to me,” Annabeth says, zipping her bag shut and shoving it back under the seat with her foot. “Told me to pass it along. Said it’s called Riptide. It’s enchanted—it’ll return to your pocket if you lose it.”

Huh. Neat.

Annabeth finally finishes getting her bag situated and turns to give him a dry look. “Chiron also said, and I quote, ‘I’d give it to him myself, but I don’t want to set him off again.’”

Grover snorts, hurriedly muffling it behind his hand and turns it into a cough when Percy elbows him. 

"What am I missing?" Annabeth asks warily, eyeing them like she’s trying to determine if Percy is contagious.

“Oh, nothing much,” Grover says, all fake-casual. “Just Percy telling Chiron to take the quest and shove it. And almost knocking down the Big House in the process.”

Percy sends him an offended look. “I did not—okay, no, yeah, I did tell him to fuck off, I’ll own that. But I didn’t do anything to the Big House!"

"Dude. The porch was literally vibrating when I told you about your mom. It felt like an earthquake."

"Oh. Huh." Percy doesn’t remember it going quite like that, but, to be fair, he was a bit distracted at the time.

Annabeth is watching him now with narrowed eyes, like she’s studying a mildly interesting but possibly hazardous science experiment. Percy shifts uncomfortably, and she quickly turns her attention back to the map she's studying.

That reminds Percy. (And no, he isn't just trying to change the subject. Definitely not.) "Why are we taking a bus, anyway? Wouldn't it be faster to fly?"

Annabeth stares at him like he just suggested jumping into a volcano. Grover knocks his knee against Percy’s.

"Dude. You do remember that Zeus wants to kill you, right? Sky’s kind of his thing. You do not want to go up there." Grover swallows. "Plus, you did kinda tell him to… screw himself." Grover whispers the last part, glancing nervously at the sky. 

Oh, right, he did do that. Good times.

Annabeth is just looking at him like she's questioning how Percy has survived this long in life. It's a valid question, honestly. 

Then it occurs to him. "So, hypothetically, me wearing flying shoes probably wouldn't be the best idea?"

Annabeth narrows her eyes. "Yes, hypothetically , you should not be airborne in any capacity. What shoes are you talking about?"

Percy digs through his bag and pulls out the red high-tops. “Luke gave them to me before we left. Said they helped him on his quest.” He pauses, then reluctantly passes them to Grover. “Guess they’re yours now, man. I'll show you how to work them later."

Grover’s eyes light up like it’s his birthday. He immediately kicks off his battered old sneakers, revealing woolly ankles with just a hint of goat hoof. Percy hisses, glancing around.

“Dude! Cover those! What if someone sees?”

Grover just shakes his head and keeps adjusting the new shoes. "Nah, man, we're good. Mortals can't see through the mist. They won't notice anything."

Percy frowns. "The what-now?”

Annabeth groans and rubs her face, apparently already exhausted. “The Mist. It’s a magical veil that keeps mortals from seeing the truth. It alters their perception. You could be fighting a Cyclops in Times Square, and they’d think it’s a weird street performance or a trick of the light."

"Or a gas leak," Grover adds, wiggling his new high-tops proudly, fuzzy ankles peeking out from under his jeans. "Anyway, point is, mortals don’t see what we see. It keeps them from losing their minds."

Percy absorbs that for a second. "That sounds convenient. And also like a huge safety hazard."

"Both things can be true," Annabeth says distractedly.

Before Percy can respond, the air shifts. Sharp and sudden, like the pressure drop before a storm.

He doesn’t see it at first. He feels it. A wrongness settling into his bones, thick and suffocating as wet wool. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz louder, then dim. The bus groans, tires crunching against gravel though they’re still on the highway. It slows unnaturally, as if the vehicle itself is resisting whatever’s coming.

Beside him, Grover stiffens and sniffs the air. His fingers grip the edge of the seat hard enough to bend it. Across the aisle, Annabeth freezes mid-sentence, eyes locked on something Percy can’t see yet.

Then he does.

Three women stand up near the front of the bus and make their way toward them.

They don’t look like monsters. Not at first. 

One wears a pressed blouse and librarian glasses, a cardigan buttoned neatly down the front. The second has a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, her graying hair pinned in a meticulous braid. 

And the third—

His lungs seize.

Ms. Dodds.

Alecto. 

She smiles at him, all teeth and venom. “Hello again, Perseus,” she says, voice sharp as a blade. “I’m going to make you wish you were never born.”

Grover lets out a thin, high-pitched whimper.

The other passengers stay oblivious in their little mortal bubbles. Scrolling on phones, slumped in window sets, chewing chips, children playing games—everyone is completely unfazed by the three creepy ladies threatening some kids.

Except for maybe one guy sitting near the front. He's middle-aged, sunburned, (probably on vacation), and he turns back with a frown. 

Percy’s pulse hammers, but his mind goes quiet. Luke’s words echo in his memory: Protect your team. Put yourself between them and the threat. Don’t think—act.

He stands. Slowly. Deliberately. Blocking the aisle with his body, forcing the Furies to look at him and only him.

“Happened a long time ago, lady,” Percy says, fingers wrapped tight around the pen in his pocket. It hums against his skin, as if sensing what’s coming.

Alecto steps closer. Her movements are too smooth, too sharp. “You carry something that does not belong to you,” she says almost casually. 

“If this is about the bolt, you’ve got the wrong address. I don’t have it,” Percy says, forcing a shrug. His voice sounds steadier than he feels.

He feels Grover move behind him, ready to rise, and he reaches back, pressing a hand against his friend’s shoulder. Stay down. Please, he begs silently. Let me be the target .

Annabeth is gone.

She was there a second ago, and now… vanished. Percy’s stomach flips, but he clamps down the panic. If she’s gone invisible (he seriously needs to figure out how she does that), that probably means she has a plan. At least, he hopes she does, because he has no idea what he's doing here.

“We don't care about the bolt,” Alecto growls. “You really think the gods will protect you? You’re nothing to them. You were nothing before this.”

Percy doesn’t flinch. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who already lost to a twelve-year-old. Shouldn’t you be dead?”

Her eyes narrow. “And you talk like you’re a hero. But don't forget, I taught you. I know you. I know death, and you were practically begging for it. You think you fight for love? For honor? No. You fight because you have nothing to lose. Because dying feels easier than living.”

That one lands.

Percy’s heart stutters. His grip on the pen tightens until his knuckles go white. He wants to scream, to run, to curl in on himself. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not while Grover’s behind him. Not while Annabeth’s… somewhere.

So he rolls his eyes, ignoring the ache in his chest at her words. “Bold words for someone who flunked me in Algebra.”

She just shakes her head. “You have two choices, Jackson. You can return what is ours, or you can die.”

Percy’s hand trembles as he draws the cap off Riptide.

In a breath, the metal flashes—stretching, humming into the weight and warmth of celestial bronze. Solid. Familiar.

He plants his feet. “I think you and I both know what I choose.”

His heartbeat is thudding in his chest, but his mind is clear.

The concerned man Percy had briefly noticed earlier chooses that exact moment to interrupt. “Hey!” he calls, standing up, uncertain but clearly concerned. “What’s going on here? Are these women bothering you, kid?”

Percy’s heart plummets. No. No, no no no no—

Alecto turns her head. Slow. Snake-like. Her expression doesn’t change, but the shift in her posture is unmistakable. Predatory.

“Sir, please sit down,” Percy says quickly, eyes flicking to the stranger.

The man steps into the aisle. “Are you okay?” he presses, brows furrowed. “Are you with them? Do you know them?”

Alecto’s lip curls. “How sweet. Even mortals can smell the stench of fear on you,” she murmurs.

“Leave him alone,” Percy growls, stepping forward, blade angled toward her heart. “You want someone to bleed? Pick me. I’m the one you want. I stole your stupid thing or whatever. So come get it.”

She bares her teeth at him (which are getting longer and sharper by the second), something delighted and terrible gleaming in her eyes. “That can be arranged.”

But the man— gods, why won’t he stop —is pulling out his phone. “Ma'am, I don't know what's going on, but you need to step away from the kids. I'm calling the cops.”

Alecto snarls in frustration. “Someone shut him up.”

The Fury with the braided hair moves fast—far too fast for a regular human to react. Claws out. Fangs bared.

And Percy moves.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t plan. He launches himself into the trio with a shout and a crack of impact. The world flips sideways. Elbows smash into armrests, claws rake air inches from his face. He hits the floor hard, body tangled with wings and limbs and screaming.

Passengers are yelling (probably not every day that you see a preteen tackle three old ladies on a bus). The baby’s crying again. Someone’s dropped their soda, and it’s soaking into Percy’s jeans.

He grits his teeth. This is chaos. He can’t let anyone die because of him. He needs to end this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Annabeth reappear—somehow now at the front of the bus, behind Alecto & Co—and shove the concerned man further away from the scuffle. 

The woman with the silver braid slashes at Percy, her claws barely missing his side as he rolls. The librarian-looking one snaps her teeth inches from his ear, and Alecto pins his wrists with inhuman strength.

“You should have stayed out of this, boy,” she hisses, panting.

Percy twists beneath her, gasping, trying not to let memories consume him. “Yeah, well, you should have stayed dead.”

Before Alecto can sink her claws into him, something smacks her right in the side of the head with a wet splorp . Her grip loosens, shocked, as she looks down at what hit her.

Vegetarian enchiladas. Grover's lunch. A noble sacrifice indeed. 

It’s the only opening Percy needs.

He wrenches his arms free and kicks hard, straight into Alecto's stomach, heaving her off of him.

The librarian Fury lunges at him in her place, but then Annabeth is there, her blade flashing bronze in the dim light. She appears like smoke and shadow, knife in hand, and drives it between the Fury’s shoulder blades.

The scream that follows isn’t human. It’s static and smoke, a bone-deep rattle that makes Percy’s ears ring as the monster dissolves into ash and sulfur.

Annabeth doesn’t flinch. “Grover! Stop the bus!”

Grover’s already climbing over seats toward the driver (who has somehow remained unaware of the screaming and panicking passengers behind her, bobbing her head to the music in her headphones). “Excuse me—oops, so sorry ma’am—coming through—official hero business—!”

Another swipe nearly catches Percy’s shoulder. The silver-haired Fury hisses something in ancient Greek, and Percy doesn’t quite understand the words, but the intent slams into him like a punch: Die already.

He dodges, kicking at her, and scrambles to his feet, chest heaving. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, breath ragged. “Take a number.”

Grover reaches the front and lunges for the wheel, wrestling it from the startled driver. “Emergency!” he bleats, pulling hard toward the shoulder of the road. “Sorry!”

The bus veers. Tires scream. People scream. Luggage flies. Percy slams sideways into an armrest, the silver-haired Fury sprawling beside him with a shriek.

Annabeth, somehow still standing, grips the back of a seat and launches forward. In one smooth, terrifyingly precise motion, she drives her dagger into silver-braid’s neck. One moment, she’s a monster. The next, she’s ash swirling through the air.

That leaves only Alecto.

She rises, crouched and trembling, wings unfolding with a burst of scorched air. Her gaze fixes on Percy. Burning. Hateful. “I will drag your soul to Hades if I have to.”

Percy stumbles to his feet, blood in his mouth, lungs burning. “If you’re that desperate for company, just say so.”

She snarls and lunges.

He spins, ducking under her talons, blade flashing. Riptide slices across her ribs, and she howls, rage etched into every line of her face.

“You will die screaming,” she spits, “like your mother should have.”

The world doesn’t go still. It fractures.

Percy’s breath catches, sharp and jagged, like he’s inhaled broken glass. 

No roar. No battle cry. Just silence.

“Fuck you,” he says, quiet as a grave, voice low and leveled like a blade pressed to skin.

There’s blood in his mouth. Ash in his eyes. 

Rage in his heart.

The monster lunges. Claws out, mouth a snarl of teeth and hate. 

But Percy is already moving. Not away.

Toward her.

He steps into the strike, pain lancing through his shoulder as her talons tear deep. Flesh rips. Bone protests. But his grip tightens around Riptide’s hilt, knuckles bone-white.

He remembers Luke’s voice like a ghost over his shoulder:

“Look messy. Bleed. Fight dirty. Get hurt. Just stay breathing.”

So he bleeds. And he breathes. And he drives the blade upward, hard, through heat and flesh and bone and something darker than shadow.

Alecto chokes on nothing. Her scream catches and dissolves in her throat. Her eyes widen. Her mouth falls open, and ash spills from between her lips like a dying curse.

She unravels.

Her body crumples in on itself, wings withering, limbs curling, light and heat and hate collapsing in a shower of dust and embers, until only silence remains.

And Percy stands in the aisle, bleeding, trembling, sword in hand, trying not to fall apart.

Silence, for a heartbeat.

Then:

“Holy sh—” someone in the back starts to yell, cut off by a frantic parent’s hand.

Voices erupt. Passengers scream, stand, film. Chaos. Questions.

Annabeth grabs Percy’s good wrist, giving his wounded shoulder a quick once-over. “We need to go. Now.”

“Exit’s clear!” Grover shouts from the front.

But before they can run, the man from earlier stands in the walkway, blocking their path. He stares at Percy with an odd expression. Not fear, not anger. 

Raw concern. Recognition.

“…Wait,” he breathes. “You’re that kid. The one on the news who went missing a little while back. Percy—Percy Jameson, or something.”

Percy’s stomach drops. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Afraid not.”

The man ignores him, stepping forward. “Are you okay? Oh my god, you're bleeding . Those women had knives and looked like they were trying to kill you before they ran off. Are you—Are you being trafficked or something?”

“We’re fine,” Percy lies, voice tight.

The man looks into Percy’s eyes and shakes his head, brows furrowed. “No, you’re not. Look, I—I volunteer with a shelter, I’ve seen this kind of thing before. If you’re in danger, I can help. I can take you somewhere safe—”

“We appreciate it, but we’re okay,” Annabeth cuts in, trying to nudge past.

“Just practicing for drama club,” Percy says, deadpan, as his blood drips onto the floor.

Annabeth gives him a flat look.

But the man won’t move. He plants himself in front of them, eyes fixed on Percy with raw concern. “Kids, I can’t just let you leave. You need medical attention at least—”

Sirens. Getting closer.

Percy meets Annabeth’s eyes. Grover watches from the front, pale and anxious.

“I promise, sir,” Annabeth lies smoothly, “We’re fine. My mom's a doctor. She’ll take care of us.”

The man still hesitates.

Annabeth doesn’t. She yanks Percy’s good arm. “Go.”

They duck under his arms as he reaches for them. “Hey, wait!”

They don’t.

They run, dodging backpacks and spilled food, shoving through stunned passengers. Annabeth stumbles on a diaper bag strap—Percy catches her, hauls her up. They sprint for the open bus door, where Grover waits.

Behind him, Percy hears the man slip and fall on something, going down with a pained grunt. “Stop, you don’t have to run—I can help you! You need help! Someone stop them!” The guy sounds close to tears, and Percy feels bad for the man that genuinely seems to care (more than any other adult in Percy's life).

Other passengers are now half-heartedly trying to grab at them, uncertain but trying to help, but Percy and Annabeth tear through them and hit the pavement running.

Sun blazing overhead. Empty road. Barren field on one side, dense woods on the other.

They don’t need to speak. The forest is their only shot.

Branches swallow them. The heat fades. Sirens rise behind.

One last shout, distant and pleading: 

“You don’t have to run anymore!”

But they're already gone.

And Percy has never heard words so false yet so tempting.

- - -

They’ve been walking for maybe an hour, maybe more. Percy’s not keeping track. Grover had picked a direction, said he could feel something, a pull in the air like a trail only a satyr could follow. Percy didn't question it, too focused on not falling over. 

Not like they had a better plan, anyway.

In other news, in their rush to escape the bus, they hadn’t managed to grab anything. Just what they had on them.

Annabeth has her Yankees cap (which is apparently how she goes invisible, cool), her knife, and some of the magic healing pudding stuff (ambrosia?) that had been in her pocket. Percy has exactly one (1) fancy pen. And Grover has the magic shoes (which Percy had shown him how to fly, much to his delight), his panpipes, and a gold coin.

No food, no water, no map, no flashlight.

Not super ideal.

The forest thickens as they go. Trees twist overhead like knotted fingers. Shadows stretch long across the undergrowth as the sun sinks. The silence grows heavier, the kind that makes Percy’s skin crawl.

Percy curses as a branch smacks him in the face. Thorns claw at his legs. His shoulder burns where Alecto slashed (stabbed? Clawed?) him. Every breath scrapes like sandpaper. Still, he keeps going.

Grover had tried to get him to eat some ambrosia, but Percy refused. He’s used to pain. They need to save it in case someone actually gets hurt. They'll run into some water at some point, right? He'll just use that to heal himself (no matter how reluctant he is to use anything from his father).

But gods, he’s tired.

Annabeth clears her throat, shattering the stillness. “What did Alecto mean? When she said you only fight because you don’t want to live?”

Percy almost trips at the random question and feels his heart rate spike. Of course she caught that. Of course she had to ask. He forces himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

In front of them, Grover glances back, looking worried, but doesn't say anything. Percy can't meet his eyes. Because Grover knows, at least to some extent, about some of Percy’s issues. He’s found Percy on the metaphorical (and literal, once) edge too many times. Grover always seems to be able to somehow sense Percy’s mental state when it gets really bad.

“Hell if I know,” Percy says flippantly, but his voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Let’s not take the things my old bat-winged math teacher said seriously, yeah? She was probably just trying to get into our heads.”

Annabeth doesn’t quit. “But she also told you that you could surrender or die. And you said—what was it—something like ‘we both know what I would choose.’ What was that supposed to mean?”

He stops. Not abruptly, but like a clock winding down, gears locking into place. “Are we really doing this?” he asks without turning.

They've all stopped walking, now. Grover has turned around, arms folded anxiously around himself. Percy can feel Annabeth's gaze on the back of his neck, and it makes his skin prickle with unease. 

“It sounded like you wanted to die,” she says, quieter now, more like she’s trying to understand. “Is that true?”

He whirls on her. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because I was there, Percy! And you scared me. You didn’t even hesitate to throw yourself at them, like you're nothing more than a shield to take the hits. You acted like your life didn’t matter.”

He glares at her. “Maybe it doesn’t.”

Grover steps forward. “Dude—”

“No,” Percy snaps. “She wants to talk about it, so let’s talk. Fine. What do you want me to say, Annabeth? That I should’ve let her take me? That I should’ve curled up and begged for my life while she threatened you two?”

“That is absolutely not what I’m saying!” she fires back, frustrated. “I’m saying I’m worried about you! That I have been worried about you! Did you know I told Luke I was worried you were suicidal your first real night here? Do you even remember going back to Hermes Cabin with me after your run-in with Clarisse in the bathroom? You were catatonic, Percy. Nothing could reach you. And I think you would have let Clarisse kill you, if she wanted to. And now—it felt like you weren’t fighting for yourself. Like you’ve already made peace with dying.”

He scoffs, turning away, choosing to ignore the majority of what she said. His chest aches. His throat feels tight. “There’s nothing peaceful about it.”

“Then why did you say—”

“I don’t know, Annabeth. Maybe I was just trying to get under her skin. Maybe I was trying to make her think she had the upper hand.” He takes a deep breath, but it feels like he's breathing through broken glass. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. Can we just—?”

“But it does matter, Percy,” Annabeth cuts him off. “You can’t just throw your life away like that. You can’t—” She hesitates, clearly wrestling with how to say it. “You shouldn’t act like you don’t care.”

He whips around, voice a little too sharp. “I care,” he says, his tone rising without meaning to. “I care about getting my mom back, I care about getting around this stupid prophecy, I care about keeping you and Grover and everyone else alive. But yeah, maybe sometimes, I’m not exactly jumping for joy about the whole ‘living’ thing, alright? It’s complicated.”

Annabeth doesn’t look like she’s sure what to say, apparently startled by Percy's sudden honesty. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, searching for the right words. She’s the type of person that needs to figure things out, to find the solution, to fix things, but Percy knows there’s no fixing him.

“Don’t,” Percy says, suddenly exhausted. “Just forget about it. I'm fine.” He blinks away tears that threaten to fall. Gods, he wishes Luke were here.

Annabeth doesn’t let it go. “We're supposed to be a team, Percy. Let us help.” Her eyes are sad, and Percy can't meet them.

“You don’t know me,” he says, quietly, shaking his head. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

“I’m trying to,” she says. “And you keep pushing me away.”

He feels it then—the pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. She’s not yelling anymore. She’s not even trying to be right, to come out on top. She’s just genuinely worried about him.

And gods, that makes it worse.

You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend.

He knows she means well. He knows Grover does too.

But that just makes it worse. Because every time he lets himself extend his trust, he’s opening the door to getting hurt. Or losing his mom for good. He can't let anyone else in, can't make even one more friend that could betray him. He can't risk it.

So he slams that door shut.

“I didn’t ask for your concern,” he mutters coolly, stepping back. “This isn’t a therapy session.”

Annabeth flinches like he struck her, and Percy feels physical pain in his chest at the sight. Gods, he hates himself. 

Her mouth opens, then closes. No retort. Just hurt.

Grover looks between them, helpless.

Percy turns and starts walking without a word. 

He doesn’t look back.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That it's better for everyone involved if she doesn't care about him, if he doesn't let them in.

There’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow as he hears the others quietly follow him. He wipes his nose on his bloody sleeve and tells himself he’s just tired. 

But inside, he’s nine years old again, and so, so terribly alone.

Chapter Text

Something is following them.

No one has said anything about it, not yet, but they all feel it. In the way their pace quickens. In the way none of them speaks. In the way every muffled snapped twig behind them makes them exchange nervous glances.

The sun had vanished behind the trees what feels like hours ago, leaving the forest in a thick, breathless black. The kind of darkness that makes you forget the world had ever been bright.

Finally, a sound no one can ignore. Behind them, something heavy breaks through the underbrush. The unmistakable crack of splintering wood, followed by the deliberate crunch of footsteps. Too slow to be outright chasing. Too loud to be harmless.

Percy whirls around, sword uncapped and half-raised. His breath fogs the air even though it shouldn’t be that cold.

Grover tenses beside him, sniffing the air. “It’s getting closer,” he says hoarsely. 

“Should we try to ambush it?” Percy asks, forcing the words through his clenched jaw. Gods, he's so tired. “Or keep moving?”

Annabeth hesitates. That alone worries Percy more than anything. Annabeth doesn’t hesitate.

“We’re too exposed,” she finally says. “And we're at a tactical disadvantage. We fight now, we’re fighting it on its terms. We’re tired, injured, and fighting blind. It wants us to panic. That’s the trap.”

“But if we keep running—”

“I know.”

Another sound behind them. A rustling, slow and heavy. Like something dragging claws through the underbrush. Loud, wet breathing. 

Annabeth grips her dagger tighter. “We move. Fast. It hasn’t attacked yet, which means it’s holding back. We use that.”

So they run. Faster than they want to, faster than they should. The trail twists and narrows, but they don’t turn back. Because behind them, something is moving. Staying just out of eyesight in the darkness, but always there. 

The forest feels like it’s watching them. Percy’s skin is crawling, and he feels a jolt of adrenaline with every noise behind them. Is it getting closer?

Abruptly, Grover stumbles to a halt, his head jerking sharply to the right like something just caught his attention. His nose twitches violently.

“Wait,” he breathes. “I think—this way!”

He veers off the trail, crashing through a tangle of ferns and low branches. Percy barely keeps from plowing straight into a tree as he follows, his boots skidding on wet leaves. Behind him, he hears Annabeth hiss in frustration and pivot sharply to follow.

They charge through the underbrush in a tight cluster, the dark branches clawing at their arms like hands trying to hold them back.

Behind them, the sounds are closer now. No longer holding back. Heavy. Confident. It's gaining on them.

Percy’s just about to stop, about to spin around and plant his feet and prepare to fight whatever it is, because he can feel it now—feel the weight of it like a second heartbeat thudding against his spine—

—and then they stumble into a clearing.

It happens so suddenly it almost doesn’t register at first. One moment they’re pushing through the trees, and the next the woods are just... gone.

No branches overhead. No underbrush clawing at their ankles. Just space.

They sprint forward instinctively, still moving on fear and momentum, their breathing ragged and uneven. Percy nearly collapses, chest heaving, sword still raised.

Then he realizes: It’s not following anymore.

The footsteps stop.

But not entirely.

There. Off to the left. Then again—to the right.

Pacing. Just beyond the tree line.

They can’t see it. But it’s there. Moving. Watching. Circling.

But it won't enter the clearing. Why?

He turns in a slow circle, trying to keep his sword steady, even though his arms are trembling.

The place looks like it used to be a garden. Once. Now the hedges are wild and overgrown, and strange statues litter the yard, half-buried in ivy. Illuminated only by moonlight, the shadows seem to stretch and flicker.

“Weird garden decorations,” Percy mutters to Annabeth beside him. He eyes what appears to be a screaming gnome skeptically. It's not his taste, but he respects the dedication to the weird vibe going on here.

But Annabeth isn’t paying attention. She’s staring past the tangled hedges, toward the house tucked into the clearing.

It isn’t what Percy expects, given the questionable surrounding ambiance.

Not a haunted shack. Not a crumbling ruin.

It’s...a cottage.

Quaint and cozy, with rounded eaves and weathered stone walls, nestled beneath ivy and wisteria. The porch wraps around the front, its wood faded but well-maintained. A swing sways gently in the breeze, the faint creak barely audible. Clay flower boxes sit on the windowsills, overflowing with violets shimmering in the moonlight. The windows glow faintly from within, the light spilling out into the dark night, warm and golden.

“It looks...nice,” Percy says suspiciously. The word tastes foreign in his mouth. 

Annabeth doesn’t answer right away. She’s frowning, eyes distant. “The mist is strong here.”

Grover’s squints. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “like... really strong.”

Percy frowns. “That’s… bad, right?”

Grover’s nose twitches. “Not necessarily. Just… unnatural. Controlled. Someone’s using it. Actively.”

“Maybe to keep monsters out?” Annabeth suggests, her voice too calm to be comforting.

“Or to keep something in,” Percy mutters, eyeing the woods again.

Grover shakes his head slowly. “Whatever’s here doesn’t smell entirely mortal. But it’s not entirely monster, either. It’s in-between.”

“Very comforting,” Percy says dryly. “So, we’ve got mystery mist, cursed lawn gnomes, and a weirdly cozy cottagecore murder shack. Anyone else thinking we shouldn’t knock on that door?”

Grover glances back toward the woods behind them.

Another snap. Closer this time. Louder. Heavier.

None of them speak. They don’t have to.

Whatever’s back there, it’s not friendly.

Annabeth’s jaw tightens. “Someone lives here. The mist wouldn’t cling like this otherwise. This place isn’t a normal house. It’s of our world. Whoever’s inside...”

Percy looks at her. “You think they can help us?”

Annabeth hesitates, just a beat too long. Then: “Maybe.”

Her voice is carefully neutral. She doesn’t say: We don’t have a choice.

Percy eyes the house again. That warm light. The porch swing still swaying, as if someone just stepped off it.

“We’re really doing this?” he asks.

Grover sighs. “I hope whoever lives here is the ‘offering cookies and directions’ type of magical being, and not the other kind.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Then Annabeth starts forward, boots crunching the gravel path, head held high.

Grover hesitates, gives Percy a look like ‘why do we do this to ourselves’ , then follows.

Percy lingers for a moment longer, shoulder aching.

Then he trudges up the path after them.

The porch groans beneath their weight. It smells faintly of lavender and old wood. The light in the window flickers, warm and inviting.

Annabeth raises her hand.

Knocks.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound echoes into the stillness.

For a moment, nothing. Then—

The door creaks open.

Warm golden light spills across the porch, pooling at their feet. The scent of baking bread and rosemary drifts out, soft and comforting and surprisingly domestic.

A woman stands in the doorway. She wears a deep green dress, her posture graceful, composed. A soft veil (maybe a religious thing?) drapes down from the crown of her head, gauzy and pale, obscuring her hair and everything above the line of her nose. Her mouth is visible, however, and Percy can see her warm smile fall at the sight of them.

“Oh, dear,” she murmurs after a moment. Percy can’t imagine what they must look like. Bruised and dirty with leaves and twigs in their hair, Percy with his bloody and torn shirt… The woman takes a slight step forward. “You poor things.”

Her voice is gentle, the kind that makes you want to sit down and let someone else take over for a while. It reminds Percy of his mother, and he fights the sudden urge to cry.

Percy shifts, wincing as the recently torn muscle in his shoulder protests.

She tsks softly at the sight, shaking her head slightly and seeming to remember herself. “Come inside, all of you, quickly. Before anything else finds you.”

And then she turns her back to them and hurries inside, leaving the door wide open. The warm golden light spills out invitingly.

Annabeth doesn’t move.

Neither does Grover.

Percy turns to them. “Well. She seems... nice?”

Grover’s hand clamps onto his arm before he can move. “Percy, wait,” he whispers. 

Percy blinks. “What?”

“Medusa,” Grover hisses. “I’m pretty sure that’s Medusa.”

His stomach drops.

From somewhere inside, the monster's voice floats out again, calm and amused. Percy can hear dishes clinking, as though she’s setting a table. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done so already. You’re safe, little heroes.”

Annabeth doesn’t lower her dagger. “We can’t go in there,” she says, voice low and razor-edged. “We can’t.”

“Just so we're on the same page–” Percy interjects. “We're talking about the Medusa? As in, turn-you-to-stone Medusa?”

Grover grimaces and offers weakly, “Well, she hasn’t done that yet , so... maybe she’s mellowed?”

Annabeth shoots him a glare that could melt granite.

“Guys,” Percy says, trying to stay rational even as adrenaline pulses behind his eyes, “there’s something that definitely wants to hurt us in the woods. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather take my chances with a maybe-friendly snake lady and her adorable cottage than whatever’s circling out there, waiting for us to fall asleep in the dirt.”

Annabeth doesn’t look convinced. “That’s exactly how traps work, Percy.”

“I know that.” He gestures at the warm light spilling through the open door, the faint clink of silverware echoing like a spell. “But if she wanted to attack us, she had the perfect opportunity. Back there. In the dark. She could’ve let whatever was following us wear us down and then finish us off. But instead, she invited us in. Gave us a choice.”

Grover shifts from hoof to hoof. “Monsters don’t usually offer food and sanctuary.”

“She said we’re safe,” Percy says. “And—okay, yeah, famous last words, but look—” he points up at the soft lights inside, the blessed cool air rafting out, “if we do have to fight someone, I’d rather do it somewhere with working AC and enough light to actually see what's happening.”

Annabeth presses her lips into a thin line. He knows she wants to argue. She always wants to argue. But her hand is trembling slightly where it rests on her dagger, and her shoulders haven’t relaxed since they left Camp.

They’re bone-deep tired. So tired the fear doesn’t even feel sharp anymore. Just heavy.

“I don’t trust her,” she says finally.

“I don’t either,” Grover adds.

Percy exhales. “Cool. So we’re in agreement. She’s probably lying and is going to try to murder us in our sleep. But so was everyone else we’ve met so far.” He looks toward the woods. “And I’m not sure we’ll survive the night out there.”

Another long pause.

Then Annabeth closes her eyes, just for a second. “Alright,” she says. “But we don’t split up. We stay armed. And the second anything feels wrong—”

“We bail,” Percy finishes. “Got it.”

Grover still looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he doesn’t object.

So they step into the light of the cottage, one by one.

The door swings shut behind them with a quiet click.

And they are inside a monster’s home.

- - -

They find Medusa in the kitchen, the room just off of the entryway. 

The room is warm. Not just from the glowing hearth, but in its colors, its scent. Clay pots line the windowsill, filled with herbs and flowers. Dried bundles of lavender and other herbs hang from the rafters. A kettle whistles gently in the background. What looks to be a handmade tapestry hangs on the wall, a delicate scene full of flowers and brilliant stars.

The monster is standing at the long wooden table, arranging dishes gracefully, her long sleeves fluttering as she pours cold water into waiting goblets.

The feast spread on the table is enough to make Percy’s knees weak. Roasted vegetables glisten with oil and sea salt. Stew simmers in a handmade ceramic bowl, the smell of lamb and rosemary thick in the air. A loaf of braided bread sits in the center, still steaming.

Medusa looks up when they enter, a soft smile peeking out from under her veil. Not smug. Just... gentle.

“You can relax, little ones,” she says, her voice soft, almost sad. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

None of them sit.

Not yet.

“I haven’t had visitors in ages,” Medusa says lightly, folding her hands in front of her. “The world has grown so afraid of anything different. Of anyone who doesn’t fit their neat little boxes.”

Her veiled head leans toward Annabeth. Not hostile. Curious. Thoughtful. “Tell me, child. Do you know what it’s like? To be feared for simply existing?”

Annabeth doesn’t answer.

Percy shifts beside her, instinct prickling, but… there’s no threat in the monster's posture. No edge to her tone.

Just loneliness.

Grover glances at the food, then at Medusa, then at Percy. He looks torn.

Medusa lets out a soft breath, as if reminding herself not to hope too much. “I understand your caution. I do. But I swear I mean you no harm. I only saw children, tired and hunted, and thought…” Her voice trails off, then steadies. “No one should be alone in the woods with that kind of fear.”

She pulls out the chair at the head of the table and lowers herself with quiet grace. Her veil shifts as she moves, the light catching faint threads of silver in the gauze.

“Please,” she says gently, folding her hands in her lap. “Eat. You’ll feel better. And I’ll feel... less useless.”

That lands heavier than Percy expects.

Reluctantly, they take their seats. Not because they trust her, but because the warmth of the hearth and the smell of real food is stronger than their fear. They sit close together, as if proximity might protect them.

None of them touch the food, not yet. But Percy takes a sip of water, and it’s cool and clean and better than anything he's tasted in what feels like days. He swallows before he can second-guess it.

Across the table, Medusa clears her throat softly, the sound just enough to break the silence. Silverware clinks delicately against porcelain as she cuts into a roasted potato. When she speaks, her voice is light. “I hope you all like rosemary. It’s always been my favorite. Such a soothing herb, don’t you think?”

They all exchange glances, but no one speaks, unsure of how to handle this. The silence is awkward, and Percy shifts uncomfortably

The silence that follows is thick, and Percy takes another gulp of water. Outside, the wind brushes against the cottage, making the shutters creak faintly.

Still, the monster eats with slow, quiet movements. As if this is just a perfectly normal dinner.

Percy eyes the tempting spread of food in front of them. It all looks stupidly good.

His stomach growls, and he exchanges an uncertain glance with Grover. Annabeth is glaring at the table like it personally offended her.

Medusa hums softly. “Where are you from?” she asks politely, gesturing to Percy, her voice still warm.

He hesitates. “New York.”

“Ah,” she says, amused. “That explains the attitude.”

Percy stiffens, unsure if it’s a joke or a threat.

Medusa sighs, gently setting her fork and butter knife down on her plate, and rests her chin on one dainty hand. “Forgive me. It has been a long while since I've had anyone to speak with. I am not the best conversationalist, I suspect.”

Percy feels a pinch of guilt, and Grover seems to, too. His eyes flicker with cautious empathy, and he opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Closes it. Then opens it again and blurts out—

“Uh, you know, I’ve always wondered. What species of snake is your hair? Do you have to feed them? Do they need unfiltered UVB light, or is that all internalized through you? And, I mean, snakes are ectothermic, how does that work when they're attached to you?” 

Percy understood about half of those words.

Medusa pauses, taken aback, and her lips twitch into a genuine smile. “The classification has changed over the centuries,” she says, tilting her head at Grover, voice warm with amusement. “But I believe they’re called Vipera ursinii now. Meadow Vipers. Small but venomous. A fitting metaphor, I suppose.”

Grover lights up, nodding rapidly. “That makes so much sense! They’re native to the dry grasslands of Greece and eastern Europe, right? Low-growing vegetation? Do they still shed regularly? How do you manage brumation cycles if they’re—well, you know…?”

Percy gives him a sideways look, but the monster actually throws her head back and laughs in delight.

“They are extensions of me, little satyr,” she says fondly. “They feed when I feed. They sleep when I do. We are one and the same.”

“Right,” Grover says, still nodding with a big smile, though his fingers twitch nervously. “Cool. Absolutely terrifying, but super cool.”

Percy snorts and finally reaches for the bread. The crust crunches softly under his fingers. Across the table, Grover grabs a roasted carrot like it might save his life.

For a moment, the air eases. Just a little.

Until Medusa turns her veiled head toward Annabeth.

The warmth fades.

Annabeth still hasn’t moved. Her posture is rigid, her fingers curled around her fork like she's ready to stab someone with it.

Medusa’s voice is calm, but there's a tension there. “You see me as a monster.”

Annabeth’s jaw tightens. “If the snake hair fits.”

Grover stiffens. “Woah, Annabeth—” he says, low and urgent, “maybe don’t antagonize her?”

But Medusa just shakes her head. “I wasn’t always this way, you know. I was once just like you, hopelessly devoted to Athena and blindly trusting of the gods.”

Annabeth's jaw tightens. “Spare us the tragic backstory.”

Grover—who’d just taken a sip of water—chokes and starts coughing violently.

Medusa exhales. Not angry. Just weary. She tilts her head toward Annabeth. “You worship Athena. And yet you do not know the truth?”

Annabeth tenses but doesn't look up.

Medusa turns her face slightly toward the window, where the stars gleam faintly beyond the glass, twinkling in the darkness. Her voice lowers.

“Many millennia ago, I was a maiden in Athena’s temple. A priestess. I served her faithfully, with all the devotion of a girl who had been raised to believe the gods protect their own.”

A silence settles over the table. Medusa's head is lowered now. Her fingers brush lightly over the wood grain of the table. The monster smiles, but there’s nothing kind about it. 

“Poseidon found me there.”

Percy jolts. The name hits him like a slap.

“He came into the temple. I didn’t invite him. I didn’t want his attention, didn’t ask for his touch. But he—” She stops, jaw tightening. “He did not stop.”

Percy’s blood goes cold. His vision blurs at the edges.

Grover turns slowly, eyes wide, looking at him like he’s afraid Percy might combust.

Medusa continues, each word more brittle than the last. “I cried for Athena. I begged. I prayed. But she never came. She didn’t lift a finger.”

Percy wants more than anything to believe it isn’t true. Wants to deny that someone he's related to would be capable of such a thing. That someone whose blood runs through his veins would do something so awful.

She's a monster. She's trying to manipulate them.

But the way the woman speaks—calm, controlled, and utterly wrecked—it doesn’t feel like a lie. 

“She found me afterward,” Medusa says, voice barely above a whisper. “And she was angry. But not with him.”

Her tone hardens, sharp with grief. “With me. For what he did. For being there. For ‘defiling’ her temple. For breaking a vow I never chose to break.”

Percy’s lungs aren't working right. His fingers are numb, curled so tight around his fork the metal digs into his palm.

“She cursed me,” Medusa says. “Tore away my beauty. Turned my hair to snakes. Cursed my eyes to bring only death. Condemned me to a life of solitude. He—” she spits the word— “walked away untouched.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Percy stares at the table, but it’s just a blur now. Light and shadow and movement that his brain can’t process. His body feels wrong, heavy and floating all at once, like he’s sinking underwater but his skin is too tight.

Poseidon. 

His father.

Annabeth shakes her head, leaning forward. “That’s not how the story goes.”

“No,” Medusa murmurs, sounding disappointed. “It never is.”

The air feels too thick, like Percy can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. He doesn’t look up from where his fist is clenched around his fork, knuckles white, but he can feel the woman looking right at him. 

“I lost everything,” she says, her voice cold now. “And the world called it justice.”

Annabeth crosses her arms. “There’s more to it. Athena had her reasons.”

“I was attacked,” the woman says, disturbingly calm. “I was a victim. And she made me into a warning.”

Grover’s voice is quiet, hesitant. Trying to keep the peace. “That doesn’t sound like justice to me.”

Annabeth leans forward, frustration flickering behind her eyes. “No. There has to be more. Athena wouldn’t punish someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Percy flinches.

She wouldn’t punish someone who didn’t deserve it.

Percy’s stomach twists. Gabe's voice echoes in his ears, like a curse he can't shake. ‘ Stop crying, this is your fault. You did this to yourself, showing off like that. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.’

His hand shakes. The fork rattles quietly against the plate.

Would Annabeth say that, if she knew?

Would she say he deserved it, too? That it was his fault? That there had to be more to the story? 

Would she look at him with that same doubt? That disbelief?

A silence falls.

Medusa breathes out, and when she speaks again, her voice is lower, heavier.

“Be careful, daughter of Athena,” she says. “Your blind loyalty may protect you now, but your words can wound. And I am not the only one at this table they might harm.”

Annabeth doesn’t respond. 

Percy can’t move. Can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. He can’t look at anyone. What did Medusa mean—?

Medusa continues, so softly it's almost a prayer. “I am far from the only one who’s been hurt this way. Every day, people are attacked. Abused. Betrayed by the ones who were meant to protect them. Innocence ripped away. Children left to bleed in the silence. And no one cares.”

A suffocating pause, then: “Every day, stepfathers—” Her voice falters, just for a second, and Percy feels his heart sink to a crashing halt. 

“Friends. Babysitters. Boyfriends. Mothers. People you're told to love, to trust…”

Percy can feel her gaze on him. Even with the veil, it’s like she’s seeing through skin, through bone. Straight into the parts of him he’s tried to bury.

The world tilts.

He wraps his arms around himself. His stomach twists so violently he thinks he might be sick. He’s too aware of his heartbeat, the way it pounds in his ears. Too loud, too fast. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to him.

She knows.

He doesn’t know how. Doesn’t understand why. But he’s certain— absolutely certain —she knows what Gabe did.

Medusa’s voice drifts over him, distant and echoing like it’s coming from underwater. Or maybe Percy is the one underwater. He thinks he might be drowning.

“And the gods do nothing.”

Annabeth shifts. “That’s not fair. The gods—”

“Are silent,” Medusa finishes. “Or worse, watching.”

Percy doesn’t speak. Can’t. His hands are cold. His thoughts are flickering like a failing lightbulb—too fast, too dim, too loud.

Medusa speaks again, her tone softening. “It doesn’t have to stay this way. There are powers rising. Forces who see the rot in Olympus. Who want to make things right.”

Annabeth stiffens. “What are you talking about?”

Medusa lifts her chin slightly. “A new world,” she says. “One where the guilty are held accountable. One where justice isn’t just a word the gods use to excuse their apathy. One where no child is abandoned and left alone to suffer.”

She doesn’t look at Percy when she says it. But both of them know that she's talking to him. 

The woman gestures to them, slow and inviting. “You could help us. Join us. You’ve seen how the gods treat their children. Haven’t you?”

No one speaks.

Percy’s pulse roars in his ears.

Medusa leans forward just slightly. “Wouldn’t it be better to stop the cycle? To make sure no one else has to live with what you’ve lived through?”

The words sink into Percy’s skin like vines. His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out.

Annabeth slams her fork down. The sound cracks the silence. “You’re trying to turn us against the gods.”

“I’m trying to save you,” Medusa corrects softly. “Before they abandon you too.”

Percy's throat closes.

The woman turns gently to Grover, who looks like he wants to shrink into the chair. 

“You’ve spent your whole life searching for lost demigods,” she says. “Following trails of pain. Watching children suffer needlessly. Watching them die. How many begged for help that never came? And how often did Olympus offer you anything but silence?”

Grover swallows, hard. His gaze flicks uncertainly to Percy, to Annabeth, then to the floor.

Medusa turns to Annabeth next, and there’s no malice, only something deeply, bitterly sad.

“And you,” she says quietly. “You’ve built your entire identity on being worthy of your mother’s approval. Her attention. Tell me, has she ever given it freely? Or do you have to keep proving yourself over and over, earning scraps of affection like a well-trained dog?”

Annabeth’s shoulders stiffen. Her lips press together in a hard, white line.

“You defend her so fiercely,” Medusa murmurs. “But when was the last time she defended you?”

Annabeth doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t have to.

Medusa looks at Percy again. This time, she lets the silence stretch. And when she speaks, it’s almost reverent. Mournful.

“And you…” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “You’ve lost so much already. And what has your father done? What has he ever done to protect you from—”

She stops. Just for a second. A flicker in her voice. A ripple in the stillness.

Then, softly:

“You deserved better, Perseus Jackson. You still do.”

Percy’s vision goes strange. Too sharp, too blurry, all at once. He stares at the table. The grain of the wood. The shimmer of condensation on his glass. The golden butter pooled in a hollow of mashed potatoes. None of it feels real.

He can’t tell if the room is warm or cold. He can’t feel his fingers anymore.

Medusa’s voice, gentle and unrelenting, continues. “You could stay here. All of you.”

Percy blinks slowly. Looks up.

Medusa smiles at them. Tired and quiet, like someone who has already given up. But still, somehow, hopeful. Still fighting.

“You don’t have to keep running,” she says. “You don’t have to look over your shoulder, waiting for monsters or gods to use you.” She plants her hands on the table and leans forward slightly. “I can protect you. All of you.”

Grover glances at him again, uncertain. Torn. Confused. Annabeth doesn’t move, but her fingers twitch toward her knife.

“You’re children,” Medusa emphasizes, like she's trying desperately to get them to understand. “Children, and already you bleed for a throne that would never shelter you. Olympus will never see you as anything but tools. Sacrifices. Why should you carry the weight of their war on your shoulders?”

She turns to the window, looking out at the stars. Her voice lowers.

“The world will keep turning whether you live or die. So stay. Rest. Be safe. Let someone take the weight for once. Let someone protect you.”

Percy doesn’t move.

Stay. Rest. Be safe.

Medusa doesn’t push. She waits, hands still pressed to the wood, face calm. Tired.

“I know what it is to be used,” she says finally, voice splintering. “To be turned into a cautionary tale. A warning. A curse. And I know what it is to survive that. Alone.”

Her face turns toward Percy, veil rippling softly at the movement. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Percy doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t look up.

The words echo in his skull— You shouldn’t have to —and they feel like a match struck inside a hollow chest. Too bright. Too close. Too late.

He thinks of Luke.

Of their late-night talks at Camp, whispered on the porch of Cabin Eleven when they were both supposed to be asleep. Of the friend Luke lost on his quest, and the way the gods didn't care about her, only Luke's failure to complete his quest. Of the defeated way he told Percy that his father had known what May was doing to him. 

Medusa was right about one thing. The gods had never protected Percy. Not from Gabe. Not from the monsters. Not from the burden they’d thrown at his feet the second he learned who he was.

They had left him to rot.

Stay. Rest. Be safe.

It sounds like a dream. Gods, isn’t it tempting? Just for a moment?

He can almost picture it. Laying down the sword, curling into a real bed, eating food that isn’t for survival, but for joy. He can almost convince himself he deserves that.

And what about what she said about creating a better world? One where no one else would have to hurt like him?

But then, a cold thread tugs at his heart. 

He sees her.

His mother.

Not here. Not in this warm cottage. But in his memory, standing in the kitchen in her worn robe with flour on her nose, humming softly to herself as she makes blue pancakes from scratch because he’d had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep. 

She hadn’t been able to protect him from everything. But she had tried.

And now, she’s still out there. Alone. Probably scared. Probably hurting.

Because of him.

He can’t stay.

Not when she is still in danger. Not when she is still waiting.

He lifts his eyes, slowly.

Medusa is facing him, mouth serene and steady, like she already knows his answer.

“I’m sorry,” Percy says quietly. His voice barely reaches his own ears. “But I can’t stay.”

Her lips part, the calm flickering. “Why not?”

“Because my mom’s still out there,” he says. “I have to save her.”

Something shifts in her expression. Not anger. Not surprise. Something closer to sorrow. “I know you love her,” she says softly. “But this fight… it’s bigger than her. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of us.”

“She’s my mom,” Percy says, standing now, jaw tight. “That’s big enough for me.”

Medusa tilts her head up at him, like she’s seeing something sacred and tragic all at once. “You’d throw your life away for her.” 

“Of course,” he says without hesitation.

She exhales, slow and aching and weary. “You remind me of someone I once loved like that,” she says. “Someone I would’ve burned the world for.”

There’s a pause.

Her mouth twists bitterly. “Love isn’t armor, Percy. It’s a target. The gods see what you care about, and they aim for it.”

She stands. Every movement deliberate, her hands raised in peace, like she’s approaching a scared, cornered animal. Her veil catches the warm light.

She takes a deep breath, as though steeling herself. Then:

“She's already gone, Percy. You lost her the moment the gods stepped in.”

Percy's heart caves in.

No.

No, that isn't—

“You're lying,” he chokes out. His voice breaks around the edges.

Medusa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lash out. She just looks at him, so calmly it hurts.

“What reason would I have to lie?” she asks, voice quiet and steady. “What could I possibly gain by hurting you like this?”

Percy shakes his head desperately, breath catching. “You’re—You're a monster. You're lying.”

“I’m trying to warn you.” Her voice tightens. Not with anger, but urgency. “You think they’ll ever let her go? Not when she’s the chain around your throat. Not when she’s the reason you’ll keep obeying. Keep sacrificing. Keep bleeding for them.”

“Stop,” Percy whispers.

“They don’t care about her,” Medusa says, softer now, almost like an apology. “But they know you do. And that makes her a pawn. A lever. A threat they don’t even have to make.”

“ Stop !” Percy snaps, voice ragged and raw.

Silence falls again, heavy and suffocating.

Grover looks like he might be sick. Annabeth hasn’t moved, but her entire body is coiled tight. Like she’s waiting for something to snap.

Percy’s breath is shallow, like his ribs won’t expand. His hands are trembling. His heart feels like it’s cracking open in his chest.

He takes a breath full of broken glass and anguish.

Then he looks up, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“Then I’ll fight the gods too,” he says.

For a second, no one breathes.

“I’m not leaving her behind,” Percy says. “Even if it kills me. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try.”

For the first time, Medusa’s composure falters. Her mouth trembles, her shoulders dipping as though something inside her finally gave out. Her voice, when it comes, is a tremble:

“You’re so young.” A breath. “You don’t understand what they’ll take from you. How far they’ll push you before they finally decide you’re no longer useful. I’m trying to spare you from that.”

She steps forward, cautiously, like she’s approaching someone at the edge of a cliff.

“You could stay here. You’d be safe. All of you. I told you I could protect you, and I meant it.”

Percy shakes his head, but she keeps going, almost frantic now.

“There’s a place for you. With us. People who want to change the world the gods have ruined. To make it better, for demigods like you. You don’t have to suffer through Olympus’s games. You could be free.”

Her words hang in the air, ripe with ache and longing.

Annabeth’s eyes narrow slightly. “‘Who exactly is ‘us’?”

Medusa hesitates.

“You don’t know them yet,” she says carefully, “but they know you. They see your strength, your pain. Your potential. You don’t have to be a pawn. You could be free. Stay.”

“No,” Percy says. His voice is steel now. 

“I’m not leaving my mom behind. I don’t care what promises you make, or how noble your cause sounds. If it means leaving her behind, I want no part of it.”

Something flickers in Medusa’s expression. Grief, maybe. Or fear. Her mouth presses into a thin line. Her fingers twitch against the table.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” she whispers.

The words land like thunder in a dead sky.

Percy’s blood runs cold

“…What does that mean?” he asks, voice low and dangerous now. His hand hovers at his pocket, thumb brushing the seam of his jeans—ready to uncap Riptide.

Medusa lowers her head. When she speaks, it breaks. “I can’t let you leave.”

The cottage goes still.

Grover makes a soft, strangled sound in his throat.

Annabeth is already moving, her chair screeching back across the floor. Her dagger gleams in the golden candlelight.

Percy doesn’t move. He just stares at the woman, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Why not?” he demands.

Medusa turns her face to him, and there’s nothing monstrous in what little he can see of her expression. Just anguish. Real, quiet, human anguish.

“Because… if I do, terrible things will happen. To all of us.” 

She stops herself, mouth trembling open, but the words won’t come. Instead, her head jerks toward the window. Just for a breath. Like something might be watching.

Percy takes a step back.

His fingers tighten. He pulls Riptide from his pocket and pops the cap off. The bronze blade hums to life, warm in his hand, steady in a way he isn’t.

“This was a trap,” he says, voice low and disbelieving. His throat is dry. “All of it. The food. The comfort. That thing in the woods—it wasn’t trying to kill us. It was herding us right to you.”

Medusa flinches like he struck her.

“It led us right to you,” Percy says, betrayal thick in his voice, his whole body buzzing with adrenaline and nausea and something bone-deep and breaking. “You lied to us. Pretended to care. None of this was real.”

“I swear to you, I meant every word,” she says desperately. “That wasn't a lie. This truly is to protect you, even if you don't see it yet.”

Percy shakes his head, voice thick. “You don’t get to say that. Not if you’re the one standing between me and my mom. Let us go.”

“I’m trying to spare you a worse fate,” she says, voice cracking. “If you step back into that war, you will not come out whole.”

He takes another step forward, sword raised between them. “Let us go. Prove you’re not what they say you are.”

“I can’t,” she says, and the agony in her voice is real. “Not without dooming us all.”

The words hit like a blade to the gut. Percy’s lungs stutter. His heart is shattering in pieces too jagged to name, and each beat drives them deeper into his ribs.

Medusa lowers her head, mouth twisting in sorrow. “I'm sorry.”

The moment stretches like a thread pulled taut.

Then it snaps.

Medusa’s hand flashes out, snatching a kitchen knife from the counter.

Annabeth surges forward on the other side of the table, her chair crashing to the ground. Grover lets out a terrified noise, his hands raised, ready for action.

Percy doesn’t move. He lifts Riptide. The blade glints in the candlelight, catching in the tremble of his hands.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking.

“I know,” Medusa replies, and she sounds like she’s breaking.

Their fight is wordless, devoid of banter or persuasion.

Silent, except for the sounds of breath and steel and splintering furniture.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t even curse him.

She weeps.

She's faster than he expected, graceful and sure. Percy realizes, with a sick twist of understanding, that even still she’s only trying to stop him. Never to kill. Never even to injure. She doesn’t remove her veil. Doesn’t even risk looking him in the eye.

She’s holding back.

Every strike Percy throws, she dodges or redirects. Every time her knife could find his throat, she pulls away. Her face remains veiled, but Percy can see the way her shoulders shake with grief.

His hands won’t stop trembling. His vision blurs with tears as he drives her back—inch by inch, breath by breath—into the corner.

He has her.

Riptide pressed to her throat.

She stills.

She lowers the knife. Her arms fall to her sides.

He sees her face now. Wet with tears, veil soaked, her mouth open just slightly, like she’s waiting to breathe.

“I am not your enemy, Perseus,” she whispers.

His sword is shaking. His whole body is shaking. He can barely hold it up.

“Will you let us leave?” he asks, pleading now.

Her mouth twists bitterly. “I can't. If I let you go, He’ll know. And I’ll suffer for eternity. He promised that.”

Percy’s voice cracks. “Who?! Who is He ?! We can fight him together. We can figure it out—just tell me! You don't have to do this!”

She smiles then.

A small, broken smile. Awed.

“You’d still try to save me,” she says, amazed. “Even now. Even after everything you've endured, you’d rather bleed than let someone else suffer.”

Her lips press together like she might cry again. Not from fear. From hope.

“May the Fates be kind to you,” she says. “May that be enough. I hope you break the cycle. I hope you win.”

Percy’s hand trembles. His breath comes in shallow gasps.

“Death,” she murmurs, “is the kindest thing you could give me. At least it’ll buy me time. Time before He finds me again.”

The woman raises her chin, baring her throat to him.

His heart plummets.

“Make it quick.”

No.

No, no, no.

The sword grows heavier in his hand. He doesn’t feel the hilt anymore. Doesn’t feel his own body. Everything is soundless, numb, unreal.

He can't move.

Can't breathe.

The taste of acid burns his throat. 

This woman is a victim, just like him.

Discarded by the gods and with nowhere to turn.

Trying to make sure no one suffers like she did.

In another life, he is her.

He can't do this.

He's frozen with the sword still at her throat, his heart shattering beyond repair.

He can feel Medusa watching him. Her trembling lips form a soft, shaky, reassuring smile.

“It's okay, Percy. I don't blame you.”

He can't do this.

It’s not fair.

There has to be another way.

“Please,” she says, sad but calm. “Better you than Him. Just grant me this mercy.”

None of this is fair.

“Please, Percy.”

Her voice is a lullaby.

“It's okay.”

His grip tightens.

And he swings.

The sound of her head hitting the floor is one that will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Her body splinters into ash, and Percy chokes. 

He staggers back, his dripping sword slipping from his fingers.

He can’t—

His stomach heaves.

He turns and wretches, his whole body convulsing, bile spilling from his mouth as he collapses to his knees.

Grover is suddenly there beside him, holding him upright. 

He's saying something, trying to get Percy’s attention, but Percy can't hear him through the roaring in his ears.

Annabeth is carefully wrapping the severed head in a tapestry. The one that had been hanging above the hearth. The one with stars and flowers and careful, loving needlework.

He wonders numbly if Medusa had woven that by hand. If she had found solace in the monotonous task. If she had been excited to plan the intricate design, to choose the vibrant colors.

(The beautiful tapestry is stained with blood, now.)

 Percy can't breathe.

Grover is leading Percy out of the room. 

Percy is stuck on a single thought, echoing over and over in his mind.

Monsters aren't born. They're made.

Percy should know. 

Because that's what he's becoming.

- - -

A whisper like oil. 

Thick. Slow. Warm. 

“You ache. I know.”

Darkness. Not the absence of light. 

Something worse. 

Something alive. 

Heavy. Pressing in. Made of metal and rot, something buried that still remembers the sky.

Fingers like rusted iron trail along his shoulders, his neck—tender, reverent. “You were made for more than this.”

He flinches. But there is no body to move. Just pain in the shape of a boy.

Water drips.

Blood drips.

A golden scythe glints in the dark. Flashing once like a dying star.

Somewhere, impossibly far, a child sobs.

“You can end this,” the voice says.

Camp Half-Blood burns.

The cabins are ash and bone. 

Tattered orange shirts scattered like fallen flags. 

Screams echo through the pines. 

“You must end this.”

Grover bound in ivy, vines tightening around his throat as he chokes.

Annabeth falling to a stone floor, eyes hollow and full of ash. Empty.

Luke, alone. Crying. Reaching for him. 

Then he too is gone, and the cobblestones are glazed with blood.

Percy screams. But his mouth is made of blood and salt water, and it runs down his throat, choking and suffocating.

A throne rises from the dark. Towering. Infinite.

A figure sits atop it. 

Its face is a blur. A smear of shadow and light and gold.

It leans forward.

Its hand extends.

Golden. Bloodstained.

“Let me help you.”

- - -

They don't sleep much that night.

They camp out in Medusa's living room. Annabeth on the couch, Grover on the armchair. There’s an open recliner beside him, but Percy takes the floor instead, tucked into the corner with his back to the room, his face pressed against the itchy carpet.

It scratches his cheek. He doesn’t move.

His body aches. His eyes burn.

Every time he blinks, he sees her again. The sadness in her smile. The tremble in her voice.

‘I don’t blame you.’

He wishes she had.

He drifts off eventually. Just for a bit. But even that is too much. He can still hear the voice, can still see those awful things.

(Cobblestones glazed with blood.)

They all give up on pretending to sleep before the sun even rises. The world is still blue and gray, stretched between night and morning.

No one speaks. 

Grover finds a loaf of homemade bread in the pantry. Annabeth locates a jar of canned peaches. 

They eat in the living room. No one wants to be in the kitchen for long, where the bloody bundle still lies on the floor, wrapped neatly in that tapestry.

Percy tries to eat. The bread turns to ash in his mouth. Everything tastes like dust and guilt and rosemary and something metallic that no one will name.

Then Grover breaks the silence, his voice barely audible.

“So… what do we do with it?”

No one asks what he means. They all know.

Annabeth's grip tightens around her spoon.

Grover fidgets, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “We can’t leave it. If someone finds it… one look, and they’re stone.”

Percy doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the corner desk he'd noticed the night before. The stack of boxes and shipping labels and bubble wrap.

Packing supplies.

He stands up and walks over slowly. There’s a sealed box, addressed and ready. Two more packed and labeled. A third, still open, half-filled with packing peanuts, what looks to be an instruction sheet still folded neatly in the top flap.

It looks like Medusa had been preparing a shipment.

Percy tries to read the instruction sheet, but the words are swimming disorientingly. He rubs his eyes, frustrated, trying to force himself to concentrate, but to no avail. 

Finally, he admits defeat and strides back over to where Grover and Annabeth are still sitting on the couch, watching him with concern. He shoves the paper at Grover. “What does this say?”

Grover eyes him curiously, but complies, reading the paper out loud. (Show off). 

“ This parcel contains magical material. To activate divine shipping, write the recipient and return address clearly in mortal ink. Once addressed, the enchantment will trigger automatically .”

No money needed.

Magical delivery.

His heart lurches.

Annabeth watches him with narrowed eyes. “Percy… what are you doing?”

He rips the old label from the box and replaces it with a blank one.

“Annabeth,” he says quietly. “What’s the address for Mount Olympus?”

She doesn’t answer right away. “Percy, stop. Think about this—”

“What. Is. The. Address.”

A pause. Then reluctantly: “Empire State Building. 600th floor. Olympian entrance.”

Grover frowns. “Wait. You’re not… you’re not thinking of mailing that to—”

Percy writes the recipient in angry, blocky letters:

Poseidon

Mount Olympus

600th Floor, Empire State Building

New York, NY

“Percy,” Annabeth says carefully, standing up. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t look at her as he goes into the kitchen. He picks up the blood-soaked bundle, wrapped in the ruined tapestry, and the weight of his sins feels impossibly heavy.

Gently, he nestles the bundle into the box. Whispers an apology.

Then he seals it shut.

Takes the pen again, and writes the return address fiercely.

Percy Jackson

Son of Sally Jackson

Annabeth is quiet for a long time.

“You’re sending it to your dad.”

“Yep.”

Grover shifts. “You think he’s gonna like that?”

Percy’s hands are shaking. But his voice is steady. “I really don’t care.”

He presses his palm to the label.

The box shudders. A silver glow pulses under his skin.

“You’re making a statement,” Annabeth says with dawning horror.

Percy finally looks at her. He knows his eyes are tired. Hollow. “He needs to know I see him now. For what he really is.”

The magic flares brighter.

“And if he opens it and turns to stone?” Grover asks quietly.

Percy’s voice is ice, sharp and unforgiving.

“He's looked away plenty of times. Let’s see if he can do it again.”

The box vanishes in a soft fwoosh of silver sparks.

Silence falls again.

The sky outside is beginning to pale.

The statues outside are still frozen in place. Some of them children.

Medusa isn't innocent, either. She's hurt people, too. People who didn’t deserve it. And she had lied to Percy about her motives. He doesn't know how much of what she promised was true. He can’t forget that. He shouldn’t forget that.

But it doesn’t stop the grief gnawing at his ribs.

If she had been cruel, it would’ve been easier. If she’d laughed when she fought. If she’d cursed his name. If she had looked like the monster in the stories.

But instead, she had wept.

She wanted to save them. In her own twisted, desperate way.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He thought monsters were evil. He was good. That saving his mom would be hard, but not complicated.

But now?

Now he’s sitting in the wreckage of a life the gods shattered centuries ago. And all that’s left are the pieces that never got to heal.

Who was really the monster in this story? 

Was it the girl who was punished for surviving what no one should ever endure? Condemned not for a crime committed, but for surviving one?

Was it the woman who reached for shelter in the arms of the cruel, even if it meant standing beside monsters, because no kind hand ever came?

Or was it him, the boy with a sword and shaking hands, who struck down someone who only wanted to keep him safe?

What makes a monster a monster?

Is it the shape of your face, or maybe the shape of your grief?

Is it the curse you bear? Or the choices you were never given?

There is no justice here. No clear line between villain and victim. No simple evil, no clean hands, no truth that doesn’t hurt.

Only the bruised and broken, all bleeding in different ways. Only the damned, just trying to protect what little they have left. Just trying to survive.

But one truth does remain. A trail running through every tragedy. The same divine fingerprints on every wreckage.

Medusa. His mom. Himself. Luke. Likely countless others.

Victims of the same careless hands, different pages of the same story.

Percy’s limbs are heavy. His heart aches. But there’s a steel thread of resolve inside him. Thin, trembling, and pulling tighter with every breath.

There’s no undoing what he did.

But he can choose what comes next. He won't let her death be just another line in a forgotten myth. Just another warning in a history written by victors.

Percy breathes in the ruin around him, and breathes out a vow.

He won’t be another broken pawn in the gods’ story.

He’ll write his own.

Starting with saving his mom.

Chapter Text

A dog is barking at them.

At least, Percy is fairly certain it's a dog. Maybe 75% sure.

A tiny poodle, to be specific. Not even tall enough to be seen over the small shrub it had been sheltering under by the deer trail they're aimlessly following, which explains how they'd missed it until they'd practically stepped on it.

But it's not just any poodle, no. It's a literal, cotton-candy-pink miniature poodle. Wearing a sparkly rhinestone collar. And…is that sunglasses?

Percy rubs his eyes. Wow, he really needs more sleep, apparently. “Hey, guys, uh, heads-up, I think I’m hallucinating.”

Annabeth stares. “Nope. I see it too.”

“Oh gods,” Grover whispers, stepping forward reverently. “It’s speaking French.”

“What,” Percy says flatly.

“Salut, comment t'appelles-tu?” Grover says, crouching down and extending his hand to the yapping dog.

Annabeth squints at him. “You speak French?”

Grover rocks his hand that is not being sniffed by the tiny pink monstrosity in a so-so gesture. “I'm definitely not the best, but it's enough to get by.”

Okay, Percy is officially lost. 

Like, Percy is glad to see Grover talking again (he had been rather despondent since they'd discovered his Uncle Ferdinand in Medusa’s statue garden), but...

Grover tilts his head as the dog barks once, then he apparently responds. 

To the dog. 

In French.

What is happening. 

“Es-tu perdu, chou chou?”

Percy blinks. And blinks again. “Dude, literally what the fuck.”

Grover looks up, startled. “I mean, I did spend a few weeks there, once—”

Percy cuts him off, incredulous. “No! Why are we more shocked that Grover speaks French than the fact that he's literally talking to a dog?!”

“Technically, I speak all animal languages,” Grover says, which is news to Percy. “But most poodles have accents.”

Percy throws his hands in the air. Annabeth gives him an amused look as Grover continues casually conversing with the pink bedazzled dog. In French.

A dog.

French.

Honestly, after everything that's happened, Percy doesn't even know why he's surprised anymore. What's next? They all get turned into guinea pigs or something? He snorts. Wouldn't that be ridiculous.

Seriously, what even is his life? 

“He says his name is Gladiola. He ran away because the servants gave him the wrong food and he needed to send a message. He ended up lost in the woods and would very much appreciate some assistance getting home now, please.”

Annabeth raises a brow. “The servants?”

“Yeah. Gladiola’s kind of a big deal.”

Percy, who still isn't entirely convinced that this is not a really weird hallucination his mind cooked up, just stares. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“Oh,” Grover adds cheerfully, “he also says we’ll be handsomely rewarded for his safe return.”

Percy turns to Annabeth in disbelief. “Did the poodle just bribe us?”

Annabeth shakes her head incredulously, seeming just as lost as he is, but her eyes are calculating. “We could use the money to buy train tickets or something, once we find civilization.”

Percy squints at Gladiola. “How does he even know there’s a reward?”

Grover shrugs like it’s obvious. “He read the posters. Duh.”

Percy opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “He read it. Right. Duh.”

The poodle barks once. Grover straightens and gives Percy a pointed look.

“He says he doesn't like your tone. He wants you to greet him properly.”

Annabeth coughs, hiding a laugh. “Yeah, Percy, say hello to the poodle.”

“I am not saying hello to the poodle.”

Another bark.

Grover shrugs. “He insists.”

“I refuse to—”

The bark is louder this time. Somehow disapproving.

Annabeth crosses her arms, smirking. She seems all too pleased with his predicament. “Come on, Percy. He's waiting.”

Grover adds helpfully, “Impatiently.”

Percy looks at them. Looks at the pink poodle. Closes his eyes and gathers strength.

Percy says hello to the poodle.

Grover shakes his head. “He speaks French.”

“Are you kidding me?”

The poodle barks again.

“Fine!” Percy snaps. He glares at the dog, reminds himself that he'll do whatever it takes to save his mom, draws on the singular word he knows in French, and mutters, "Bonjour."

Gladiola blinks at him. Then gives the most dignified bark Percy has ever heard.

Grover translates: “He accepts your greeting. Now, if we could please proceed, his paws are not meant for this much walking.”

Percy sighs into the sky and confirms, “Just to make sure we're all on the same page here, we’re funding our high-stakes cross-country quest… with dog ransom money.”

“Technically,” Annabeth says, “it’s reward money.”

“Technically,” Percy says, “we’re being saved by a pink poodle named Gladiola in a sparkly rhinestone collar and sunglasses.”

Gladiola barks proudly. His collar jingles.

Percy squints suspiciously at the dog. It totally understood what he just said in English. He swears the damn thing is smirking at him as Grover scoops it up.

Percy lightly bangs his head repeatedly against the nearest tree. “I’m going to lose my mind before we even reach the Underworld.”

---

Percy is trapped in the darkness.

He can't remember what he did wrong, doesn't even remember being dragged and locked in the small closet, but he knows he deserves it.

The air smells like beer-soaked carpet and mothballs, like old sneakers and rage. It tastes bitter in the back of Percy’s throat. Percy can feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his fingertips, in the back of his eyes.

Outside the door, boots hit the floor like thunder.

“Stupid fucking slut!”

Gabe.

The door shakes under a heavy fist. Wood groans. Percy’s whole body jolts, but he doesn’t make a sound. That only makes it worse. Crying means the door opens, and when the door opens—

“You’re lucky I let you live in this house, you little parasite!” Gabe growls, slurring. 

Another bang. Louder this time. 

“You’re nothing! You hear me? You’re nothing without me!”

Percy curls tighter, as small as he can make himself. He tries to shrink, tries to disappear. He wants his mom so badly his chest aches. But she's at work right now. 

He can’t take a deep breath. It’s too tight in here. It’s always too tight. 

He can't breathe.

The door shudders again, like Gabe is kicking it repeatedly. Percy whimpers and presses his hands over his ears. His eyes are squeezed shut so tight he's seeing colors. His vision behind his closed eyes is washed with golden streaks.

Gabe's voice is cold. “You have a choice, now. Return to your cage. Or step into power.” It's low and insistent, and it—wait. That's not how it went. Gabe didn't say that.

Percy peeks his eyes open and immediately squints against the light. This isn't right. The light creeps under the door like it’s breathing, curling and reaching as though it’s alive. It’s a strange gold, sickly sweet, like honey mixed with something metallic, and the air around him thickens with it, heavy in his lungs. 

Percy is trapped in it, like a bug in amber, pinned beneath the weight of something vast and unspoken, as if the light itself is pressing him down, holding him in place. His heart pounds. His skin pricks with a cold sweat, but the warmth of the light seems to seep into his bones, pulling at something deep inside of him. 

His vision blurs, and he feels... detached, like the world around him is spinning too fast but he’s stuck in place, watching it happen from the outside.

“Your father does not care for you, child.” Gabe's voice is an entrancing whisper, and it doesn't quite sound like him. “You know that.”

“Shut up,” Percy whispers, but his voice doesn’t echo like it should. It’s swallowed by the dark. His words fall flat against the light.

Gabe's voice hums. “You were broken beneath their divine gaze, and still they demand your loyalty. Your obedience. Your sacrifice.”

Percy chokes on a breath. The light pulses with his fear, brighter now, gold spilling like liquid fire from the cracks, too rich, too heavy. It tastes like salt and copper and something that burns the back of his throat. His ears ring. 

“When that mortal filth laid hands upon you, where was the god of the sea? What justice did Olympus deliver? What mercy?”

Percy squeezes his eyes shut again, but the gold doesn’t go away. It’s inside now. Winding through his veins like it belongs there, like it's always been there.

“There are others out there. Children like you once were. Frightened. Alone. Waiting for someone to come save them.”

The voice pauses. Then: “Will you be that someone, Perseus?”

The closet tilts. Percy feels like he’s falling sideways, even though he hasn’t moved. The walls groan like they’re breathing. The light flares—too bright, too loud, buzzing in his ears like a swarm of bees.

“I offer no pity, Perseus. Only clarity. The gods will not change. They never have. But the world can. With your help.”

Percy curls into himself again. He’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter.

The voice lowers one last time. It is not Gabe anymore. It never was.

“You cannot save them while you kneel to those who let them suffer.”

The closet door creaks open, and Gabe’s hands are around his throat.

---

Percy wakes up screaming.

The world lurches. It's dark and Percy can't see anything and Gabe is here and Percy remembers what happened last time—

Percy throws himself backward instinctively, hands scrabbling against the floor, against something, until his shoulder slams into a wall, and the hands are still choking him—

Where is he, he's gonna suffocate, it's so dark and he can't breathe and he's trapped again and—

Gabe is—

The voice was—

The closet—

The door opened—

Golden light—

Percy's eyes dart around, but it's all dark shadow. He claws at his throat, trying to get the hands away, but he can’t find them, can’t touch them, can’t reach them. He can’t see, can't orient, can’t breathe—

His body is screaming at him to run but his legs won’t work. Is he drugged again?

“Percy—!” A male voice. Too close. Too loud.

And then hands are coming at him from the darkness, reaching for him, going to touch him, he can’t—

“No!” Percy chokes, twisting away, flinching so hard he slams the back of his head against the wall and sees stars. His vision spins. “Don’t touch—don’t touch me!” 

He kicks and flails around blindly, chest heaving, scrambling further back even though there’s nowhere left to go. His heel knocks into a wall, his shoulder slams the corner of something metal, and he can’t get away, and he’s trapped and they’re going to—

There are still hands—hovering—dark silhouettes looming over him—he can’t breathe—

“No, no, no—don’t—” he gasps, “Stop—don’t touch me, please, no—”

“Whoa, whoa, Percy, it’s just me—”

He can’t breathe and the walls are closing in and there’s nowhere to go and he can’t get away and he’s trapped and they’re gonna hurt him—

Percy squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on himself, arms thrown over his head, shoulders hunched tight. “Don’t—don’t—I can’t—not again, no, please no, stop—”

His breath hitches. His whole body trembles.

There’s noises, and Percy hears it all from underwater. He's drowning and being tugged deeper and deeper by the current and—

There’s no escape and this is gonna happen so he needs to play nice so they’re nice and don’t hurt him too bad—

“Please,” he whispers, curling inward in defeat. “I—I’ll be good for you, I swear, I’ll be good, please—”

He hears a sharp, shaky inhale, hushed voices, footsteps, and everything feels far away and too close at once. 

The floor under him feels like it’s swaying, like the closet has come unmoored, and the walls groan. 

There’s a flicker of overhead light, artificial and harsh, but that doesn’t make sense, because there's no light in the closet.

Where is he?

He wants to ask. This isn't the first time he's woken up no longer in bed, with unfamiliar people around. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a terrified whimper.

“Percy,” a softer voice says, and Percy flinches. But the voice is female, and tight with worry. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just us. It’s Annabeth and Grover. You’re not—you're not there anymore. We're on the train to Denver. You had a bad dream.”

The words bounce off of Percy like stones thrown into a storm.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t dare. If he speaks, it’ll start again. 

No one moves. Percy can hear someone sniffling. 

The same person continues, voice low and forcibly calm, like she's soothing a wounded animal. “We’re not gonna touch you,” she vows softly. “You’re safe. I promise. No one’s gonna hurt you. It's just Annabeth and Grover. You're safe.”

The names finally cut through the fog like sunlight through mist. Grover. Annabeth.

Percy sucks in a breath that feels like broken glass. He shifts a bit, just enough to peek from behind his arms, but still careful to protect his head. His vision is blurry—eyes still wet, lashes sticky with tears—but the face looking back at him is scared. And familiar.

It isn’t him.

It’s not Gabe.

Percy blinks again. A second figure hovers a safe distance behind her—goat legs, shaggy hair, face tight with worry.

“Grover…?” Percy rasps.

His own voice startles him.

The satyr nods immediately, eyes wet. “Yeah, man. It’s us. It’s just us.”

Percy blinks again. His hands tremble as he lowers them from his face. His breath still comes in short gasps. “I—I didn’t know—I thought—”

He shudders violently. His whole body goes loose, slumping against the wall like the strength has been drained from him all at once.

Grover moves before Percy even realizes that his own hand reached out for him, arm trembling weakly.

But it isn’t Luke. Gods, he needs Luke right now.

The thought cuts sharp, like glass under his ribs. Luke’s the one who knows how to steady him when his breathing goes ragged, when the nightmares leave him shaking apart. Luke’s the one who crouches close without hesitation, who murmurs low and sure, I’ve got you, you’re okay, just breathe with me .

Luke understands. And Percy misses him so much he aches.

Grover drops to his knees in front of him, his hands careful, like Percy might shatter at the slightest pressure. Percy’s hand latches onto Grover’s like a lifeline, gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His fingers are buzzing. He's so cold. His whole body shakes, breath caught in his throat like a scream that never made it out.

Grover doesn't flinch. He clutches Percy’s hand just as hard, his thumb brushing gently along the side of Percy’s. Unshed tears shimmer in his eyes, catching in the flicker of overhead light.

Percy has no idea how long they stay like that.

He can’t catch his breath. Every inhale is a scratch down his throat. Too sharp. Too shallow. Like his lungs forgot how to work without panic choking them.

The floor thrums beneath him, every jolt of the train a fresh ripple through his bones. A reminder that this is real, no matter how much the room seems to be shifting.

The light above them stutters with every sway of the car, casting warped shadows that crawl over the walls. Too bright, too artificial. It buzzes like it knows something he doesn’t.

Grover squeezes his hand, firm and steady. He doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps brushing over Percy’s skin—small, rhythmic, like he’s trying to say I’m here without words. It helps. A little. Just enough to keep Percy from floating too far away.

His other hand curls into the fabric of his jeans. Clenched tight. His nails bite into his palms. He needs to feel something. Anything. Just to make sure he’s still in his body.

Annabeth is silent. He's distantly aware of her crouching nearby but not too close, arms drawn around herself, watching with eyes wide and unblinking. She doesn’t say a word. 

Percy stares at the floor and wills it to hold him.

He focuses on the tremble of the train, the scrape of fabric when Grover shifts, the salt on his lips.

He tells himself over and over: This is real. This is now. You're safe. You're safe.

But the echoes won’t stop.

Tears burn his eyes again. Not necessarily from the dream this time, but from the weight of what it dragged back up with it. Memories that never really went away, just settled under the surface, waiting to be stirred.

He's so tired.

Grover squeezes his hand. “You with us?” His voice is gentle and choked.

Percy nods once, a jerky motion. He thinks so. 

He swallows hard, but his throat feels like it’s been scrubbed raw. “Yeah. I—I'm sorry. I—” He cuts off, squeezing his eyes shut. His voice splinters apart like ice underfoot.

Grover doesn’t let him finish. “Hey. You don’t need to be sorry, man. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Only worry. And something heavier. Confusion, maybe? Or helplessness? Percy isn’t sure which. Maybe both. Probably both.

Percy doesn’t answer. He can’t. The words are too sharp in his throat, and none of them would be the right ones anyway. 

He knows what they want to ask. They're smart, they can definitely tell that something is clearly wrong with him. 

He’s losing control.

The rot inside is fermenting and leaking out of him, and he can't keep it contained anymore. He's a disease, a mess, a fuck-up, and Percy knows he's just repeating things Gabe always told him and he hates that his voice is still in his head but he can't stop and—

Percy swallows. His body’s still shaking. His chest still feels like it’s caved in. 

He can’t tell them about Gabe. Absolutely not.

But he also can’t just tell them that he’s fine and move on, because he’s clearly not, and there’s no way they would leave the conversation there.

He needs to deflect. Give them a different truth for them to focus on.

“I—I’ve been having weird dreams,” he mutters. “Can—I don’t know how all of this works, but can monsters talk to you through dreams? Is that a thing?”

Annabeth’s brows pull together slowly. Her eyes seem to be picking him apart. “Like prophetic dreams?”

Percy wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and never come back, but instead, he shakes his head, releasing his grip on Grover’s hand just enough to run the other one through his damp curls. “Not exactly. I don’t think so. It’s not telling me the future or anything.”

Grover frowns, eyes worried, and Percy avoids his gaze. “What happens in these dreams?”

“I’ve only had a few dreams like it.” Percy rubs his eyes. His face is still wet. “There’s a voice. The same voice. It says that the gods don’t care about demigods. That nothing will change and people will keep getting hurt unless someone does something about it.”

Grover doesn’t seem sure, so he just squeezes Percy’s hand and glances at Annabeth. She’s sitting very still, brows furrowed as if she’s solving a puzzle.

“The average monster wouldn’t be able to speak through dreams like that,” she says finally. “Like, there’s Icelus, one of the Oneiroi—children of Hypnos. He’s known to slip into people’s sleep and cause nightmares. But he usually takes the form of animals.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Are there any recurring themes that you’ve noticed? Things you keep seeing? Animals, plants, clocks, stuff like that?”

Percy blinks at her. “Why do you just know this off the top of your head?” His voice comes out near-hysterical, a brittle laugh tacked to the end.

Annabeth rolls her eyes, though there’s a faint pink flush creeping across her cheeks. “Because I read. Try it sometime. Now, focus.”

Percy drags his fingers down his face, trying to think. The air in the train car feels too hot, pressing down on him. It’s hard to breathe. “I don’t know… it’s—sometimes I see a figure, like a shadow, but it’s… human-shaped. No animals, nothing like that.” He exhales shakily, leaning back against the train wall. Gods, his head hurts. “The first dream, it seemed like I was underground. It was sitting on this massive gold throne. Now that I think about it, gold’s been a theme.”

Percy squeezes his eyes shut again, but the gold doesn’t go away. It’s inside now. Winding through his veins like it belongs there, like it's always been there.

Annabeth chews her lip. “Gold,” she repeats. “That doesn’t narrow it down much. There’s a lot of beings in mythology associated with gold. But underground…” She hesitates. “Could that be Hades?”

Grover twitches beside him.

Annabeth presses on. “Think about it. It makes sense, right? He’s the one who kidnapped your mom. He’s the one who stole the master bolt. And he would benefit from a war.”

Percy rubs his eyes again. “But then… why say all that stuff about the gods not caring? If he’s a god too, why would he be throwing shade at the gods?”

Grover shrugs helplessly. “Maybe just to stir up more chaos? Make you hate the other Olympians so you’ll side with him?”

Annabeth doesn’t answer right away. She’s staring at the floor, fingers curling around her knee, thinking hard. “It sounds similar,” she says slowly, “to what Medusa said yesterday. Right? About building a better world, about people who wanted to cause change. She mentioned someone she called ‘Him,’ remember? That was in charge? Could that be Hades, then?”

Percy swallows hard, the memory clawing at him. “She also said He’d do terrible things if she failed to bring us in. Begged me to kill her. Said death would be kinder than what He’d do to her.”

They exchange uneasy glances.

Grover frowns, hooves shifting against the floor. “But… if that’s true, if He is Hades, wouldn’t death give him more power over her? Being the god of the dead and all?”

“That’s… a good point,” Annabeth admits slowly. “Maybe he doesn’t have power over monsters after they’re destroyed? They go back to Tartarus, not the Underworld. But…” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t make sense.”

The three of them lapse into silence, conversation faltering as they all consider this. Finally, Annabeth says, “Let’s just keep all of this in mind, for now. And Percy, if you have another dream, let us know.”

Percy nods. 

He can feel their eyes still on him as he leans back and stares at the ceiling for a moment. He knows they’re still wondering what exactly happened in the dream to make him wake up screaming like that. His hands are still trembling faintly in his lap, but he curls them into fists and forces a crooked grin.

“So,” he says lightly, leaning forward and kicking his foot toward Annabeth to get her attention, “Seriously though, how do you even keep all those weird names straight? You’ve got a whole filing cabinet up there or something?”

Annabeth exhales through her nose, half exasperated. “A lot of them have multiple names. It’s not that hard. The Moirai, for example, is another name for the three Fates. Same figures, different title. There are plenty of others like that.”

Grover blinks. “Doesn’t…doesn’t the fact they have multiple names make it even harder to keep straight? Not easier?”

Annabeth tilts her chin at Grover, smirking. “Not if you actually study. It’s like cross-referencing. Once you know the different names, you can track the myths across cultures.”

Percy snorts. “Yeah, sure. Sounds totally easy. I’m sure next you’re going to tell me there’s, like, five different names for Zeus too.”

Annabeth’s eyes are twinkling. “I mean…” She drags the word out. “If we’re counting all of the regional titles and descriptive epithets, one could argue that it’s probably something closer to fifty.”

Grover groans and drops his face into his hands. “And I can’t even spell ‘epithet’. I’m doomed.”

The corner of Percy’s mouth twitches, then he finally breaks into laughter. It’s louder than it should be, edged with something desperate. Grover peeks up and grins at Percy, and even Annabeth has the ghost of a smile as she watches.

The three of them settle into a tentative rhythm again, the train clacking beneath their feet. Percy leans back, arms behind his head in a mock-relaxed sprawl, and forces himself to keep smiling.

But when he closes his eyes, the aftershocks of the nightmare still cling to him. His fists are curled too tight. His chest still feels like it’s caved in.

He doesn’t notice Grover and Annabeth exchange a weighted glance over him. He doesn’t notice the questioning look Annabeth sends Grover, and the way he minutely shakes his head at her. 

All Percy feels is the phantom ache of fingers digging into his throat, the echo of Gabe’s voice still gnawing at his skull. He swallows hard, like he can bury it deep enough that no one else will hear it rattling around inside him. His grin holds. His breathing evens out. From the outside, he looks almost at ease.

Inside, though, the memory is still there. Sharp as glass, pressing in on every breath, tearing him apart from the inside. He tells himself he’s fine, that it’s over, that he’s in control now. 

If he repeats it enough, maybe it’ll be true.

The train rocks steadily on. Percy hums a tuneless scrap of sound, pretending he’s calm, pretending he belongs here, pretending he isn’t still breaking apart where no one can see.

He’s fine.

---

By the time the train screeches to a stop, Percy’s legs ache from sitting still too long. The air inside the cars has grown heavy and stale, clinging to his skin. His chest still feels heavy, but sunlight spills through the grimy window, breaking up the shadows in his head.

“St. Louis,” Grover announces, stretching with a bleat of a yawn. “Three-hour layover.”

Three hours. Percy rubs the grit from his eyes, restless already at the thought of being penned in the station that long. The walls of the train car feel like they’ve been inching closer with each passing minute. He doesn’t want to sit still. Doesn’t want to give his mind that much space to circle back.

Annabeth is already on her feet, backpack slung over one shoulder, her eyes sparking. “The Arch is here.”

Grover blinks at her. “The what?”

“The Gateway Arch. Tallest monument in the U.S.,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Eero Saarinen designed it in the ’40s. Pure curve. Stainless steel. Beautiful.”

Percy snorts. “You sound like you’re in love.”

Annabeth doesn’t budge. “I am. With architecture. And unless you want to spend three hours breathing train-station air, it’s better than staying here.”

She has a point. Percy feels the itch under his skin, the need to move, to be anywhere but inside this closet train car. He shrugs, forcing nonchalance, but really, he’s already on his feet.

“Fine. Let’s go see your giant lawn ornament.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips as they step off the train into the press of heat and noise. For the first time since his nightmare, Percy feels like he can breathe.

Now, standing at the base of the Gateway Arch, Percy cranes his head back until his neck hurts. The thing gleams silver against the cloudy sky, impossibly tall, curving like a blade overhead. He feels small beneath it. Like the city, the sky, the river itself could swallow him whole.

Tourists shuffle around them, cameras flashing. A ranger gestures them toward the entrance. Percy drags in a lungful of the outside air, savoring how wide the world feels after the claustrophobic hum of the train. But the thought of going inside that narrow arch, sealed in metal with nowhere to run, prickles at the back of his neck.

Annabeth doesn’t notice his hesitation. Her gaze is fixed upward, reverent, like she’s staring at a temple.

“Come on,” she says, already moving toward the doors.

Percy exhales and follows.

They end up being ushered into the elevator with a lady and her fat little chihuahua. The space is less of a room and more of a capsule, rounded walls pressing in on all sides. The four of them pack shoulder to shoulder, knees nearly touching. When the door slides shut with a hollow clang, the sound goes straight down Percy’s spine.

Air. He needs air.

Annabeth launches into facts the second the machine lurches upward (something about how the Arch is designed to sway in the wind, how the tram system was engineered). Her voice bounces around the curved walls, too loud in the confined space. Grover nods along, pretending interest.

Percy can’t. His palms are damp. His back presses against the cold wall, and still it isn’t enough distance. The ceiling feels like it’s dipping lower, the air thinning.

It’s just an elevator, he tells himself. Just a ride.

But the thought doesn’t stick. He swears he can smell sour beer and hear a lock clicking shut.

Percy’s stomach flips. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. His breaths come too fast, scraping his throat raw. His fingernails bite crescents into his palms.

Not real. Not real. 

A sharp, musty smell cuts through the spiral—wet fur and dog breath. Percy cracks an eye, desperate for something, anything, to hold onto.

The woman is crammed in beside him, the jittery chihuahua clutched in her arms. The dog’s bugged-out eyes lock on him like it knows every secret he’s trying to bury. Its smell is overwhelming, rancid and earthy, but it’s solid. Real. Not memory.

Percy drags in a breath through his nose, gagging a little at the scent, but grounding himself in it anyway. The walls are still too close, but the stink keeps him here, in this capsule, not that closet.

The tram jolts, climbing higher. Every creak makes his stomach lurch, but he keeps breathing. Keeps his fists loose. One second, then another.

Finally, the elevator jerks to a halt. The door slides open.

Percy is the first one out. Air rushes into his lungs, cool and sharp, like he’s been underwater for too long. He swallows hard, pretending it’s no big deal.

The top of the Arch is a gleaming tunnel, the floor sloping in a wide curve. Narrow windows line the walls, framing slices of St. Louis sprawling below.

Annabeth presses close to one, her breath fogging the glass. “Look at that,” she says, eyes wide, wonder softening her face. “The whole city—like a model. You can even see the grid of the streets.”

Grover edges up beside her, peeking down nervously at the river below.

Percy joins them, leaning against the window frame to steady himself. The Mississippi sprawls dark and endless, cutting the city in two. From up here, the cars and people look like toys.

His reflection stares back at him in the glass. Skin pale, eyes ringed and hollow. He shifts, trying to fix his expression, trying to match Annabeth’s curiosity, Grover’s nervous awe. But inside, his chest is still caving in, his ribs rattling with echoes of the nightmare he hasn’t shaken since the train. 

They stay up there longer than Percy would prefer, pressed against the narrow glass slits while Annabeth explains the city’s layout like she’s been studying it her whole life. Grover keeps muttering about the ground being way too far away, about how goat legs weren’t made for this sort of thing. Percy only half listens. He rubs the back of his neck, restless, waiting for the itch beneath his skin to ease.

Eventually, the guide, an older man in a crisp polo with an Arch logo, claps his hands together. “Alright, folks, we’ll be closing the observation deck soon. Please start lining up for the ride back down.”

A small crowd stirs. Percy hadn’t realized how many others had been tucked into corners, murmuring over the view. Now they converge toward the elevator doors, pressing close, their voices overlapping.

The elevator dings, the curved door sliding open. Already half full from the group before them, the tiny capsule waits like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.

Annabeth steps in without hesitation. Grover swallows hard but follows her. Percy’s feet don’t move. His chest locks up. Too tight. Too many bodies. No way out once the door shuts.

He takes a shaky step back. “I’ll…take the next one down,” he mutters, trying to make it casual.

Annabeth glances back, frowning. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Percy says quickly. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

The doors close on their doubtful faces. Silence settles, punctuated only by the faint hum of the building.

Only a few people are left: a mom and her little boy, pointing out one last landmark; the guide, checking his watch; and the woman with the tiny chihuahua. Percy leans against the curved wall, dragging air into his lungs. The quiet should help. It doesn’t. The walls still seem to bend inward, like they know he’s cornered.

Percy crosses his arms and leans against the curved wall, trying to shake off the crawling sensation in his skin.

The woman with the dog eyes him thoughtfully, her chihuahua squirming in her arms. “Afraid of heights?” she asks, her voice smooth, sympathetic.

Percy seizes on the excuse, because it’s easier than explaining the truth. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Something like that.”

Her mouth curves in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Smart boy,” she says softly. She strokes her dog absently, its dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “It’s good to be afraid. The sky isn’t a wise place for someone hiding from Zeus.”

Percy nods absently, and—

Wait.

Percy straightens, pulse stuttering in his throat. He blinks at her, wondering if he misheard, if the pressure in his skull is playing tricks. The woman’s smile never wavers, sharp in a way that makes the air feel even thinner. With a little cooing sound, she crouches and sets the chihuahua down.

At first, it only stretches its stubby legs, yawns wide enough to show a too-sharp set of teeth. Then its body shudders. Bones stretch with sickening cracks. Fur ripples and peels back like it’s being burned away. The thing bulges grotesquely, limbs twisting, eyes rolling white before snapping open with a predator’s gleam. Its little tail writhes and elongates into a snake, scales glistening in the weak fluorescent light.

Someone screams. The sound bounces off the curved walls like they’re inside a bell. The little boy bursts into tears, clinging to his mother’s waist. The tourist guide yells something about staying calm, but his voice is high and panicked, like even he doesn’t believe the words.

Percy stumbles backward, heart ricocheting against his ribs. His shoulder thuds against the cold steel wall. He’s already reaching for his pocket, and with a click and shimmer Riptide unfurls in his grip. Bronze light flashes across the narrow deck. It’s the only thing that feels real.

The woman rises, slow and deliberate. Her gaze never leaves Percy’s face. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

His throat is dry. He says nothing.

She smiles faintly, like his silence is answer enough. “I am Echidna. Mother of Monsters.” Her hand drifts in a mockery of affection toward the creature crouched at her side. The beast’s lion head snarls, strings of foam hanging from its jaws. The snake-tail coils and uncoils, scales rasping against metal, while goat haunches scrape the floor as it paws for balance.

“And this is my baby,” she says softly, voice carrying over the sound of the little boy’s muffled sobs. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the species? He’s a beautiful specimen of a Chimera.”

The monster growls, the air vibrating with it. Every instinct in Percy screams to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Just narrow windows, walls curving in, and the pitiful few mortals pressed against the far end of the deck, banging on the emergency exit. No closet door to rattle, no way out. Just teeth, claws, and snake venom waiting.

Echidna clasps her hands behind her back, her tone smooth and unhurried, like a teacher beginning a lesson. “You should feel honored. Lord Zeus does not often allow me to test heroes with my little ones.” She tilts her head, studying him, eyes glinting like a knife’s edge. “But you… you are different. Special.”

The Chimera crouches lower, claws clicking. Its gaze fixes on Percy with predator’s patience, like it already knows the taste of his blood.

Percy tightens his grip on Riptide until his knuckles ache. He doesn’t feel special. He just feels so, so incredibly tired.

Echidna smiles softly at him. “I almost envy you. Few get to meet such beauty before being devoured by it.” She absently pets the monster on its shaggy lion head. “Don’t worry, he won’t waste you. Every scream will feed him well.”

She gestures, and the Chimera lunges, a blur of muscles and scales and fire.

Percy dives sideways just in time, the beast’s claws raking across the tile where he had been a heartbeat before, sparks flying. Percy rolls to his knees, gasping, the heat of its breath searing the back of his neck. 

Screams rise around him, high and panicked, the sound of mortals trying to make sense of the impossible. The beast swivels toward them, its lion’s eyes burning with hunger, and though Percy has no idea what they see through the Mist, their terror is palpable.

The Chimera’s head swivels toward them, eyes glowing like hot coals, and Percy’s stomach drops. No. He can’t let it touch them.

Percy throws himself forward—not at the Chimera, it's too far away—but at Echidna. He tackles her to the ground, desperate, anything to turn the monster’s attention back on him. She laughs, delighted, even as her Chimera snarls and pivots to defend her. 

The monster snarls, its lion jaws snapping back toward him. Its claws catch his side, and for a split second he doesn’t even feel it. Then fire erupts across his ribs, hot and searing, and his shirt sticks wet and heavy to his skin. 

Percy falls flat, clutching himself, dizzy with the heat of his own blood. The pain sets his head spinning, and there’s a sour, dizzy throb in the pit of his stomach.

The Chimera’s throat glows a molten red.

He throws himself to the side just in time.

The fireball explodes past him, grazing his face with blistering heat, and slams into the ground where he’d just been. The floor cracks open, tiles melting into a jagged, smoking hole, edges glowing and dripping molten. The air whips down through it, a rushing current that drags at Percy’s clothes, pulling, pulling. He makes the mistake of glancing down—so far down—and the vertigo nearly topples him.

“Pathetic,” Echidna frowns, kneeling casually beside him. She doesn’t even sound triumphant, just bored. “The son of Poseidon, reduced to scrambling on his hands and knees. I thought you’d have more fight in you.”

Percy wants to snap back, but the exhaustion is so deep, so heavy, it feels carved into his bones. His lungs burn. His vision pulses at the edges. He can’t muster anger, not even fear. Just a tired, hollow ache.

A cry splits the chaos. The little boy, tucked in the corner, wails, high and terrified. Percy instinctively flinches at the sound, his head snapping toward the kid.

It’s the wrong move.

The serpent tail whips out. Fangs plunge deep into Percy’s ankle. Fire spreads instantly, liquid lightning tearing up his leg, sharper than the claws, hotter than the fire. He chokes on a shout and crumples, fingers spasming. 

Riptide slips from his grip, clattering against the fractured floor. He watches, sluggish and horrified as it tips over the molten edge and falls, glinting, spinning into the open air.

Down, down, down, glittering once in the sunlight before vanishing into the rushing air. He has the sudden mental image of the sword impaling someone on the way down. Or, or… like a bird. 

A sword could probably hurt a bird. Swords are sharp. Pointy…

That… that makes sense.

His chest tightens with panic. He doesn’t want to hurt a bird.

But that’s not right. Celestial bronze can’t hurt mortals… right? 

Annabeth said that… she must’ve… 

His fingers don’t feel right. Are they…do they still belong to…to him?

Why… why does he feel like this? It was just a little bite. Just a teensy, weensy, little…

Oh. The snake must have been poisonous.

He shakes his head. No… venomous. He giggles. He didn’t eat the snake, that would be silly.

Dark edges his vision, curling inward. His own pulse sounds too loud, thudding in his ears like a war drum.

He’s faintly aware of Enchilada—no, Echidna, the monster lady, monster mash doo doo—putting her hand on his shoulder, brows furrowed with what looks like disappointment. That makes him sad. He’s…he’s not supposed to make people disa…disappointed. 

“They don’t make heroes like they used to,” she sighs, rubbing his shoulder a bit. “A son of Poseidon, and already he’s down.”

Percy wants to argue. He’s not…he’s not a hero. You have to be a good person to be a hero. And he’s…he’s no son…not a son…of the fish guy. Bad fishies…

He tries to open his mouth to say that, but his jaw won’t move. That’s not…not very nice of it.  All he manages is a slurred noise that tastes like blood. Yucky.

“Perhaps it’s better this way,” Encha…Echdi…Monster Mama says as she brushes a strand of hair from his sweat-slick forehead. That’s nice of her. “Chimera venom is a gruesome way to die, yes, but it’s quick. Merciful, even.” 

She sighs. She sounds tired. She should…she should take a nap. That's what you do…when you’re tired. “You don’t have what it takes, child. They will break you slowly. At least it will be over soon, this way.”

The little boy is still crying in the corner. Percy wants to cry, too. Why…why can’t he cry? It’s…it’s not fair.

Percy’s arms shake as he pushes himself onto his hands and knees. He feels..not good. He’s not sure if he’s still breathing. He’s…he’s pretty sure…he’s supposed to breathe.

Somehow, he lifts his head. He meets the horrified eyes of the mother pressed into the corner. She’s…like a shield. Protecting her little guy. That’s…that’s good. 

Moms…moms are supposed to protect their kids from monsters. 

He frowns. He’s…he’s not sure…not sure why…why that thought makes his heart hurt. 

The doggy—no kitty, lions are cats, silly Percy—is sniffing toward the people. That’s…that’s not good. He’s…he’s the one that gets hurt. They shouldn’t… Shouldn’t get hurt. That’s his job…

The kitty wants him, doesn’t it? He’s yummier. Or…something. He should leave. Do…do kitties play fetch? Maybe it will play fetch…with him. Then it will…will leave the nice mommy alone.

He had a mommy, too. It’s…it’s okay, though. His friends…his goat…will save her.

The decision is easy, really… It’s the only one…only one left. Process…of elimination…or whatever…it’s called…

Anna…Anna…would be proud… 

He closes his eyes. Lets himself tip forward…

The floor…the floor disappears…

The sky is really…really pretty…

He’s a bird…

Wings…no, arms…no, nothing at all. Just falling. Spinning. Tumbling end over end…

The wind claws at him, drags at his shirt, tears at his lungs. He thinks maybe it’s laughing. Or maybe…maybe that’s him. He doesn’t know…

Sky above. Rock below. River—oh. River’s down there… Shiny. Blue.

Blue like…like candy wrappers. Blue like…her eyes. Mom’s…mom's eyes.

He wants to…to touch it. Just once.

But his body doesn’t listen. Heavy...too heavy…

His blood…his blood is burning…his skin doesn't…doesn't feel right…

Riptide…went to the sky too…

Maybe…maybe they’ll meet at the bottom. Two birds, broken wings, sharp edges…

Closer, closer…

The air is too loud. His head…his head is too empty…

Then—movement. The river…river shifts. A ripple that swells, rises…

That's not…not right. Rivers don’t move up. They don’t…don't reach out. But this one…this one does…

It climbs the air like…like a hand. Fingers of water, stretching, curling…waiting…

Waiting…for him…

He thinks…maybe it’s hungry. Or maybe it’s gentle. Hard to tell…

His body whispers: sleep, sleep, sleep…

He doesn’t fight. He just…falls…

And the river catches him.

Chapter Text

Percy drifts.

Soft. Warm. Weightless.

Comfort folds around him like a blanket, heavy and close. A kind of sleepy, drowsy coziness that wraps around his aching body, that numbs the burn still crawling faintly in his veins. The venom doesn’t hurt anymore. His wounds feel like they’re knitting closed, threads pulling skin together in ways he can’t see but can feel.

Every part of him feels soothed, mended, whole.

For one blissful moment, he doesn’t think. He just lets himself float. The current rocks him gently, the way his mom used to when he was little. Safe. He’s safe.

His eyes flutter open, and the world glows green-blue around him. Shards of light ripple through water, shimmering on sand. A flash of silver flickers as a fish darts through the reed next to him, water rippling at the movement.

Water.

He’s underwater.

Panic surges, sharp and immediate. He jerks upright, his lungs convulsing, expecting fire to rip through his chest when he instinctively sucks in a breath. But nothing comes. Liquid fills his lungs, but inexplicably, there’s no choking, no drowning.

His mind stutters. He looks down at himself, at his jeans, his shirt, the sneakers still on his feet. He touches his hair. All dry. The water moves around him but refuses to touch him, as though it’s been bent away, commanded.

His heart lurches.

No.

He knows what this means.

The realization drags him down deeper than the Chimera ever could. He feels suddenly heavier than the river cradling him, like he could sink straight through it to the earth below.

His father.

Poseidon.

This is his doing.

The same man who let Gabe slam him into walls, who let him hide in closets until the dark felt like home. The man who had watched as Percy’s soul was torn apart, over and over and over again. And did nothing.

That’s who had reached down from his throne and caught Percy before he could shatter on the concrete.

Percy would have rather died.

His throat closes, nausea rising again, hot and bitter. He squeezes his eyes shut, fists curling, trying to push away the thought before it drowns him. But the river won’t let him go. It holds him too gently. Percy hates it.

(He hates the traitorous part of him, the part that’s still that little boy longing for someone to stay. The part that wants to believe it. To sink into it, to let it carry him, to let it be enough.)

He can almost feel the concrete he should’ve hit, the venom that should’ve burned him hollow. That ending would’ve been his. His choice. His pain. But this—this rescue, this invisible tether—feels like a theft.

A debt he never wanted.

“You’re awake.”

The voice is soft, echoing oddly in the water, like bells in a cathedral.

Percy’s head snaps to the right.

A figure floats a few feet away, shimmering faintly with the current. Her long hair sways like river grass, and her eyes are as dark as the riverbed. Her presence is calm, unhurried, like she has been waiting for him longer than he’s been alive.

“I was sent,” she says, dipping her head, “to deliver a message from Lord Poseidon.”

Something sharp twists in Percy’s gut. His vision blurs red for half a second before he turns away from her and kicks himself upward, toward the surface, refusing to answer. Refusing to stay here one second longer. 

He doesn’t care if ignoring her breaks whatever magic is keeping him alive. He’d rather choke on the Mississippi than hear him out now.

The spirit doesn’t move to stop him. She only glides serenely upward at the same pace, her hair flowing around her like ribbons. “He wishes you to know,” she says softly, “that he is proud of you.”

Percy stops. His chest seizes, not from the water but from the fury exploding inside him.

“Proud?” His voice cracks. He spins toward her, eyes burning, teeth gritted. “He has no right to be proud of me.”

The river stirs at his words. The calm around him fractures, the current quickening, pulling and shoving, a storm spun from his own pulse. Percy doesn’t even notice, not really, how the river itself mirrors his fury, how the darkness deepens around them.

His anger is louder.

The spirit frowns, sadness carved into her features like it’s older than the world. The churning water tugs at her hair, dragging it across her face. 

“Your father cares for you,” she says gently, “more than you will ever know. He is simply…not skilled in showing it.”

Her words ripple around him, soft as silk, but Percy feels them like knives.

“No. He wasn’t there,” Percy spits. “Not once. Not when I—” He cuts himself off, chest heaving, bile pressing up his throat. No. Poseidon doesn’t deserve to even know what Percy thinks. Percy will give him nothing.

“He doesn’t get to call himself my father. Not now. Not ever.”

The spirit tilts her head, her expression unreadable. She does not flinch from his anger. “You carry his blood. His gift is in you. That cannot be denied.”

Percy’s chest burns. He kicks upward, refusing to look at her, at the way her hair drifts like seaweed in the current. “I’d rather bleed myself dry than claim his name.”

“You do not understand the weight he bears,” the spirit defends softly, still trailing beside him as he swims. “The oaths he has sworn, the enemies who circle, the consequences of—”

“I don’t care!” The water around them surges, churning in wild spirals. Percy’s fists curl, his breath ragged though the river itself is filling his lungs. “He commands the sea. He has the power to make the earth shake. But he ‘couldn't’ get up from his throne to save me? Tell me what that says about your gods.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy as the ocean floor.

When the spirit finally speaks again, her voice is quieter, almost mournful. “You mistake absence for indifference. The gods are not free. They are bound by ancient law, by oaths, by war. Your father has never been able to step where he wishes.”

Percy scoffs. “Funny. So he’s a god when it’s convenient, and helpless when it isn’t? Let him drown in his oaths and laws then, if that's all he cares about.”

For the first time, the spirit falters. Her eyes close, and her form shimmers faintly, as if even the current cannot hold her together. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “You are young. Your anger is righteous. But one day, you will see that a father’s love can take shapes you cannot yet understand.”

Percy laughs bitterly, though the sound warps and echoes strangely underwater. “Love? That’s not love. Love doesn’t wait for permission. If he had loved me, truly loved me, he would have broken every law in the world to save me.”

The spirit’s gaze lingers, sorrow darkening her features. “He has always loved you,” she repeats. “One day, you will see that.”

Percy scoffs, refusing to yield, but before he can say anything or kick his way to the surface and abandon this conversation, the spirit cuts in. Her tone is firm. 

“There is no time left for quarreling. You must go west, to the coast of Santa Monica, before you descend into the Underworld. There you will find what you will need.”

Percy’s stomach knots. “I don’t want anything from him.”

The spirit’s lips curve, not in a smile but something sadder, a shadow of mourning. “And yet, you will need it.”

Her form begins to thin, dissolving into ribbons of current. The water around Percy slows with her departure, as if reluctant to let her go.

Her voice lingers, disembodied now, weaving through the river like a tide-pulled whisper. “Go to the ocean, child of Poseidon. Whether you accept it or not, the sea is yours—and it waits for you.”

Percy is left suspended in the silence, trembling with fury he can’t burn away, with a grief he can’t name. The water still cradles him, refusing to let him sink, no matter how much he wishes it would.

Then, with a ragged scream muffled by the river, he drives himself upward toward the surface, desperate for air, desperate for anything but this.

- - -

Percy sees them before they see him.

Across the street, framed in the swirl of tourists and traffic, Grover and Annabeth are having what looks like an argument. Grover is practically wringing his hands to pieces, hooves tapping against the pavement as he paces, his eyes darting every few seconds back toward the still smoking Arch like he expects Percy’s broken body to come tumbling out of the sky (been there, done that). Annabeth stands rigid, chin tilted, arms crossed like she's holding herself together by sheer force of will. 

Percy swallows. His throat still burns faintly from venom, though his skin bears no mark of it now. For some reason, he thinks idly, he hates that part most. The way the water had washed him clean so thoroughly, as though it could erase what happened, as though the memories belong to someone else now.

“Hey,” he calls hoarsely.

Grover spins around so fast he nearly topples. His eyes are huge, wet, like he can’t quite believe what he's seeing. Annabeth, for all her control, lets out a shaky breath that betrays her relief.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she breathes.

Grover doesn’t bother with words. He lurches forward, hugging Percy with such force Percy almost loses his balance. “We thought—” his voice cracks. “We thought you were—”

Percy manages a crooked grin. “Yeah. Me too.” He pulls away, forcing his voice into something lighter. “Long story short? Chihuahua was a chimera. I had a big fall. Didn’t die. Met some river lady who says we’re supposed to make a stop in Santa Monica.”

He makes it sound breezy, casual, like he hadn’t almost died at least three times in as many minutes, but Grover’s worried eyes and Annabeth’s narrowed stare tell him neither of them bought it. Mercifully, though, they leave it alone for now.

They start moving with the crowd, slipping into the rush of pedestrians still fleeing the Arch. For a moment, Percy thinks maybe they're safe. Maybe they’ll be able to just blend in, disappear, no one the wiser.

Then he freezes.

In the window of an electronics shop, a TV screen blares over the street noise. A crowd of passersby are huddled around it, watching the screen intently. Bright red words flash across the bottom. 

“—exclusive footage of the Gateway Arch evacuation earlier today,” the news anchor was saying. Percy’s stomach plummets. The screen shows shaky camera work, blurred faces rushing down metal emergency stairs, a flash of something metallic—his sword, probably—falling from the sky.

“Authorities have confirmed this incident was no accident. Witnesses describe what appears to have been a coordinated terrorist attack led by what seems to be a single teenager, with a rabid dog attack culminating in a gas leak explosion. Surveillance footage has identified the suspect as Percy Jackson, age twelve…”

Percy’s blood goes cold.

“…who is already a person of interest in the disappearance and suspected death of his mother, Sally Jackson. Months ago, her car was discovered overturned in Montauk, New York, with a significant amount of her blood found at the scene. The body was never recovered. Officials have not ruled out foul play. Jackson’s stepfather, Gabriel Ugliano, previously described the boy as an unredeemable delinquent with a history of violence and multiple expulsions from schools…”

“Stop,” Percy whispers, though the TV keeps going. He can't—he can't listen to this. Not right now. He's faintly aware of Grover squeezing his hand.

Then the image cuts to a woman holding a young boy, both wrapped in shock blankets.

Percy’s heart lurches. The mother from the Arch. They’re safe. Thank the gods—

The reporter on the scene turns to the woman, microphone shoved toward her like a weapon. “Ma’am, you were up there with Jackson when the attack was instigated. Did you notice anything strange about the boy? Any signs that he was about to commit such a violent crime?”

Percy takes a deep breath of resignation.

But the woman frowns, shaken but firm.

“No. No, it wasn’t like that at all. That boy—Percy—he saved us. I don’t care what anyone says, I was there. That rabid dog came out of nowhere, snarling and lunging at us, and the kid put his own body between us and it. He took the bites so we could get away. There was so much blood… He… he nearly died for us. He might have died after he ran off, I really don’t know if anyone could have survived those injuries, especially not without immediate treatment. If he hadn’t been there, my little boy—” She breaks off, tightening her grip on her son. 

Percy studiously ignores the unsubtle looks Grover and Annabeth are sending him, clearly searching him for said injuries.

The woman has tears in her eyes, but she forces herself to go on. “I don’t know who he is or why people are saying these things, but I know what I saw. What he did. He’s not a criminal. He’s a hero.” Her voice trembles. “He needs help, not to be hunted. Please, someone, find him. Save him.”

Something breaks open in Percy’s chest, raw and stinging.

With a tight smile, the reporter pivots back to the camera as though nothing had been said. 

“You heard it here, folks. Despite the contradicting witness accounts, authorities remain convinced Jackson is dangerous. More updates to come as the search continues.”

The screen goes black with a commercial break.

Percy stands rooted to the sidewalk, staring at his reflection in the glass. Dangerous. Unstable. Suspect. Every word feels like Gabe’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing him down. But the woman’s words—hero, saved us, please help him—lodges somewhere deeper, burning against the shame.

Grover tugs gently at his sleeve, eyes soft and pained. “Perce… we need to go. The train’s leaving soon.”

Percy lets himself be pulled back into the crowd, but the echo of the broadcast follows him, every step heavier than the last.

- - -

The sun is warm.

It soaks into his skin like honey, thick and golden and slow. Percy blinks into the brightness, the air full of salt and sunscreen. Seagulls wheel overhead, calling out like long lost friends.

He’s on the beach at Montauk.

The sand is still warm from the day, but the sky is dusky, purpling toward twilight. 

He's lying down in the warm sand, head on his mom's lap, her hand carding gently through his hair. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles down at him.

“There you are,” she says, amused. “Welcome back to the world of the living, kiddo.”

Percy blinks up at her. She looks exactly the way he remembers. Sun-kissed and soft-eyed, the smell of sunscreen and beach wind clinging to her.

“I think I had a bad dream,” he murmurs.

She brushes a thumb beneath his eye, tucking a windblown curl behind his ear. “I know,” she says gently. “But you’re safe now.”

He closes his eyes as her fingers stroke through his hair again. The sound of the waves, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat above him… It lulls him like it used to when he was little. Back before everything cracked open.

His throat aches suddenly.

“I miss you,” he says, and he doesn’t know if he means it from now or then. “I’m scared, Mama.”

“I know, baby.” Her voice breaks just slightly on the word, and she bends down to kiss his temple. “But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

She hums something soft under her breath. An old lullaby he doesn’t remember the words to, but his body does. His eyes flutter shut.

The wind picks up, brushing against his skin like a kiss, a promise.

Then, faintly, somewhere in the distance—

A sound like metal clinking. A hitch in the rhythm. A shift in the tide.

The warmth begins to drain. The lullaby warps.

Percy opens his eyes.

And he sees his mom's face staring back at him, bloody and tear-streaked.

They're not at the beach anymore. They're underground, the scent of mildew choking the air.

His mom is chained to the wall. Her wrists are torn where the cuffs have rubbed them raw.

Her mouth is open in a scream. “Percy!”

He stumbles backward in shock, but the ground beneath him is damp stone now, cold and uneven, and he slips. There’s no sand, no sunlight. Only mold-slick walls and the clang of iron as his mother thrashes against the chains binding her.

“Mom?” His voice is a strangled whisper. “Mom—what—?”

She sobs, raw and panicked, straining against the manacles. “Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you save me?”

He runs forward, heart in his throat.

But someone grabs his shoulders.

“Let me go!” he thrashes, but the hands are strong. He turns, and—

It’s Chiron.

His expression is grim. Pained. But firm.

“We can’t risk it,” he says. “The gods have made their decision.”

Percy stares at him, disbelieving. “She’s my mom!”

“She is a liability.”

The words slice through him like razors.

“She’s suffering!” Percy shouts, and now his mom is sobbing, screaming, straining against the chains, reaching for him with crooked, broken fingers. “She didn’t do anything wrong! Help me!”

But Chiron holds him back.

Percy twists, claws, fights, and—

Breaks free.

He sprints toward her—

The world shifts again.

A flash of golden light:

A girl no older than nine sobs by a bed. There's a small lifeless form lying under a thin blanket. The limbs are stiff and the lips are starting to turn blue. The sickness was too much for her little sister. Their mortal father is too drunk to care. Their godly mother never came.

A flash of golden light:

A teen girl in a church pew sobs silently. She prays desperately for the strange, unnatural things to stop happening. Her mortal foster mother watches, clutching a Bible. The priest promised purification from the demons inside her. Her godly parent lets her suffer, unseen behind stained glass.

A flash of golden light:

A son of Nemesis lies in the dirt, surrounded by his classmates who jeered when he was pushed off the slide. His jaw is broken. He waits for someone to care, waits for justice, but there is none here. No retribution. Just an empty sky and blood in his mouth.

A golden flash:

A newborn with grey eyes is left in a fire station drop box. Nothing but a messy, scrawled message on a scrap of napkin: ‘She just left it with me. I can't take care of it.’ The baby burns in the fire the next night when the basilisk comes.

A golden flash:

A child of Apollo dies in a school shooting. She saw it coming in her dreams. She warned her teachers. No one believed her. When the bullets come, she shields two other kids and bleeds out beside them.

Golden flash—

A satyr finds the child’s body in a ravine. Torn apart, half-eaten, barely recognizable as human. They’d tried to reach Camp on their own. He was too late. Again. The gods offer no condolences—

Golden flash—

A child of Dionysus dies cold and alone behind a dumpster. They were trapped in the cycle of addiction by fourteen, trying to numb a mind cursed with visions of madness. There is no one who will miss them—

Golden flash—

A girl trembling beneath her bed. That's the only place he can't reach her. She cries in pain as she feels the blood between her legs, and she prays for someone to save her. No one ever does—

Flash—

A daughter of Hecate is accused of witchcraft in her tiny southern town. Her house is set on fire while she’s still inside. Her mother never lifts a finger—

Flash—

A son of Hermes locked in a mental ward, misdiagnosed as schizophrenic. He begged the gods for a sign, for help, and got nothing but silence—

Flash—

A girl—claimed at dawn. Dead by her own hands at dusk—

Flashes—

—Demigods hunted down in their homes—

Faster—

—Torn apart on playgrounds—

Louder—

—Forgotten before they even had names—

Sharper—

Percy screams.

It’s too much.

And then: