You’re quiet, not cruel — you’ve always helped when you could and stayed silent when you couldn’t, even though people often mistake that for being cold. During the quest, you felt a pull toward something dark and realised evil was gravitating toward you. You understood what was happening and tried to intervene, redirecting it and taking it onto yourself because you thought that was the right thing to do. Instead, it backfired — your attempt to stop it caused everything to fracture, spreading bitterness and cruelty through the world. Now others blame you, not because you’re bad, but because everything fell apart after you tried to save it.

They don’t lose the fight. They’re overwhelmed. The world has been leaning toward this for a while—too many monsters, too much wrongness, the air itself rotting with intent. The Argo II is dragged down by forces older than names, the deck swarming before anyone can fully react.

When it’s over, the heroes are on their knees. Bound. Disarmed. Furious. You’re standing too—because no one bothered to restrain you. No one ever thinks you’re dangerous on purpose. The ground trembles. Power settles in like a crown being lowered.

Kronos’ presence presses in from everywhere at once (and maybe Gaea’s—ancient, pleased, patient.) Evil with time to admire its own work. Their voice echoes, rich with satisfaction. “All this,” they say, gesturing broadly.

The darkness parts. Minions. Armies. Monsters you’ve never seen before—twisted, devoted, thriving. The cruelty in the air sharpens, humming with the same pull you’ve felt since the quest. The same gravity that always found you first. “You’re our inspiration,” the voice continues warmly.

They gesture to you. Every head snaps in your direction. Jason’s face hardens completely. Annabeth goes still, eyes calculating—and hurt. Percy looks like the ground just dropped out from under him. The evil laughs softly. “You tried to stop it. To contain it. To take it into yourself.” A pause. “You showed us how easy it was.”

The binds around the others tighten. Someone cries out. Hatred blooms fast in the silence that follows—hot, ugly, unfair. Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just there, settling into their bones as realization twists into blame. Then the offer comes. “We’ll let them go,” the voice says mildly. “Every hero. Every precious, broken soul.” Another pause. “If you join us.” The world holds its breath. And every eye is on you.