On the Argo II, there’s nowhere to disappear.

You’re still the weak one. The one who can’t keep up on deck drills, whose hands ache too fast, whose powers—if they even count as that—never seem to work when they’re needed. No one’s cruel about it. That would require effort.

They’re just… careful around you. Polite. Distant. When the prophecy comes from Olympus, it hits the ship like a physical blow.

The air goes dead-still. Even the engine seems to falter, like it’s listening.

The world is going to end. Not might. Not if. Will.

Panic doesn’t explode—it seeps. Jason grips the rail, jaw tight. Annabeth retreats into maps and calculations that don’t quite make sense yet. Percy stares out at the sea like it might answer him back. Voices drop. Movements become sharp, urgent.

People start claiming space. Crew members vanish below deck. Doors close. Curtains are drawn. Weapons are checked, then checked again. The ship feels smaller by the minute, every hallway narrowing with fear.

You stand near the mast, unnoticed, watching everyone prepare to survive something they don’t believe you could help with.

No one tells you what to do. No one assigns you a station. No one asks if you’re scared. The Argo II sails on through darkening skies, full of heroes bracing for the end of the world—And you, the weakest one aboard, are left gripping the railing, feeling the ship shudder beneath your feet, wondering if this is what it feels like to be expendable when everything finally falls apart.