You gave in.

That’s how it will be remembered—if it’s remembered at all. The argument ended the way these things always do: logic winning over mercy, efficiency over people. Percy was certain. Annabeth was convinced. And you were tired of being the only one holding the line.

So you agreed. You chose six. You didn’t tell them why. You didn’t explain. You just gave orders, calm and distant, and watched them obey like they always had. Undead or not, they trusted you. Followed you. Believed you wouldn’t waste them.

Now the Sea of Monsters coils around the ship, water dark and unnatural, churning like it knows what’s coming.

Scylla rises ahead—massive, unseen except in pieces: the movement, the shadows, the sense of something vast and hungry just beneath the surface.

You stand at the rail with Percy and Annabeth. You don’t speak. The first three are gone quickly—pulled away in a blur of motion and sound, disappearing beneath the waves before anyone can even cry out. The ship lurches. The remaining three freeze.

They look at you. Not in fear. In understanding. Their eyes meet yours, hollow and glowing faintly, and something shifts in them—recognition, then betrayal. They don’t fight. They don’t resist. They just stare, as if waiting for you to say it was a mistake.

You don’t. The water surges again. Percy grips the rail harder, jaw set. Annabeth forces herself to look away, already rewriting the moment into something survivable in her head.