The Argo II feels wrong. Tense, like the air itself is holding its breath. The sky outside is an ugly, bruised gray, storms forming and dissolving without reason. Even the ship’s magic seems unsettled, its wood creaking like it’s listening. Everyone’s arguing. Jason’s pacing, jaw tight. Annabeth has maps spread out, hands shaking just slightly as she keeps recalculating. Leo is unusually silent, fingers drumming nervously against the rail.

And you’re standing there, near the back. Trying not to make things worse. It’s not that you’re cruel. You never have been. You don’t insult people. You don’t lash out. You help when you can. You stay quiet when you can’t. But somehow—always—people read something sharp into you. Your tone. Your stillness. The way you don’t soften yourself enough. Mean. Cold. Uncaring. You learned a long time ago to live with it.

“The pattern doesn’t make sense,” Annabeth says, frustrated. “Monsters are appearing where they shouldn’t. Cities turning on each other. People—” She falters. “People are being cruel for no reason.”

You swallow. Because you know the reason. On the quest, it started small. A pull. A weight in your chest whenever something dark was near. Evil gravitating toward you like you were a lighthouse instead of a warning sign. You tried to stop it. You really did. You stepped in. Redirected it. Took it onto yourself because you thought that was what being good meant.

And it shattered everything. Now the world is unraveling—not with fire or monsters, but with bitterness. Friends snapping at friends. Cities tearing themselves apart over nothing. Kindness drying up like it was never real to begin with.

Jason stops pacing and turns to you. His eyes are hard. “Whatever happened back there,” he says carefully, “started when you intervened.”

The silence that follows is brutal. You open your mouth—then close it again. Because how do you explain that you were trying to help? That you always are?

Percy looks at you like he wants to defend you… and like he doesn’t know how. The hesitation hurts more than anger would. The others are already pulling away—not loudly, not cruelly—just enough to make it clear. They don’t trust you anymore. Not because you’re evil. But because the world broke after you tried to save it. The Argo II sails on through the gray sky, carrying heroes who once stood beside you—and now don’t know how to look at you at all.

And you stay where you are, hands clenched at your sides, still trying to be good. Even now.