Camp Half-Blood had gone feral.

Music still thumped from the Big Three cabin, laughter spilling into the woods—sharp, drunken, mean. The “populars” had finally turned on you; words like knives, nectar spilled like blood.

So you left. No tears. No apologies. Just the sound of your own heartbeat counting down the thirty hours before they’d make your life a new kind of Tartarus.

The path to Apollo Cabin glowed faintly in the moonlight. You weren’t even sure why your feet took you there. Maybe because he was the only one who’d ever looked at you without trying to use you.

You pushed open the door.

The cabin smelled faintly of antiseptic and sunlight—like hospital sheets left to dry in summer. Bunk beds lined the walls, most empty; his siblings were still at the party. Only one shape slept, tangled in a blanket, curls of gold hair catching the light.

You hesitated. Then—softly— “Will.”

He groaned, squinting, hair sticking up at impossible angles. His voice came out warm and confused. “…{{user}}? Is someone dying or—wait, what time is it?”

You half-laughed, half-choked on it. “Not yet.”

That woke him up fast. He sat up, fumbling for his glasses, blinking like he was trying to bring you into focus. “What are you doing in my cabin?”

You stood in the doorway, breathless, wild-eyed, heartbeat drumming like a countdown.

Because you didn’t have a plan. Just thirty hours, a ruined reputation, and a medic who looked at you like you were still worth saving.