You’d been at Camp Half-Blood for months now—long enough that everyone had stopped asking. The other campers whispered about you the way they whispered about him when Percy first arrived. Maybe they’re important. Maybe they’re meant for something. Maybe their parent is a big one.

And for a while… you believed it. You kept waiting for the sky to crack open or the sea to glow or an iris rainbow to shimmer above your head—any sign, any flash of godly acknowledgement.

You never got claimed. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Nothing happened. People stopped whispering. Stopped guessing. Stopped caring. You became “unclaimed.” A word that felt like a bruise.

Just a kid nobody’s god wanted.

You didn’t hear him approach. No footsteps. No warning. Just a tired, irritated sigh behind you:

“Do you mind? Some of us are trying to pretend this camp runs itself.”

You froze. Mr. D stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression bored enough to kill a lesser demigod on the spot. He looked at you like you’d personally ruined his night—and considering you were breaking curfew, maybe you had. He squinted at you. “Oh. It’s you.”

You stared ahead, wiping your eyes fast. Mr. D noticed anyway. He always noticed, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

“Hmph.” He shuffled closer and lowered himself onto the grass with the enthusiasm of someone being forced at gunpoint. “Sitting out here looking pathetic. How very… dramatic.”

You wanted to snap back, but you had no voice left.

He clicked his tongue. “Still unclaimed, are we?”

Your shoulders tightened. Mr. D sighed again, louder this time—like your sadness was a personal inconvenience.