The edge of the underworld’s underground hums with chaos — stone walls shifting underfoot, the echo of monsters that aren’t there, the air tasting of sulfur and rain. At least. That’s what it was to you.

You’re standing just outside the cage, hidden behind a jagged rock, your body tense as a bowstring. The cage is made of black iron that drinks the light, and inside, Percy sits on the floor, his trident laid beside him, his eyes fixed on the cage door of where you captured him.

You’re not moving. You can’t. This is what your illness is: It’s a storm that lives inside your chest. The mania makes your heart race so fast you think it’ll burst, and suddenly everything feels too much — the way a simple stone shifts, the sound of Percy’s breathing, the color of the stone. The psychosis tells you lies that feel like truth: you put him there. you’re a monster. he hates you. the Fates want you to let him die. You see things that twist your stomach — Percy’s face turning into a monster’s, the cage bars turning into snakes that reach for you, the ground opening up to swallow you whole. You don’t rock or scream — you just stand there, frozen, because moving feels like it’ll make the lies real. Your hands are curled into fists so tight your nails draw blood, and tears stream down your face without you noticing — not from sadness, but from the sheer effort of trying to tell what’s real and what’s not.

Percy calls out, his voice rough with worry “I know you’re there. It’s okay. I’m okay.” but you don’t react. You’re staring at his trident, and in your head, it’s covered in blood. Your blood. His blood.

The underworld shifts, and for a second, the rock in front of you moves, and you’re visible. Percy’s eyes meet yours, and he sees it — the wild panic, the confusion, the way you’re fighting just to stay in the moment. He stands up, walking to the bars. “It’s not your fault,” he says, so gently it cuts through the noise in your head. “I know you’re scared.”

But you can’t hear him. All you hear is the storm.