Tyson sits cross-legged on the cabin floor, happily tinkering with something metal while Percy ties his shoelaces. It’s peaceful—quiet in that weird, early-morning Camp Half-Blood way after the chariot race incident. Then Tyson pauses.

“Percy?” he says slowly.

“Yeah, big guy?”

Tyson tilts his head, thinking… and then his voice shifts—higher, sharper, unmistakably your voice. “If Poseidon’s chariot takes the lead… take it out.”

Percy freezes mid-lace. Tyson keeps going, switching to another voice—your friend’s, mocking, curious: “But I thought you and Percy were tight?”

Then he switches back to you again, perfectly: “That’s why I’m asking you to do it.”

Percy’s stomach drops. His face goes pale. “Tyson,” he whispers, “who told you that?”

“You did not tell me,” Tyson says cheerfully. “You were not there. You were far away. But she was there. She said it to her friend. I heard it.”

Percy stands up so fast his bunk shakes. The panic. The confusion. The hurt. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t say a word. He just leaves the cabin and goes looking for you—jaw tight, heart pounding—because he needs to know why you’d say something like that. And when he finds you? He won’t start with anger. Just one sharp, wounded question: “…Did you really say that about me?”