The office smelled like polished wood and crushed grapes. You were slouched in the chair across from the desk, one leg bouncing restlessly, a split lip already drying into something stubborn. There was dirt on your sleeve. Probably someone else’s blood too. You hadn’t checked. You didn’t care.

Behind the desk, Chiron stood in his wheelchair form, hands folded tightly in his lap. He looked tired.

Across from him, Mr. D leaned back in his chair with theatrical exasperation, a goblet balanced lazily between his fingers. You had been a disaster at Yancy Academy. Bad grades. Worse attitude. Detention so often the principal barely blinked when you showed up. Chiron had personally overseen your “special tutoring,” which mostly meant long lectures about potential and responsibility while you stared at the clock.

Now you were at Camp Half-Blood. And somehow, you were worse. The fight had started over something stupid. It always did. A look. A comment. A joke taken too far. You’d thrown the first punch. You always did. Because if people were going to expect you to be terrible, you might as well give them what they wanted.

Chiron’s gaze rested on you—not angry, not exactly. Disappointed. Again. Mr. D swirled his drink, watching you like you were a mildly interesting insect. You stared at the floor. You didn’t apologize. You never did. Your knuckles throbbed. Your jaw ached. But none of it compared to the familiar heaviness in your chest—the one that came from knowing everyone at camp had already decided who you were.

Trouble. Problem child. Lost cause. You shifted in your chair, jaw tightening. Let them think it. you thought. It was easier than trying to prove them wrong.