It started slow — the kind of change you don’t notice until it’s already done.

The popular girl at camp had always been the center of everything. She had that perfect, untouchable shine: knew everyone’s names, ran every event, made even the gods sound small when she talked.

You were her goon, her minion, her shadow.

Percy didn’t think much of it at first — just another camper who liked spotlight, sharp grin, voice that carried when you laughed. But you didn’t just fit in. You rewrote the atmosphere.

You joked louder. You fought better. You didn’t just win — you made it look like a performance.

By the second week, people were echoing your phrases, wearing your colors in training.

Even the popular girl — the one who never looked shaken — started shrinking in conversations, her voice drowned beneath the rhythm of yours.

Percy saw it all happen — from his spot near the fire, half in awe, half uneasy. It wasn’t cruelty. You didn’t mean to knock her down. But you did.

And as the crowd cheered for your story, your laugh, your spark — Percy couldn’t help but think that he was watching a torch being passed.

Or stolen.