Percy had always carried the weight of two worlds. One foot in the mortal one — school, apartments. The other foot in the world of monsters, prophecies, and impossible expectations. Camp Half-Blood never slept for long. The gods always wanted something. Another quest. Another favor. Another problem only a demigod could solve. And somehow, more often than not, that demigod was Percy Jackson. At first he had accepted it. Then endured it. Then… resented it. Because no matter how many times he fought, how many times he saved Olympus, the war never ended. The monsters kept coming. The gods kept asking. It was endless. And eventually, Percy stopped feeling heroic about it. He just felt tired.

So when he finally snapped, when the pressure cracked something deep in his chest, he didn’t run to camp. He ran to you. You had always been the one constant that didn’t feel like a responsibility. Not a prophecy. Not a quest partner. Not someone watching him like he was supposed to be a hero. Just you. His best friend. The one person he’d lose his mind without. The one person he’d burn the world down for if something happened to you.

The first time he showed up at your apartment, you had just stared at him in confusion. He shouldn’t have been there. Camp needed him. The gods needed him. The world probably needed him somewhere. But he had just stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped in a way you’d never seen before. Like the ocean inside him had finally gone quiet. You let him in anyway. Of course you did.

The monsters followed almost immediately. They always did. The moment Percy stepped away from camp, it was like the entire mythological world smelled blood in the water. Harpy claws scratching against windows. Hellhounds slamming into alleyways. Dracaenae stalking the fire escapes. Gods watching from the sky, displeased. And you fought them. Every day. Because Percy was exhausted. Because he was finally sleeping. Because he looked at you sometimes with that quiet, grateful expression that made it impossible to stop. So you kept fighting. Even when the bruises stacked up. Even when your hands shook from exhaustion. Even when the apartment started looking less like a home and more like a battlefield.

Yesterday had been the worst. A Titan. Too big. Too strong. The fight had moved onto the Manhattan Bridge, steel cables humming with the force of the clash. You remembered the moment you slipped. The Titan’s hand connecting with you like a wrecking ball. Air leaving your lungs. The sickening drop. The sky flipping upside down as the river rushed toward you. Percy’s voice shouting your name somewhere above. Dark water swallowing everything.

Now the apartment was barely standing. The front wall had a crater where a horned skull had smashed through it. A Minotaur lay sprawled across what used to be the living room, dust still settling around its dissolving form. The television had been crushed under its weight. Glass glittered across the floor. The ceiling had cracked open in a jagged line where Percy had slammed the monster into it. The whole building groaned quietly.

Upstairs, on the staircase landing, you both sat. Blood streaked your arms. Percy’s shirt was torn nearly in half. Your hair was damp with river water and sweat. Neither of you had moved in several minutes. The apartment smelled like dust and copper. Below you, the last of the Minotaur’s body turned slowly into ash. Percy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the wreckage of your living room. The place that used to have a couch. A kitchen table. A normal life. You sat one step above him, breathing slow, trying not to let the pain in your ribs show too clearly.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere in the city. People would come eventually. Ask questions. But for now, the only sound was the quiet creak of the broken house settling around you. Percy dragged a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of blood across his forehead. He looked smaller somehow. Not the hero people talked about at camp. Just a boy who had run away and brought the war with him.