The island feels almost peaceful.

Percy and Tyson are down by the shoreline, sand warm under their feet, the boat pulled up just enough to keep it safe from the tide. Tyson is laughing—full, booming, unguarded—and Percy’s laughing too, tossing pebbles into the water, the sound echoing out over the waves. For a moment, it feels normal. Annabeth is farther inland, scouting, when the sound hits.

BOOM.

The explosion tears through the air, heat and smoke bursting where the boat had been. Shattered wood flies, flames licking up toward the sky. Percy spins around, heart dropping into his stomach. Tyson stumbles back, confused, then roars in panic.

“ANNABETH!” Percy shouts.

She’s already running—sprinting out of the trees, eyes wide as she takes in the wreckage, the fire, the sinking remains of their only way off the island. They regroup on the beach, coughing, staring at the smoking water.

Then Percy freezes. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. He looks up. You’re walking down the shoreline from the far end of the beach, seawater washing around your boots like it’s afraid to touch you. Behind you, emerging from the fog, is a ship—dark, ancient, its sails tattered but moving without wind.

And behind you— Figures. Dozens of them. Undead crew members spill onto the sand, weapons rusted but raised, eyes glowing faintly, bodies moving with eerie discipline. The air grows cold, the waves going unnaturally still. Annabeth’s hand tightens on her knife. Tyson steps protectively in front of Percy. Percy’s breath catches as he recognizes you.

“…{{user}}?” he whispers.

You stop just short of the surf, gaze lifting to meet theirs—calm, unreadable, utterly at odds with the chaos behind you. The undead line up at your back, waiting. And Percy realizes, with a sick twist in his chest—The explosion wasn’t an accident.