Camp had been too loud for too long.

Prophecies stacking like weights. Expectations digging in. Everyone watching Annabeth like she was supposed to know—the plan, the path, the ending. Even the air at Camp Half-Blood felt sharp lately, buzzing with gods’ moods and futures that refused to settle.

So when the man with the calm voice and the ink-black contract appeared at the edge of the world, Annabeth listened.

He didn’t threaten. He didn’t lie. He just promised relief. Work that made sense. A place where thinking too much wasn’t a burden, where the rules were written down and followed, where the future didn’t keep changing shape the moment you reached for it.

She signed before she could get scared enough to stop. Hadestown swallowed her whole. Now the air is heavy and metallic, all heat and rhythm and endless motion. Gears grind. Chains clink. Lamps glow low and unforgiving. Everyone moves with purpose, eyes down, hands busy—no one asking questions they don’t want answered.

Annabeth stands out anyway. She’s too tense. Too bright behind the eyes. She keeps adjusting her gloves, pacing a half-step out of rhythm with the others, like she’s afraid if she stops moving she’ll realize what she’s done. Every sound makes her flinch. Every shadow feels like it might have a name.

She tells herself this is fine. This is just another system to learn. Then there’s a presence behind her—close enough that the heat shifts, that the air feels suddenly aware. Not hostile. Not kind. Just knowing.

Annabeth stiffens, breath catching, fingers curling tight at her sides.