(Sorry this isn’t the besstt!! I couldn’t figure out how to do it,)

At Camp Half-Blood, you were untouchable. Not loud—feared. Not cruel—respected. People laughed when you laughed, trained harder when you watched, straightened their backs when you passed. Even Clarisse didn’t pick fights with you unless she wanted to lose.

So when Percy Jackson arrived—new, awkward, dangerous in that quiet way—you noticed. And when Annabeth followed, sharp-eyed and brilliant, you decided to be generous. You let them in. Your clique was small. Exclusive. A privilege. At first, it felt right—Percy’s loyalty, Annabeth’s mind. You thought you’d found equals.

You didn’t realize they were moving together. It started small. Training sessions you weren’t invited to. Jokes you weren’t in on. Food swapped when you weren’t looking. Whispers that followed you through the pavilion.

People started watching you differently. Someone laughed when you passed. Someone muttered “control freak.” Someone else said you were losing it. And Percy—Percy stopped looking at you.

Annabeth smiled more. You tried to fix it. Tried to be softer. Tried to laugh it off. But power doesn’t respond to desperation—it sniffs it out. Soon, camp hated you.

And Percy and Annabeth stood right in the center of it, clean hands, innocent faces. So you started writing. Not about them. About you. About people from camp.

Every cruel thought you’d never said. Every lie they’d accused you of. Every rumor whispered behind your back. You made it look like their handwriting. Their words. Their malice.

A burn book that would shatter camp. Because if you were going to be the villain.. you’d make sure they earned it.