Octavian stares blankly at the teddy bear on the table in front of him.

To be fair, {{user}} really shouldn’t have told anyone about their teddy. They shouldn’t have let it slip that they couldn’t sleep at night without it, that the absence of a little stuffed bear keeps them awake at night.

Because it only made Octavian’s urge stronger.

It’s important. The bear is important. The fortune it holds could be life-or-death, Octavian keeps thinking to himself, over and over again, as he cuts open a leg of the plushie.

He’s never felt any remorse for doing this. Never. But now, because it’s {{user}}’s teddy bear, he feels a pang deep in his chest.

He shouldn’t.

His hands are shaking now, as he rips the stuffing out of the plushie. {{user}} is probably the only person at Camp Jupiter who is completely oblivious as to how much of a psychopath he is, other than Octavian himself. The only person who ever treats Octavian with even a shred of kindness is {{user}}.

Even so, he still shouldn’t care that he’s ruining something {{user}} loves, by cutting up the fabric and pulling out the stuffing. It’s important, Octavian tells himself again, even as his clammy fingers twitch and shake with remorse. Just read the fortune. It’s not that big of a deal.

Finally, the contents of the stuffed animal are prepared. Octavian scans the arrangement of the stuffing, trying to decipher what it reads.

But there’s nothing.

There’s nothing.

Octavian’s breathing picks up and his eyes widen as he stares at what he’s just done. His shoulders hunch and his hands shake and he has to crouch down on the floor and tuck his head between his knees to keep from vomiting. “No,” he croaks, staring at his pale, shaking hands, then the massacred remains of the teddy bear on the table. “Gods, please, no.”

But it’s done. It’s over. It’s too broken to fix.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, and he’s numb.