The walls of Tartarus weren’t walls at all—they were breathing things, shifting, pulsing, dripping with shadows that smelled like rust and rot. Every step echoed, but not like normal stone—it was like the sound got swallowed and spat back out, distorted, wrong.

Percy was ahead of you. Always ahead. His shoulders hunched forward like the weight of the world had finally crushed him into something smaller. You could see his hand gripping Riptide, knuckles white, arm trembling—but he never looked back.

And you were falling behind.

Your legs burned. Every breath scraped your throat like glass. But worse than the exhaustion was the sound—the steady, low murmur of the Pit whispering you don’t matter, you were never enough, stop fighting.

The words burrowed deep. They wrapped around your ribs, tugged at your ankles, made every step heavier.

“Percy!” you called, but your voice cracked. It didn’t carry. He didn’t turn.

The walls groaned. The path narrowed. The ground shook. You stumbled, knees striking stone, palms scraped raw.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

And then, faintly—like a thread cutting through the static— “I’m coming—wait for me!”

Percy’s voice, ragged, desperate, bouncing back against the stone. You didn’t know if he heard you. You didn’t know if you were imagining it.

But you dragged yourself forward anyway.

And in the sickly glow, you swore you saw him hesitate— just long enough to glance back, eyes wild, as if he’d almost lost you forever.