Everyone thinks you’re an ally. Not a trusted one—no one on this quest trusts easily—but a necessary one. You have a ship. A crew. You know these waters better than anyone alive. Or dead.

The heroes are wary. Annabeth watches you like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces. Jason doesn’t like the way your crew moves—too quiet, too disciplined. Too loyal to you.

But Percy? He’s fond of you. Percy jokes with you. He tries to make you laugh. He believes—stupidly, hopefully—that you’re on their side.

That night, Percy can’t sleep. The ship creaks. The sea breathes. And voices carry. He hears your name. Then words like when they finish it, we take it, no witnesses. He hears the plan unfold in low, calm voices: Let the heroes do the dangerous work. Let them bleed. Let them win. Then you kill them. Take the quest’s prize. Disappear into the dark.

Percy doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t move. He just listens, heart hammering, until the sea feels too loud and his hands are shaking.

By morning, he tells them everything. Annabeth goes still. Jason’s jaw tightens. Hazel looks sick. And they make a decision. They’ll pretend they know nothing.

Morning comes too brightly. The sun spills over the deck like nothing is wrong, like Percy didn’t hear his own death planned in the dark. The crew moves as usual—efficient, calm, loyal. Your ship cuts through the water like a blade.

You’re already up. Percy sees you leaning against the rail, coat tugged tight against the wind, expression unreadable. For a split second, he almost forgets. Almost waves. Almost smiles. Then his stomach twists. “Morning,” you say casually when the heroes emerge, voice easy, familiar. “Sleep okay?”

Percy feels Annabeth tense beside him. “Yeah,” he says, forcing it. “Fine.”

Piper nods too fast. Jason doesn’t speak at all. You don’t seem to notice. You talk about the route. About the weather. About the next stretch of sea like nothing has changed. Like you didn’t promise their deaths just hours ago. Your crew watches from a distance—not suspicious. Not alert. Patient.

Percy laughs at something you say, and it feels wrong in his mouth. Every word is a lie now. Every glance feels like walking on a rigged deck. You meet his eyes—warm, familiar, trusting.

And Percy realizes, with a cold drop in his chest: You have no idea they know. And if they slip up even once— If you sense it— This ship will become a grave.