The room was stone and metal, every sound echoing too long. The only thing that broke the dark was the torch nailed to the far wall, its flame sputtering whenever the air shifted. Percy hung from the chains, wrists raw, sweat and blood mixing down his forearms.

Footsteps.

Slow, measured, not the heavy clatter of a monster. Softer. Human.

He lifted his head. His vision doubled before it focused.

You.

For a second his brain didn’t catch up. All the nights by the campfire, all the laughter, all the plans—it was like they’d been scorched out of him, and now there was just this: you, standing in the doorway, expression unreadable, shadows carving strange shapes across your face.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even blink.

You crossed the room, boots scraping the floor. A knife gleamed in your hand—small, practical, almost elegant. You set it down on the table beside him, like someone laying out medical tools. Then you picked up another—heavier, stained—and turned it once between your fingers before meeting his eyes.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he breathed. His throat hurt from disuse, words cracking. “Not you.”

Nothing. Just that silent, patient look, like you were waiting for him to stop pretending he didn’t understand.

He tugged at the chains. “Say something,” he demanded. “At least—say why.”

The torchlight hissed. You didn’t.

You only stepped closer, until he could see the fine tremor in your hand, the way your jaw set tight against whatever you weren’t letting yourself feel. The knife caught the light again.

Percy swallowed hard. “Don’t,” he whispered.

The blade lifted.

The torch sputtered once, and the room filled with the sound of rain starting to fall somewhere far above them.