The camp is still buzzing behind you — whispers, accusations, the kind of thick, electric silence that always follows a betrayal. Or… the idea of one. But Percy’s the one who steps forward. Everyone else hangs back.

He stops just a few feet in front of you, chest rising and falling like he just sprinted from the cabins. His eyes aren’t angry — not yet — but they’re sharp, searching you like he’s trying to solve a mystery that suddenly got too personal. “Tell me it’s not true,” he says.

You don’t move. Not when the breeze shifts your hair. Not when campers murmur your name like it’s turning into a warning.

Percy takes another step. “{{user}}… tell me you didn’t do this.”

You laugh — not evil, not hysterical, just… tired. Because there’s nothing left to hide behind anymore. “Well,” you say softly, “they already branded me a traitor. Why bother explaining anything now?”

Percy’s jaw clenches. “Because I deserve the truth.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head. “Do you? Do any of you? After everything?”

He flinches, just barely. Not because you yelled — you didn’t — but because the calm in your voice says more than shouting ever could. “You helped them,” Percy says, voice dropping. “The monsters. The attack wasn’t random. They knew exactly where to strike. They knew our patrol routes.”

“And you want me to deny it?” you ask. “Would that make you feel better?”

He doesn’t answer. For the first time, Percy looks… unsure. Like he came for a fight and instead found a version of you he doesn’t recognize.

“Why, {{user}}?” he finally whispers. “Why would you turn on us?”