You were their enemy. Not misunderstood. Not tragic. Not redeemable. A threat. A name spoken with bitterness. A shadow they hunted and feared in equal measure.

And you hated them just as much. That’s why you were here—high above the Argo II’s landing zone, tucked into the broken marble of a ruined structure, watching them plan, watching them laugh like they weren’t the ones who had sworn to end you.

Spying was easy. You’d done worse. What wasn’t easy was the tightening in your chest. At first, you ignored it. Controlled your breathing. Slowed your pulse. You’d learned to endure pain long before you learned to survive. But the pressure didn’t fade—it grew, heavy and crushing, each breath shallower than the last.

Your hand went to your belt. Empty. The realization hit like ice water. You’d forgotten it. Your inhaler—your lifeline—left behind in your rush to follow them. Your vision blurred at the edges as you scanned the group below, panic threading itself through your ribs. And then you saw him.

Will Solace. Bright against the gloom, focused, attentive—medical bag slung over his shoulder like it always was. The healer. The worst possible person to need help from. And there—half-visible as he shifted—was the unmistakable shape of an inhaler tucked into the side pocket.

Your type of prescription. Your chest burned. Your breaths came shorter, sharper. You pressed yourself further into the shadows, pulse roaring in your ears as your body betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

You didn’t want mercy. You didn’t want help. You needed to steal it. From the one person who would never willingly give it to you. Below, the Heroes of Olympus moved closer together, unaware of the enemy perched above them—silent, shaking, suffocating.. and preparing to risk everything for a single breath.