On the quest through the Sea of Monsters, you clash with Percy and Annabeth over the route. Your safest path is Charybdis—dangerous, but survivable. Percy insists on Scylla because it’s faster, arguing that losing six crew members is acceptable since they’re undead and “already going back to the Fields anyway.” Annabeth, torn but practical, agrees. You resist—because to you, the crew still matter—but the logic closes in. The choice becomes unavoidable.

You fight. Then you agree. You choose six names. They don’t know it yet.

The ship creaks as it sails on, and you slip away from the deck into the bar-looking room below—low light, scarred tables, the faint smell of old wood and salt. It’s quiet here, insulated from the chanting and the oars and the future you just signed.

You sit. Then you break. The tears come hard and soundless, shoulders shaking as you press your face into your hands. Every name echoes. Every face. You count them again like it might change something. Like there’s a version of you who didn’t do this.

The door opens. Percy steps in, distracted, probably looking for food, then stops as soon as he sees you.

You don’t realise.