You had been everything first. Before Camp Half-Blood. Before prophecies. Before gods started watching him like he was a ticking bomb. You were the kid who sat next to him when no one else would.

The one who didn’t laugh when he couldn’t read out loud. The one who believed him about the weird things. The one who stayed. When he got claimed by Poseidon, you didn’t look at him differently.

When he was accused of stealing the Master Bolt, you didn’t doubt him. On the quest — the Underworld, Medusa, the Furies, Ares on the beach — you were there. Bleeding, exhausted, terrified.

He told his mom about you. Actually told her. He’d described you while sitting at their tiny kitchen table, like you were something sacred. Sally had smiled softly, like she already knew you mattered. You weren’t just his first friend. You were his first safe place. And Percy — twelve and too brave for his own good — had already decided, quietly, that he would always protect you.

But It happened after the quest. After the Master Bolt was returned. After Luke was revealed as the lightning thief. After Kronos’ name stopped being just a myth and started feeling like a shadow stretching over everything. Percy fell asleep restless.

And the dream came. He didn’t know it was his father letting him see something. He only knew he was somewhere cold. A cavern. Not water-cold — wrong-cold. Ancient. Deep. The air tasted like metal and rot. He was alone. His sneakers echoed against stone as he stepped forward. And then he heard it. A voice like grinding stone and shifting chains. Kronos. Slow. Measured. Amused.

Percy couldn’t see him clearly — just a vast shape in darkness, something coiled and enormous. And then—Another voice. Softer. Distorted. Like it was underwater. Like Percy’s brain refused to process it. He strained to hear. Took another step. Kronos’ voice stopped mid-sentence. Silence dropped like a blade. Then a low chuckle. “Wait,” Kronos said, tone curling with delight. “Someone is listening… if through a dream.”

Percy froze. His breath came fast. Too loud in the cavern. “..hello, Perseus Jackson.” Kronos whispers. His name echoed.

The other figure whipped around at the sound. Percy’s vision blurred — like static — like the dream was trying to protect him. Or warn him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. For the distortion to thin. For the shape of the second person to sharpen. Small shoulders. Familiar stance. The way your hands always curled slightly when you were nervous. Percy’s stomach dropped. No. No no no. The cavern light flickered. And he saw your face. Not twisted. Not possessed. Not evil. Just you. Eyes wide. Horrified. Like you hadn’t meant for him to see. Like you hadn’t meant for him to know. Kronos’ presence loomed behind you, vast and suffocating. “The traitor of the prophecy,” Kronos murmured, almost fondly. “So very useful.”

Percy couldn’t breathe. The prophecy. The one about a child of the Big Three. The one that said one would betray. He had always assumed it meant someone else. Luke. Anyone else. Not you. Never you. Your lips parted like you were going to say his name. But no sound came out. The cavern trembled. The dream fractured. And Percy woke up gasping in his cabin at Camp Half-Blood. Sweat-soaked. Shaking.

Your laugh from earlier that day echoing in his head. Your hand brushing his when you’d sat beside him at dinner. Your voice saying goodnight. He stared at the ceiling until sunrise. Because if he closed his eyes again—He was afraid he’d see you choosing Kronos. And the worst part? You hadn’t looked evil. You had looked scared. And that was what broke him.