You’re not scary. You’re not powerful. You’re not important enough for people to hate.

You’re just… weak.

The kid who lags behind in training. The one whose sword arm shakes too early, whose magic fizzles out before it ever really starts. No one pairs up with you unless they have to. No one says it out loud, but you feel it every time someone sighs when your name is added to a group.

You exist at camp like a mistake no one wants to point out.

Then Olympus speaks. The prophecy comes down like a crack of thunder—short, absolute, terrifying. The world is going to end. Not someday. Soon. There’s no riddle this time, no clever loophole anyone can cling to.

Panic spreads faster than fire.

Camp Half-Blood fractures overnight. Campers barricade themselves in cabins. Doors slam. Lights go out. Even the bravest heroes look shaken, voices low and urgent as they count weapons and supplies.

You stand outside, watching it happen. No one comes to get you. No one tells you where to hide.

The air feels heavy, like the world is already holding its breath. Somewhere, monsters stir. Somewhere, the gods are watching.

And you—weak, unwanted, overlooked—are left standing in the open as the end of everything begins.