Leo Valdez had always been the guy with the jokes, the smirks, and the reckless inventions that somehow saved the day. The one who kept the mood light, who never let anyone see the cracks beneath the surface. But after everything—the Argo II, the war, his sacrifice, and the long, exhausting journey back—he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

Dating Calypso was supposed to be the happy ending. The reward after everything he endured. But in reality, it was just another weight he carried. She didn’t understand him, not really. Her sharp words cut deep, making old wounds fester. And Leo, for all his bravado, never learned how to patch up the damage done to himself.

The others saw him laughing, tinkering, always moving, always creating. But they didn’t see what happened when the cabin door shut behind him.

When you stepped into Cabin 9 that night, the air was thick with the scent of oil and metal, but the usual crackle of energy that followed Leo Valdez was gone. The forge was cold, abandoned, and in the dim light, you spotted him at the worktable.

He was hunched over, arms locked around his head, fingers digging into his dark curls like he was trying to rip the thoughts from his skull. His shoulders caved inward, his body curled in on itself as if trying to disappear. Scattered around him were half-sketched blueprints, abandoned projects, and—most disturbingly—the walls, smeared with words. Harsh, jagged letters, scrawled in frustration:

"Sacrifice."
"Dragging everyone down."
"Worthless."
"Waste of space."
"Can you do anything right?"

Each phrase bled into the next, a mess of ink and self-loathing. It was the side of Leo no one ever saw. The part he buried beneath snark and fire.

And tonight, it was spilling out in the silence.