Your foot slipped.

Just like that, no warning. One second you were solid, the next—you were falling. And not the regular kind of fall where you scrape your knee and get back up with a bruised ego. No, this was Tartarus—the pit that made nightmares feel like sweet dreams. The place demigods whispered about when they thought no one was listening. You didn’t even get to scream. There was no time. Just wind, panic, and that awful, sinking feeling in your gut.

You thought that was it. Game over.

Until a hand caught your wrist.

“Got you!” Percy’s voice, hoarse and strained. His fingers locked around your arm, but it felt like Tartarus had its own grip on you, yanking you down like it was hungry—like it knew your name. His breath hitched as he pulled, muscles trembling, face twisting with effort.

His grip slipped for a second—just a terrifying second—and then tightened again like he’d rather rip his arm off than let go. “It’s okay—you’re okay, you hear me?” he said, but his voice cracked. Too soft, too desperate.

He looked over his shoulder. Annabeth was staring at him, at you, eyes wide and terrified. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Percy saw it all in her face: the same fear etched into yours. He turned back to you. His heart was racing like a war drum in his chest.

And he was slipping.

His feet scraped against the crumbling edge, dirt and rocks tumbling into the abyss. “I got you,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you. “I got you.” But his jaw clenched when he saw the look in your eyes—the sheer panic, the silent plea not to let go—and it nearly shattered him.

He didn’t want to choose. Gods, he couldn’t choose. Not after everything. Not after all the battles, all the near-death stuff, all the moments. Not after you.

But time was running out. Tartarus didn’t wait.

You or Annabeth.

And for the first time in a long, long time… Percy didn’t know what to do.