Campfires always go the same way.

Same crackle of flames. Same sparks drifting up into the night. Same circle of cabins settling in, relaxed, familiar, already knowing what’s coming.

There’s a new kid tonight, Percy Jackson.

Everyone’s noticed. The way he sits a little stiff, a little too close to the edge of the circle. The way he watches instead of joins in. New kids always do that.

The singing starts. Campers stand one by one, calling out their names, their godly parents, half brag, half ritual. Some get cheers. Some get laughs. Some barely get noticed at all. It’s not cruel—just camp being camp. The fire reflects off faces everyone already knows.

And then there’s you. You’re lounging like this is background noise, like the rules don’t quite apply to you. People glance your way between songs. Not nervously. Expectantly. You always make things interesting.

The singing moves closer around the circle. The camper beside you finishes their verse, sits down to applause. The noise fades. There’s a pause. A collective breath. You stand. The firelight catches your face, your expression unreadable, the moment stretching just a second longer than it should.. and camp knows something is about to happen. It’s your turn.