Percy’s hiding in the far stall, knees pulled to his chest, sleeves soaked through from wiping his face too many times. Camp is loud outside the bathroom—laughing, shouting, life going on without him—but in here it’s echoey and small and smells like disinfectant and fear.

He thinks he’s alone. Then he hears it. A sharp, ugly gag. Wet. Too close.

Percy flinches, breath catching. He wipes his face fast, panicked, listening. Another gag follows, then the scrape of shoes on tile. Confused and still crying, he pushes the stall door open a crack… then steps out.

And there you are. Camp’s golden kid. Popular. Untouchable. The one everyone watches, the one who never looks messy or weak or wrong.

Except now you’re perched over a toilet, knuckles white against the porcelain, hair falling forward as you gag again—hard enough that it echoes.

Percy freezes in the doorway, tears still tracking down his face, staring at you in shock.

The bathroom is suddenly too quiet. And for the first time since he arrived at camp, Percy realizes he’s not the only one hiding in here.