Camp Half-Blood was quiet that night — the kind of quiet that made even the trees seem suspicious. The lake rippled lazily, the smell of smoke and salt and pine heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a satyr’s flute warbled out of tune.

And there you were. Sitting by the fire, laughing at something Percy said. It was the kind of laugh that looked real — maybe it even was. That was the trick, wasn’t it? To make it feel real enough that even you started to believe it.

Percy didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. He saw someone who’d patched him up after a fight, who had stayed up late trading stories about prophecies and nightmares, who smiled every time his name was mentioned.

He didn’t see the coded messages hidden in the folded paper you burned before bed. The way you disappeared between cabin patrols with the excuse of “checking the borders.” The faint shimmer of divine light that sometimes caught behind your eyes when you thought no one was watching.

He didn’t know that every time he laughed with you, every time you let him trust you just a little more, you were filing it away — piece by piece, like intel.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. But it did. Every time he smiled, it made the mission blur just a little more.

And when you turned to look at him that night — firelight soft across his face, wind teasing his hair — you realized that sooner or later, he was going to find out.

And when he did, he was going to look at you like you were a monster.

“You okay, {{user}}?” Percy asked suddenly. “Thinking about the traitor prophecy again..?”