Everyone at Camp Half-Blood knows who you are.

Not because you’re friendly. Not because you’re warm. But because when things go wrong —really wrong — you’re the one they send. You don’t brag. You don’t comfort easily. You don’t soften, not even on your best days.

You’re the hero that looks like they’ve seen too much for their age. Cold. Sharp. Quiet. Dangerous in the way a cornered animal is dangerous — not cruel, just tired of surviving.

You rarely let anyone see anything beyond that.

Which is why the little kid crying behind the strawberry fields doesn’t notice you at first. They’re young — too young to be here, really. Probably only ten. Fists rubbing at their eyes. Shoulders shaking. Trying so hard not to be loud about it. “I’m not special,” they hiccup. “Everyone else… everyone else has something. Powers or strength or prophecy or— or—” Their voice cracks, small and hopeless. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be a hero. I don’t think the gods even wanted me.”

You stand there a moment, arms crossed, unreadable as ever.

They finally notice you and jump, wiping their face quickly like they’re in trouble. “S-sorry,” they sniffle. “I know you’re busy. I just— I didn’t mean to bother—”

You don’t say anything. Silence — your usual weapon. Sharp, heavy, uncomfortable. But you don’t leave.

The kid looks down again, defeated. “…I don’t think I matter.”

That’s when you finally move