The cabin was suffocating with fabric. Satin draped across beds, armor straps tangled with ribbon, sequins glittering under lantern-light like mocking stars. You’d worked yourself raw, and still it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The door burst open and the questers filed in — Percy, Annabeth, Hazel, Frank, Jason, Piper, Leo, plus Grover, Will, and Nico trailing after. For a heartbeat you let yourself hope they’d see what you’d done and be grateful.

Instead—

“Clarisse ripped mine,” Percy said flatly, tossing the tunic onto the table. The seam had split down the side, jagged and ugly. “It wasn’t strong enough.”

Annabeth laid hers down with a sigh. “I told you this wasn’t lined right. It came apart halfway through training.”

Hazel smoothed her skirt, lips pressed thin. “The color looked worse in the sunlight. I felt ridiculous.”

Frank held up his cloak — scorched at the edges. “Burned up first time I shifted. Guess the material wasn’t up for it.”

Jason’s words were clipped, sharp. “Mine doesn’t even fit. It slows me down in combat.”

Piper added softly — but no less cutting — “The stitching’s rough. It chafes.”

Leo laughed, but it wasn’t kind. “Mine went up like kindling. Thought you were supposed to fireproof these things?”

Even Grover shuffled awkwardly, pulling at the collar of his. “It’s itchy. Like, really itchy. Couldn’t stand it.”

Will’s voice was the gentlest — and somehow, the worst. “It just… doesn’t feel right. Like you don’t get me.”

And Nico, arms crossed, avoided your eyes as he muttered, “Mine fell apart in the wash.”

Every complaint landed like another pin in your skin. They knew — they all knew the pressure you were under, the whispers at camp, the prophecy weighing on your shoulders. And still, they piled it higher.

You stood there, silent, nails digging crescents into your palms, thread cutting against your skin.

The lantern light flickered, catching on sequins, unfinished hems, the shards of perfection scattered across the room.

And not one of them noticed how much it hurt.