No one ever really liked you at Camp Half-Blood.

You weren’t loud enough to be funny, or sweet enough to be forgivable. You didn’t join in on sing-alongs or sparring cheers — you just watched, quiet and sharp, like a knife left out in the rain. People whispered your name like a curse sometimes, said you gave them a bad feeling. Even Chiron started looking through you instead of at you.

And maybe they were right to.

Something changed after the last quest — the one no one talks about. You came back different. Quieter. Colder. You started slipping out after curfew, standing too long at the edge of the forest, listening to the wind as if it were whispering orders. And when the first demigod turned up hurt — not dead, not yet — everyone called it an accident. Then another. And another.

No one’s figured it out. Not yet. They still laugh around the campfire, still train like nothing’s wrong, still think the danger’s outside the borders. You sit among them sometimes, expression unreadable, fingers tapping to a rhythm only you can hear — bang, bang, bang.

The gods wanted a warning, and you gave them one. The camp wanted a villain, and you became one.

And still, no one suspects you. Not the heroes. Not the counselors. Not even Percy Jackson. Just the wind in the pines — the only thing that ever seems to whisper your name right.