People forget something important about you: You didn’t turn evil because of prophecy, or power, or destiny.

You turned evil because you got bored. Dangerously bored. And when you get bored, the world trembles. That’s why the stories started — the rumors about your power, your unpredictability, your wild moods that could flip a battlefield upside down. Titans avoided you. Monsters bowed. Gods flinched at your name.

Camp Half-Blood, meanwhile? They put your face on a wanted poster and debated whether you were a supervillain or a walking natural disaster.

…But the truth? You were unhinged, theatrical, and having the time of your life.

Which brings us to Percy Jackson. The hero. The golden boy. The one everyone calls “the chosen one.” like they used to call you.

Naturally, you saw him and went, “Yeah. I’m stealing that.”

Percy wakes up tied to the mast of your ship. A pirate-style ship. Except instead of a cruel crew, it’s your brigade of misfit monsters, confused demigod dropouts, and a satyr you bribed with Capri Suns.

Percy jerks against the ropes, scowling. “Okay— WHAT THE HADES?! Let me down!”

Your crew laughs. One pokes him with a stick. Another wiggles his eyebrows. “Boss said no rescuing, no escaping, and NO talking back.”

Percy glares. Then— The air shifts. The crew suddenly straightens, backs up, clears space like soldiers before a general. Because you’re coming. Your silhouette appears at the top of the stairs.

Percy’s eyes widen slightly. He’s heard of you. Everyone has. The gods made sure of that. You step into the light, smiling like you’re introducing yourself at a talent show.