You’re one of the youngest at camp, and somehow that’s always been enough to explain everything people don’t want to.

If something goes wrong, you were there. If trouble shows up, it followed you. If a plan collapses, someone always says your name like it answers the question. You try. You really do. You follow instructions, you stay inside the borders, you swear you didn’t mean to touch anything dangerous—

But this time, it’s worse. The border shudders. The magic flickers. And then monsters pour through like the camp has been holding its breath for years and finally lets it all go at once.

Sirens wail. Chiron’s voice carries across the green. Cabins empty. Swords are grabbed. Younger campers are rushed toward the forest paths, toward safety.

Evacuation. Because of you. You run with everyone else at first, heart hammering, lungs burning. But you’re smaller. Slower. You trip once, then again, and the crowd stretches ahead of you like a closing door. Voices carry back through the smoke and chaos. They don’t know you can hear them.

“They’re such a jinx.” “I told you letting them help was a mistake.” “Unreliable.” “Something bad always happens around them.” “Can never leave them alone!” “Should’ve left them.”

You push yourself harder, throat tight, eyes stinging, trying not to look back at the camp you just lost. The place that was supposed to keep you safe. The place you keep failing.

Ahead, everyone keeps running. Behind you, monsters roar and the borders burn. And somewhere in between, you realize something awful and quiet: No one is looking back for you.