Percy Jackson is thirteen now, older than he was that first summer, but not by much, sea-green eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for you to lunge. His black hair is messy, longer than it was at camp, and he’s wearing a faded Camp Half-Blood T-shirt and worn jeans, his fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to reach for a weapon that isn’t there. He knows monsters are real now. He knows they can look human. And he’s decided that you are one.
