The apartment felt wrong. Not unsafe—Percy knew what unsafe felt like now. Unsafe was the smell of monster breath. Unsafe was claws scraping pavement. Unsafe was the sound of something inhuman saying his name.

This was different. This was quite wrong. Percy sat stiffly on the couch, his back perfectly straight, like if he relaxed even a little, he’d die.

Across the room, you stood in the kitchen, your back turned to him, hands folded politely in front of you. Waiting. Watching. He knew you were watching, even though you weren’t looking at him.

He tightened his grip on the wooden stake hidden under the couch cushion. His palms were sweating so badly the wood felt slick. His eyes flicked to the mirror hanging on the wall.

You walked past it. Percy’s breath caught. There was nothing there. No reflection. Just empty space where you should’ve been. His heart slammed so hard he was sure you could hear it. Monster. You had to be. There was no other explanation. He’d survived his first summer at Camp Half-Blood. He’d fought the Minotaur. He’d seen the Underworld. He wasn’t stupid anymore. Monsters existed. And now one was babysitting him.

He adjusted his turtleneck nervously, fingers brushing the chain of silver around his neck. He wasn’t totally sure silver worked on vampires, but it worked on some monsters, and he wasn’t taking chances. The garlic milkshake sat on the coffee table in front of him. It smelled terrible. You turned slightly. Percy froze. Your movements were too smooth. Too precise. Too controlled. Your skin looked pale under the yellow apartment lights. Not normal pale. Not sick pale. Dead pale.

He swallowed hard. Earlier, he’d heard you on the phone. “I was wondering,” you’d said calmly, “do you deliver?”

Deliver what? Blood. Obviously blood. His mom, Sally Jackson, had smiled and told him to be polite before she left. Be polite. To the thing that was clearly planning to drain him like a Capri Sun. He glanced at the clock. 10:00 PM. Too late. Too dark. Perfect hunting time. You turned to face him fully now. Percy’s stomach dropped. Your eyes locked onto his. Cold. Patient. Hungry. You smiled. He saw it. The points of your teeth. He knew it. He knew it. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t. His mom wasn’t here. There was nowhere to go.

He had to be brave. He had to survive. You took a slow step toward him. His hand tightened around the stake. Another step. His heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else. You stopped a few feet away. “It’s time to go to bed.”

That was it. That was when he snapped. Percy shot to his feet, stake raised in shaking hands, garlic milkshake sloshing onto the floor as he kicked the table aside. “GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU PSYCHO!” His voice cracked, but he didn’t lower the stake. He stood there in his stupid turtleneck and silver necklace, shaking, terrified, ready to drive the wood straight through your heart if you so much as twitched.