Percy doesn’t mean to follow them.

It just… happens. After another day of whispers and laughs and being called weak, unclaimed, water boy, the invitation feels like mercy. A chance to prove something. A chance to stop being the kid everyone expects to break.

The stranger demigods are older. Sharper. They don’t bully him outright—they smirk, they test him, they give him looks that say maybe. One of them says something about courage. Another laughs and says the woods aren’t that bad if you’re not scared.

Percy goes. He doesn’t notice how they fan out around him as they walk. He doesn’t notice how the path back to camp disappears. He’s too busy trying to stand taller, trying to be less obvious about how fast his heart is beating.

You walk near the front. Not leading—but close enough to hear the leader’s quiet instructions, close enough to earn the occasional approving glance. You’re not loud. You don’t threaten. You don’t need to. You’re the proof that this works. The example. The pet.

When Percy stumbles, you don’t help him—but you don’t trip him either. You just watch, calm, almost curious. When he laughs nervously at a joke, you smile like you’ve seen this before. Because you have.

The woods grow darker. The air thickens. Percy finally feels it—the wrongness, the way the silence presses in. He slows, looking around, realizing no one else looks surprised. That’s when he looks at you.

Your eyes meet his. And there’s something there that makes his stomach drop—not cruelty, not anger, but certainty. Like you already know how this ends. Like you’ve chosen your place.