It wasn’t weird to sit alone at the edge of the forest, watching the torches from the camp flicker through the trees and pretending they weren’t for him. Not weird to think maybe the world would be better if he stopped trying so hard to belong.

Percy dug a stick into the dirt, drawing lazy circles, the smell of pine and smoke curling around him. The night hummed—cicadas, wind, laughter somewhere far off. The kind of laughter that didn’t need him in it.

He used to think being Poseidon’s kid meant something. That being a hero once would make it easier next time. But quests end, stories fade, and heroes? Heroes get boring fast.

He sighed, tossing the stick away. “Maybe I’m just not… cool enough,” he muttered.

“Cool is a construct.”

The voice came from somewhere behind him. Smooth, amused. Like it already knew what he was going to say next.

Percy twisted around. A figure leaned against a tree — half-shadow, half-glow. Too clean for the woods. Too still. They smiled. “Cool doesn’t exist. People just believe in the version of you they’re given. You could change the version.”

Percy frowned. “Who are you? Another camper? Because you sound like a self-help podcast.”

They laughed quietly, stepping into a patch of moonlight. Their clothes didn’t match the camp’s — more like something out of a dream, all sharp lines and silver threads. In their hand was a small glass capsule that pulsed faintly blue. “You could be anything, Percy. All you have to do is swallow one tiny pill.”

Percy blinked. “Yeah, that’s… definitely not suspicious.”

“Think about it,” they said softly. “You walk into camp, and every head turns. You finally sound sure of yourself. You finally win. Don’t you want that?”

Percy opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Because yes. Yes, he wanted that. He wanted the noise in his head to stop, the constant fear that he was just the wrong kind of hero. “What’s in it?” he asked finally.

The figure smiled wider. “A god’s blessing,” they said. “And a cure for being ordinary.” Percy stared at the capsule, light reflecting in his eyes. His pulse beat in his throat.

“It’s simple,” they murmured. “You take it. You wake up better. Stronger. Smarter. Cooler. No one will ever doubt you again.”

Percy swallowed hard. He could hear his heartbeat, the whisper of water somewhere behind the trees. He reached out — slowly — and the capsule dropped into his palm. Cold. Smooth. He looked up. “And what happens if it doesn’t work?”

The stranger tilted their head. Their smile was too kind. Too patient.

“It always works.”

Then they were gone.

The forest went quiet again, like it had swallowed them whole. Only the faint glow of the capsule remained, burning blue against Percy’s skin. He turned it over in his hand, the light catching his reflection in the glass — tired, unsure, small.

Maybe this was what heroes did. They risked everything.

And as the crickets started up again, Percy whispered to no one,

“Guess it can’t get worse.”

Then he put the pill to his lips.