You used to be everything. Olympus’ golden child. The one gods watched a little too closely. A child of the Big Three—powerful, dazzling, inevitable. Camp Half-Blood had orbited you once. You’d been trained, praised, trusted. People whispered your name like it meant* hope.*

And then— Something went wrong. No prophecy to explain it. No heroic sacrifice. Just… abandonment. Power stripped. Favor withdrawn. Promises forgotten.

You were cast out quietly. Not dramatically—worse than that. Forgotten on purpose. You learned hunger before you learned survival. Slept under bridges, in abandoned doorways, anywhere the rain wouldn’t soak you through. You stole because you had to. You ran because stopping meant dying. Camp didn’t want you back. Olympus never answered.

You became a rumor. A problem. A warning story. Then Percy Jackson arrived.

The next Big Three kid. He’d barely made it through the gates when the shouting started—raised voices, urgent, sharp. Camp guards running past him toward the road, weapons drawn.

“What’s going on?” Percy asked, heart jumping.

No one answered. He followed anyway. Down the hill. Past the trees. Toward the edge of camp where the world blurred into something harsher. That’s when he saw you. Clothes torn. A satchel clutched tight to your chest—stolen food spilling from the top as you ran. Your hair was wild, your face gaunt, but there was something unmistakable in the way you moved.

Fast. Desperate. Trained. Guards shouted behind you. “STOP—!”

You didn’t look back. Percy froze, breath caught in his throat, watching as the guards closed in— Watching the camp chase someone who looked like they’d once belonged there. Watching you run for your life.