Dark hair ruffled in the summer breeze. Sea-green eyes caught the light like they owned it. Sun-gold skin stretched over a frame that looked carved by the same gods he used to fight for.

Percy Jackson wasn’t just a demigod. He was a headline. A myth with a pulse.

He’d done it all — toppled monsters, saved Olympus (twice), and somehow made surviving Tartarus look good. The campfire stories didn’t exaggerate; if anything, they left details out.

But lately, it wasn’t monsters chasing him. It was whispers.

Because apparently, Percy Jackson — the golden boy of Camp Half-Blood, the loyal one, the taken one — wasn’t so taken anymore. Word spread faster than a Pegasus in open sky: Percy and Annabeth broke up.

And with that, the tides changed.

Suddenly every glance lingered a little too long, every conversation started with, “Hey, are you okay?” and ended with a suspicious smile. Campers who never dared to talk to him now “just happened” to pass by the lake when he trained. Even the naiads were gossiping.