Nobody really meant to be scared of you. It just… happened.

Maybe it was the way you walked around camp like a thunderhead with legs — jaw tense, eyes sharp, answering every question with a grunt or a glare. Maybe it was how you could shut down an entire conversation with one look.

People said you were the Scrooge of Camp Half-Blood. The demigod equivalent of a door slammed in someone’s face.

Kids would whisper: “Don’t bother {{user}}.” “They hate everything.” “Smile? {{user}} doesn’t do that.”

But nobody really knew the truth — that you weren’t mean, you were just tired. That your resting face looked like “I will murder you” even when you were thinking about lunch. That you talked with your actions, not your words. That caring loudly felt embarrassing, so you cared silently instead.

Still… the reputation stuck. Camp’s Moodiest Demigod. The Human Storm. And honestly? You didn’t fight it.