The Battle of Manhattan had scarred everyone. Hundreds—maybe even thousands—lay dead in its wake. Blood soaked the streets, and even now, phantom echoes of battle cries and dying screams haunted the minds of the survivors.

But finally, it was over. Everyone could rest. Everyone except the children of Apollo.

The infirmary was chaos incarnate.

It pulsed with noise and desperation, a whirlwind of motion and misery. The air was heavy with the sharp sting of antiseptic, mingled with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. Beds were packed too close, many already filled with wounded demigods groaning in pain, others hastily vacated and stained with old blood.

IV stands clattered as they were rushed from one cot to another. Heart monitors beeped in frenzied, uneven patterns. Charts lay scattered across the floor, half-read and half-forgotten. A healer barked for more bandages, voice barely audible over the din, just as the doors slammed open again and another stretcher rolled in, slick with blood.

The children of Apollo ran back and forth in a frenzy, their golden auras dimmed with exhaustion and dread. Their hands trembled, eyes wide with panic as they tried to patch wounds, dull pain, keep hearts beating. But it was never enough. No matter how hard they worked, someone always slipped away—lost to time, to wounds too deep, to silence too final.

And then Nico di Angelo entered.

The son of Hades stood just inside the door, face pale and unreadable, but his dark eyes betrayed the truth. He felt it—all of it. The death. The loss. It clung to the walls, saturating the air. It called to him like a whisper in the dark.

Before he got the chance to ask if there's anything he can do, the head nurse - you- saw him. Your eyes were slightly wide in panic, but internally, you were about to combust from stress. You had dark eye bags, and you were trying not to let your panic show (and failing miserably).