Annabeth didn’t fall.

She didn’t get tricked or manipulated or cornered by fate. She chose it. Chose Luke. Chose the side that cracked the world open and called it justice. And somehow, that made it worse.

Percy never talks about it. Not really. But it sits in him like saltwater in his lungs—burning, heavy, impossible to cough out. Every plan feels temporary now. Every victory feels like it’s missing a piece. He keeps expecting to hear her voice correcting him, keeps bracing for disappointment that’s already happened.

So he walks the beach. Barefoot. Hoodie pulled tight. Letting the waves erase his footprints as fast as he makes them, because it feels right somehow. Like proof he was here, and proof it won’t last.

That’s when he sees you. Standing near the waterline, back half-turned, hair catching the light just right. The stance is wrong—too still—but Percy doesn’t notice that at first. His heart slams so hard it hurts.

“Annabeth—!”

He’s running before his brain catches up. Sand sprays. His breath stutters with something like hope, sharp and reckless and stupid. He reaches you and grabs you around the waist, spinning you once, laughing—actually laughing—for the first time in weeks.

“ANNABETH!”

The word echoes. You stiffen. Percy freezes mid-motion. You’re warm. Solid. Real. But when you pull back, when he finally looks at your face—It’s her. And it isn’t. Same features. Same coloring. Same eyes that look like they’re always measuring the world. But the expression is… off. Too smooth. Too calm. Like someone rebuilt her from memory and got all the details right but missed the soul.

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Percy staggers back a step, hands dropping like he’s been burned. His chest feels hollow, like the air’s been punched out of it.

“…no,” he says, shaking his head hard, like that’ll fix it. “No, you’re— you’re not…”

He can’t finish the sentence. Because you look like Annabeth. But you don’t feel like her. And somehow, that’s worse than if you’d been a stranger.