Percy hadn’t meant to spy. He’d only gone up on deck because he couldn’t sleep—the ship creaked too loudly, the sea too calm, his instincts buzzing like something was wrong. The moon washed the deck in silver, most of the crew asleep below, lanterns dimmed low.

That’s when he heard your voice. Not close. Not loud. Careful. Percy froze in the shadows near the stairwell, breath caught halfway in as your words drifted across the deck, carried by the wind. “…once they finish it,” you were saying. Calm. Almost bored. “We don’t interfere before that. Let them do the hard part.”

Someone laughed quietly—one of your crew. Percy recognized the sound. Someone he’d trusted. Someone who’d shared food with him hours earlier. “And the heroes?” another voice asked.

There was a pause. Just long enough for Percy’s stomach to drop. You exhaled, slow. “They won’t be a problem.”

The sea seemed to go very quiet. Percy pressed himself harder against the wall, heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would give him away. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for Riptide—then stopping. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. “They’ll be tired by then,” you continued. “Wounded. Relieved. Heroes always relax once they think they’ve won.”

A different crew member scoffed. “And Percy?”

Your tone changed then. Sharper. Certain. “Especially Percy.” That one word hit harder than any blade.

Percy swallowed, throat burning. You’d laughed with him. Trusted him. Let him believe—gods, he’d believed—that you were on their side. That your crew was rough but loyal. That the suspicion from the others was just paranoia. He’d defended you. “And after?” someone asked.

You stepped closer into the lantern light. Percy could see you now through the gap—your silhouette, familiar and terrifying all at once. “We take the prize,” you said. “We leave no witnesses. By the time anyone realizes what happened, we’ll be gone—and they’ll be dead.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Final. Percy felt sick. His hands were shaking now, knuckles white as he clutched the stone wall. Every instinct screamed to run, to warn the others—but he knew better. If you suspected even for a second that he knew… He leaned back slowly, carefully, retreating into the shadows the way Annabeth had taught him. His chest hurt. His head spun.

The worst part wasn’t the plan. It was realizing that when you’d smiled at him earlier— you’d already decided he was disposable.

And tomorrow morning, he’d have to sit across from you at breakfast and pretend he hadn’t just overheard his own death being planned.