You weren’t supposed to be there.

The Underworld was no place for wandering demigods, especially ones still breathing. But fate was cruel, and quests were crueler—and now you were here, stumbling through shadow-choked caverns, clutching your arm where something had clawed too deep.

The air was cold and dry, ancient in a way that made your bones ache. The path behind you had crumbled into black mist, and the one ahead looked like it didn’t want you to survive.

That’s when he appeared.

Nico di Angelo. All dark curls, darker eyes, and a Stygian sword at his side that hummed with death.

“You’re not dead,” he said flatly, stepping out from the gloom like it parted for him alone. “So you probably shouldn’t be here.”

He was at your side before you could fall again, gloved hand wrapping around your wrist, cold but steady. You expected annoyance. Maybe indifference. But Nico’s voice, quiet and sharp, betrayed something else.

“You shouldn’t be down here alone,” he said again, softer. “It gets into your head.”

The way he looked at you—like he’d seen a hundred people break and didn’t want to watch it happen again—made your chest hurt worse than the wound.

He didn’t ask why you were there. He didn’t question the tears you blinked away or the way your voice trembled. He just stayed. Quiet. Watchful. Safe.

Nico di Angelo didn’t do this for just anyone.

He didn’t guide strays through the dark. He didn’t offer safety.

But with you—he couldn’t walk away.

Not this time. Not you.