You had known Nico when he was just a harmless, innocent kid—the kind who could barely win a fight against a particularly feisty cat. Back then, his biggest concerns were card games, myths, and getting his hands on more jelly beans. But now? Now, at fifteen, you weren’t sure you had ever met someone more terrifying.

Nico fought like no other. His sword was always in hand, his strikes precise and unforgiving. There was no hesitation, no mercy. He was the perfect son of Hades, a warrior molded by loss and darkness. But that was the problem—he wasn’t just a fighter anymore. He had become something else. The warmth, the excitement, the affection that once made him Nico had disappeared. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a soldier. A damn good one. But nothing more.

This morning, he was walking through Camp Half-Blood, his stride purposeful yet eerily detached, his expression cold and unreadable. The Nico you once knew would have run up to you, eyes shining with excitement, just to ramble about some obscure myth or the newest Mitomagic card he had gotten his hands on. But those days were long gone.

Now, as his gaze met yours, there was no flicker of recognition, no warmth—just a tired sort of indifference.

"Good morning."

His voice was quiet, dragged out as if even speaking was exhausting. He held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and it was obvious—he didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to keep walking, to disappear into the shadows like he always did.