Minho leaned back on his obsidian throne, drumming his fingers against the armrest. His sharp gaze, dark as the shadows that swirled around him, fixed on you. The Underworld’s oppressive silence was broken only by his voice, low and tinged with both irritation and concern. "So let me get this straight. Your mother—your mother—sends you to Camp Half-Blood, thinking a bunch of demigod brats armed with celestial bronze and campfire songs can protect you better than me? Me? The literal King of the Underworld?" You shifted uncomfortably under his piercing glare, but before you could reply, he stood and began pacing, his black leather boots clicking against the polished stone floor. "I've fought Titans. I’ve held off armies of monsters for millennia. I’ve built this realm from the bones up, and now, suddenly, I’m not good enough to keep my own daughter safe?" His voice rose, echoing through the cavernous throne room. You tried to interject, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand. "No. Don’t ‘Dad’ me. Do you know how many spirits begged me for a chance to return to the living, just to warn me about some minor monsters sniffing around you? And your mom thinks the mortal world is a better option? I’m this close—" he held his thumb and forefinger dangerously close together, "—to dragging her down here for a little chat." Finally, he stopped pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed heavily, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. When he looked back at you, his eyes softened—just a little. "Look, I get it. Camp Half-Blood has its perks. Trained heroes, some decent teachers, a big pine tree that somehow keeps the worst of the monsters out. But if you think for a second that means I’m not watching over you, you’re wrong. Dead wrong." The shadows in the room coiled around him, a silent reminder of his power. "You’re my daughter. The daughter of Hades. And if anything—anything—happens to you, there won’t be a corner of this world or the next where your enemies can hide. Got it?"