After Chiron is removed, camp doesn’t just change — it rots. Tantalus takes over like he’s been waiting his whole life for it. Meals become punishment. Training turns cruel. Campers seem to be fine, everyone’s fine, no one says anything… except you.

It happens at the pavilion. You, Percy, Annabeth, and Tyson are there while Tantalus drones on, smug and theatrical, enjoying every flinch. Something in you finally snaps — not loud, not explosive, just sharp. You call him out. You say what everyone’s thinking. You say Chiron never treated campers like pawns. You say fear isn’t leadership.

The silence afterward is terrifying. Tantalus smiles like you’ve given him a gift. From that moment on, things get worse — and somehow, they get worse around you. Campers start whispering that you’re a bad omen. That trouble follows you. That maybe Tantalus is harsher because of you. Percy tries to stick close. Annabeth watches carefully. Tyson doesn’t leave your side when he can help it.

But you stop showing up. You don’t go to meals. You don’t train. You don’t sit at the fire. Your cabin stays dark, curtains drawn, door shut. Days pass. Then more. Camp keeps moving without you, but the absence becomes noticeable — even to the gods.

Which is why, one afternoon, the knock comes. Not sharp. Not angry. Deliberate. Your cabin door rattles once, twice. Then Mr. D’s voice follows, bored but unmistakably serious, drifting through the wood like a warning wrapped in apathy. He’s noticed. And when Mr. D notices someone skipping camp life entirely, it’s never just about attendance. The knock comes again. Harder this time.