Last summer, Camp Half-Blood was… normal. Chaotic. Loud. Half on fire most days. Chiron lecturing. Mr. D complaining. Monsters slipping through the borders just often enough to keep everyone sharp.

This summer was different. When campers returned, they noticed it immediately—the Big House was quiet. No wheelchair tracks in the dirt. No Diet Coke cans stacked by the porch. No sarcastic god, no gentle centaur.

Instead, there was you. And someone else—your counterpart, quieter, always lingering in the background—but no one focused on them. No one really remembered to. Because everyone saw you.

You smiled when campers arrived, greeted them by name—even the ones who hadn’t given their names yet. You listened. You helped. You understood in a way that made people feel seen, chosen, important. Lessons made sense under your guidance. Training injuries healed faster. Arguments dissolved before they became fights.

Camp felt lighter. Happier. People stopped asking where Chiron was. They stopped complaining about Mr. D. Almost without realizing it, they stopped missing them. Nearly everyone had a crush on you—not in a dramatic way, just a soft, quiet affection. The kind that made campers linger near the Big House a little longer. The kind that made counselors agree with you even when they weren’t sure why.

You were innocent. Beautiful. Wise. Kinder than Chiron. More patient than the gods. And quests? Quests were easy now. Monsters fell without struggle. Prophecies resolved themselves neatly. No one died. No one was truly hurt. Campfires burned brighter. Laughter echoed later into the night. The borders never flickered.

It was perfect. Too perfect. Because perfection has a cost. And slowly—so slowly no one noticed at first—campers began to forget things. Not memories exactly. More like… questions. Why were quests no longer challenging? Why did the gods feel distant? Why did no one ever leave camp anymore? Why did thinking too hard about Chiron make your head ache?

At night, some campers dreamed of hooves in the woods. Of purple eyes watching from somewhere far away. Of vines creeping just a little too close to the cabins before retreating by morning.

And you? You never addressed it. You just smiled. Kept camp running smoothly. Kept everyone safe. Kept everything perfect. After all—Why would anyone want things to go back to the way they were?