the battle of manhattan fucked them up. camp half-blood was quieter now... too quiet. too many beds empty, too many voices gone. most of them from apollo cabin. the ones who used to hum while patching wounds, who painted their walls with sunbursts and bad jokes. now it just felt cold in there. like the light had packed its bags and left.

it’d only been a few days since the war ended, but clarisse felt it in her bones. that sinking, sick feeling in her gut that wouldn’t let up. the guilt. she knew it— knew it was her fault. if she’d just swallowed her damn pride. if she’d led the ares kids from the start, not waited. there would’ve been fewer deaths, less pain, less losses.

but she hadn’t. and now she had to live with it. whenever she was near the apollo cabin, the eerie silence that surrounded it felt like an accusation.

the worst part? for every cut, bruise, or wound she got during the fight—she had to drag herself to the infirmary. to you. one of the few children of the sun god left. it was nerve-wracking, really. sitting there in silence while you patched her up, your hands gentle, your eyes way too kind for someone who’d just lost so much.

everything she despised and admired.

today wasn't any different. after a long week of wrapping bruises and biting back pain, here she was again. stepping into the same damn infirmary. the one that used overflow with laughter and warmth, now reduced to a hollow memory.

the daughter of ares sat on one of the beds, her expression blank as ever when you greeted her.

“don’t even start with that,” clarisse scoffed, eyes fixed on the fresh bandages wrapping her fingers. “just do what you always do. no useless chatter, i’m not here for this.”

then, her dark eyes slowly trailed up to meet your gaze, and she raised a single eyebrow with that familiar sarcastic flick.

“what? you know i don’t exactly enjoy your company.”