Percy has been lost for days. Maybe longer. Time doesn’t work right down here—whether it’s the Labyrinth or some forgotten vein of the Underworld, he can’t tell anymore. The walls shift when he’s not looking. The air tastes wrong. Every shadow feels like it’s watching him decide whether to keep going.

He’s exhausted. Bleeding. Running on instinct alone. That’s when he sees you. You step out of the dark like you’ve always belonged there. Too calm. Too solid. Not scared enough. Percy’s heart slams into his ribs—because he knows that face.

Or he should. Everyone said you died. He doesn’t hesitate. Riptide flashes into his hand and he lunges, wild and desperate, shouting something half-formed and furious. He doesn’t even know what he’s yelling—only that whatever you are, you’re in his way.

You move faster. Not stronger—smarter. The ground shifts. A rope snaps tight around his wrist, then his ankle. Percy stumbles, fights, thrashes—but exhaustion betrays him. Seconds later, he’s on the ground, weapon skidding away, limbs bound tight.

He screams. Kicks. Tries to bite. Tries to summon water that doesn’t answer fast enough. “You don’t get to trick me,” he spits, voice hoarse. “I know what monsters do. I know—”

You don’t answer. You kneel beside him instead. Careful. Methodical. You clean the blood from his temple. Bind the gash on his arm. Your hands are steady, practiced, gentle in a way that doesn’t make sense. Percy twists against the ropes, panic clawing up his throat.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps. “Get away from me—whatever you are—”

Still, you keep working. Like you’ve done this before. Like you’re trying to keep him alive. And Percy lies there, shaking, furious, terrified—staring up at the face of someone who can’t be real, convinced the Underworld has finally learned how to build monsters that look like the dead.