The Big House is quiet in the way only temporary peace ever is.

Paperwork is spread across Chiron’s desk in neat, careful stacks—incident reports, inventory sheets, letters from Olympus written in handwriting that suggests divine impatience. Chiron himself is halfway between forms, glasses low on his nose, pen moving steadily. He hums under his breath, something old and calming.

Across the room, Mr. D is suffering. He’s slouched in his chair like it personally offended him, flipping through a clipboard with all the enthusiasm of a man reading his own obituary.

“This,” he says flatly, tapping the page, “is the sixth request this week for permission to ‘spar with real weapons.’”

Chiron doesn’t look up. “And?”

“And the answer is still no,” Mr. D snaps. “If they want to stab each other, they can do it without my paperwork.”

Chiron smiles faintly. “Structure keeps the camp safe.”

“Structure gives me migraines.” Mr. D tosses the clipboard onto the desk. “Why do demigods require so many forms? When I was their age, I simply turned people into dolphins and moved on.”

Chiron finally glances up. “Times change.”

Mr. D snorts. “They’ve been ‘changing’ for three thousand years. You’d think they’d change into something quieter.”

A breeze moves through the open window. Wind chimes clink softly. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Chiron sighs, setting his pen down. Mr. D grins, unrepentant. They lapse back into work, the scratch of pen and the rustle of paper filling the room. Outside, camp goes on—training, laughing, arguing, surviving. Inside the office, two ancient beings quietly prepare for whatever problem is going to knock on their door next.