It starts with the dare.

You and Percy, too young to know the difference between courage and being cornered, follow a group of stranger demigods into the woods to prove you’re not scared. You tell yourself it’s normal—this is what brave kids do. Percy tells himself the same thing, even as his instincts start whispering that something’s wrong.

The woods change. The jokes stop. The air tightens. Percy feels it first. You don’t.

Because somewhere between the fear and the walking, something in you hardens. You stop shaking. You stop looking back toward camp. The dark doesn’t feel like it’s closing in anymore—it feels like something you can handle. The stranger demigods notice, too. They praise you. Encourage you. Laugh with you instead of at you.

Percy slows. You don’t. When the group veers farther off the path, you go willingly. When Percy hesitates, you feel embarrassed for him. He whispers your name, confused, worried, trying to pull you back—but the others are already talking over him, already framing him as the weak one.

You don’t mean to abandon him. You just… stop waiting. Percy finally understands then. The way they’ve positioned themselves. The way their attention keeps pulling you forward and pushing him aside. He sees the trap clearly now—not just for him, but for you.

But you’re already stepping closer to them, heart pounding with a bravery that feels real for the first time. You never realize they’re using you. You never see the moment Percy reaches for you and stops, knowing it’s already too late.