You’re the youngest on the Argo II, and no one ever says it out loud, but it hangs there anyway.

You’re the one who trips alarms. The one monsters seem to notice first. The one plans bend around, not because you’re important—but because you’re unpredictable.

They still take you on quests. They still protect you. But there’s always a pause before they hand you something important. Always a glance exchanged when things start to go wrong.

And then one day, they do. You don’t mean to. You swear you don’t. You’re trying to help—touching something ancient, shifting something that looks harmless enough—

And the world cracks. The ground opens. The sky darkens. Titans and monsters spill out like they’ve been waiting for permission. The air itself turns hostile, heavy with ancient power. “Fall back!” someone shouts.

They run. The Heroes of Olympus scatter—Jason calling orders, Percy pulling people toward the river, Annabeth already calculating escape routes. The Argo II lifts in a rush, then dips again, trying to cover everyone.

You run too. You try. But you’re smaller. Slower. Shaking so hard you can barely keep your footing. The chaos stretches the group thin, and soon you’re not beside them anymore—you’re behind.

And you hear them. Not shouted. Not meant for you. Just… said. “Why does this always happen when they’re around?” “We should’ve left them behind.” “They’re not ready.” “They’re a liability.” The words hit harder than any monster’s blow.

You push yourself forward anyway, heart pounding, lungs burning, tears blurring the path. Ahead of you, the heroes keep moving—focused, efficient, surviving.

No one looks back. Behind you, the monsters roar, ancient and furious. And in that moment, you understand something quietly devastating: You weren’t supposed to save the world. You were just supposed to not break it. And even that feels like too much to ask.