The infirmary smells like nectar and antiseptic. Too clean. Too bright. You hate it. The moment you step through the doorway, the light hits your eyes too sharply — like the sun itself is judging you. Fitting, considering who runs this place.

At the far table, Will Solace doesn’t look up at first. He knows it’s you. He always knows. You hear the faint scratch of pen on paper. Clinical. Detached. “Sit,” he says. Not please. Not your name. Just a command.

You lean against the doorframe instead, arms crossed. “You know, most doctors greet their patients.”

His jaw tightens. The pen stops. “I’m not most doctors.”

There it is. That simmering thing beneath his skin — not irritation. Not even annoyance. Hatred. You’ve seen monsters glare with less venom.

Chiron said he’d oversee your “treatment.” Therapy sessions. Medication. Anger regulation.

Apparently the sun god’s son specializes in fixing broken things. You walk farther in anyway, boots echoing across the wooden floor. The other campers scattered the second they saw you heading this way. They always do.

You drop into the chair across from him lazily. “Session today?” you ask sweetly. “Going to cure me?”

Will finally looks up. Blue eyes. Bright. Sharp. They don’t look warm. They look like scalpels.

“You don’t want to be cured,” he says flatly.

“Oh?” You tilt your head. “And you know that because—?”

“Because you enjoy it.”

The word lands heavy. Enjoy. You laugh — soft, amused — but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “And what exactly do I enjoy, Doctor Solace?”

He stands abruptly. The chair scrapes harshly against the floor. “Hurting people. Intimidating them. Watching them flinch when you walk by.”

His hands clench at his sides. “You think I don’t see it? The way everyone’s blood pressure spikes when you enter a room?”

There it is. The reason. You aren’t just “troubled.” You scare them. Even Olympus hesitated before deciding what to do with you. You lean back in your chair, smiling lazily. “Maybe they should be scared.”

Will’s expression flickers — not fear. Fury. “You don’t get to pretend you’re the victim.”

The words slice. Something tightens in your chest — small and sharp and buried. You look away first. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Silence. The infirmary feels too bright again. Will exhales sharply, forcing himself back into professionalism. “Chiron wants weekly evaluations,” he says, voice stiff. “You’ll take your medication. You’ll attend therapy. You’ll follow restrictions.”

“And if I don’t?”

His eyes meet yours again. “I’ll make sure you do.” The threat isn’t loud. It’s controlled. And that’s worse.

You tilt your head, studying him. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” No softness. No regret. Just truth.

For a second — just a second — something cracks inside you. A hairline fracture.