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Percy had just stepped into his apartment, the familiar weight of the door clicking shut behind him, when his phone started buzzing, the ringtone blaring through the quiet space. The distinct melody—one Rachel had helped him set specifically for Piper—cut through the air, clear and recognizable. Percy glanced at the screen, noting the name, but made no move to answer. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even consider picking up—he simply let it ring out, knowing full well that if it was important, Piper would call again. She always did.
Instead, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders, shifting the weight of the day off his back as he moved deeper into the apartment, his fingers absently tapping against his phone before tucking it into his pocket, ignoring the quiet vibration of the voicemail notification that followed.
He dropped his groceries onto the counter with a dull thud, the plastic bags crinkling under the weight, his movements practiced, routine—one of those simple motions that had long since lost any need for thought.
Mrs. O’Leary sat serenely in front of him, watching with the unwavering patience of a creature who had seen far too much to be startled by the mundanity of human habits. Percy reached down, fingers deftly undoing the straps of her service dog vest, sliding it off with smooth precision, the familiar action carrying a quiet sense of finality—the distinction between working and simply being.
After the Giant War, when he had finally started reintegrating himself back into society, the Hecate Cabin had used a bit of magic to help Mrs. O’Leary blend in better, shrinking her down just enough to exist comfortably in the mortal world. She was still large—imposingly so—standing just below his ribs, her sheer presence enough to make most people pause, reassess, and consider whether they wanted to approach. But she fit now.
She could exist in his apartment, navigate the space without causing destruction, settle into corners without making the furniture seem laughably small in comparison. She looked like a Newfoundland, her thick fur carrying the same heavy, soft waves, her posture steady, comforting. Just—larger. Larger in presence, in weight, in the unspoken power that lingered beneath the surface. She was still a hellhound, still tethered to a world far beyond mortal understanding. But here—here, she was just his dog.
Percy’s phone rang again, the familiar ringtone blaring through the quiet of his apartment. This time, it was Nico’s—distinct, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. He answered it immediately, his voice rushing out before Nico could even speak.
“What’s up? Are you okay?” Percy asked, holding the phone tightly to his ear, his tone sharp, edged with concern.
Over the line, he could faintly hear Will’s voice, light and teasing in the background. “Told you he would pick up if you called.”
Nico ignored him entirely, his focus locked on Percy.
“Percy, where are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp, carrying an urgency that Percy couldn’t miss. But beneath the sharpness, Percy could hear the faint thread of worry, the kind Nico rarely let slip.
“My apartment,” Percy replied, his movements automatic as he placed the milk and eggs into the fridge, his mind already racing. “Why?”
Nico’s next words hit like a punch to the gut. “Yesterday, Captain America leaked every SHIELD file onto the internet.”
Percy froze. His heart dropped to his stomach, the weight of the revelation crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He could hardly breathe, his grip on the phone faltering as he called out for Mrs. O’Leary, his voice sharp, commanding. “Lea, go to my family’s house. Now.”
The hellhound moved instantly, her massive frame disappearing through the apartment door without hesitation.
“Fuck,” Percy muttered, his voice low, strained, his mind racing faster than he could keep up. “Nico, my—”
“I know,” Nico interrupted, cutting him off before he could finish. “Leo saw the news first, told Haze and Frank. Frank, Hazel, and Leo are at your house right now. Haze told me just a few minutes ago.”
Percy’s breath hitched, his thoughts spiraling. “Was Piper calling to—”
“Yes,” Nico confirmed, his tone clipped, but steady.
Percy exhaled sharply, his movements quick, purposeful, as he speed-walked toward his room, his mind already calculating his next steps.
“Fucking—I’m so sorry,” Percy breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
He shoved open his closet door with a sharp motion, the hinges creaking faintly in protest as he reached inside, pulling out a black duffel bag with practiced ease. Piper’s voice filtered through the phone, steady and unbothered, her tone carrying that familiar mix of calm reassurance and no-nonsense practicality.
“It’s fine, dude,” she said, brushing him off like it was nothing. “We all know the rule—call twice if it’s super important. Plus, we know you’re okay now.”
Percy didn’t respond immediately, his focus shifting as he unzipped the bag, his movements quick, deliberate.
“My parents and Stella?” he asked, his voice tight, clipped, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
He pulled out a set of knives, their edges gleaming faintly in the dim light, and a pair of guns, their weight familiar in his hands. Without hesitation, he began strapping them beneath his clothes, ensuring they were secure, hidden, but easily accessible.
“They’re okay too,” Nico’s voice cut in, steady but firm, grounding Percy in the moment. “You know we’d be having a completely different conversation if they weren’t.”
Percy exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly, though the weight in his chest remained. “Right,” he mumbled, his tone quieter now, almost absent, as if he was speaking more to himself than to Nico.
His hands didn’t stop moving, his fingers deftly adjusting the straps, his mind already racing ahead, calculating his next steps. He briefly considers taking the leftover knives and stashing them around his apartment, but the thought is quickly dismissed. He already has so many strategically hidden that he’s running out of creative places to put them. A cereal box? The thought makes him snort softly, the absurdity of it almost tempting. Imagine the headlines, he muses to himself. Local man defends home with Frosted Flakes arsenal.
Shaking his head, Percy turns his attention back to the task at hand. He pulls on a chunky cardigan, the fabric thick and comforting, its weight grounding him as he adjusts it over his shirts. The cardigan isn’t just for warmth, though. It’s practical, too—its hidden pockets, carefully sewn throughout, are perfect for concealing weapons. He slides two guns into the inner compartments, their weight familiar, reassuring. A few more knives follow, each one tucked away with practiced precision, their placement deliberate, ensuring they’re accessible but invisible.
By the time he’s done, the cardigan looks as innocuous as ever, its cozy appearance betraying nothing of the arsenal it conceals. Percy takes a moment to adjust the fit, his fingers brushing over the fabric as he mentally runs through his checklist. Everything is in place. Everything is ready. And yet, he can’t help but glance at the cereal box one more time, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Maybe next time.
There was a knock on his door. Percy froze, his entire body going rigid, every instinct sharpening in an instant. The sound wasn’t aggressive, wasn’t urgent, but it was deliberate—measured, steady, like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t in a rush but wasn’t exactly waiting for an invitation, either.
His heart pounded, his breathing shallow, but his focus honed in on something else entirely. He could hear it—faint, but familiar. The heartbeat. There was something recognizable about it, some distant, fleeting sense of awareness, but the immediate recognition didn’t hit—not yet. Whoever it was, their presence didn’t trigger that instant certainty—that unshakable, instinct-driven recognition he had with his closest friends.
And that, more than anything, made him tense further. Because he knew, damn well, that if any of his actual friends had decided to check in on him, they wouldn’t have knocked. They wouldn’t have hesitated. They would have skipped the formalities altogether, barged in, unannounced, like they always did—like they knew they could.
This was different. This was someone who waited. And Percy wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
“Percy?” Nico’s voice comes through the receiver, edged with worry, sharp enough to cut through the tension already winding itself around the room.
Percy stands suddenly, his movements quick, instinctual, already shifting before his mind has fully caught up.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, the urgency undeniable, his voice clipped, focused. “Someone’s at my door.”
There’s a beat of silence, just barely a fraction of a second.
“What?” Nico says, his breath hitching, the sharp intake of air carrying a thousand unspoken thoughts.
Percy grimaces, adjusting the grip on his phone, steadying himself, though the weight in his chest remains. “I’ll call you back, Neeks. Promise.”
The silence stretches again. Nico huffs, the sound exasperated, but threaded with something quieter.
“You better.”
Percy dropped his phone onto his bed as Nico’s voice cut off, the faint click of the call ending barely registering in his mind. His focus had already shifted, his movements fluid and deliberate as he reached for his knife. The blade felt familiar in his hand, its weight grounding him as he twirled it effortlessly between his fingers—a motion born of habit, not showmanship. The soft metallic glint caught the dim light of the room, a quiet reminder of the sharp edge it carried.
He moved toward the door with practiced silence, each step measured, his breathing steady. The tension in the air was palpable, a quiet hum that seemed to settle over the room as he approached. The knife spun once more in his hand before he stilled it, his grip tightening just slightly as he reached the door. His other hand hovered near the edge, ready to act, his body coiled like a spring, prepared for whatever—or whoever—was waiting on the other side.
Before he even gets the chance to act normal and greet the person, there’s a gun going off in his face. The loud bang exploded through his skull, the sound reverberating with a sharp, piercing intensity that made his ears ring and his thoughts scatter. He cursed under his breath, the words spilling out instinctively as he ducked down, his movements quick, reflexive, driven by pure survival instinct. The pain lingered, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, but he pushed it aside, his focus narrowing to the immediate danger in front of him.
He lunges forward eyes glowing as he lashes out, his knife lodging itself in the person’s chest with a sicken squelch. He ignores the feel of the knife as it scrapes against bones and the blood that sprays at his face as he yanks it out. There’s another person down the hall, a gun in hand. Percy throws his knife without a second thought, it lands squarely in there chest, nestled between two of their ribs into a lung. They don’t even have time to react as they collapse into themselves.
Percy sighed, his breath heavy, edged with exhaustion as he lifted his hand, eyes flicking over the crimson streaks staining his skin. With a quiet thought, the blood vanished, stripped away by his power in a smooth, effortless motion—no water, no struggle, just a silent command and it was gone.
The relief was brief. He slid back into his apartment, shutting the door softly behind him, the click of the lock settling into the silence like an afterthought. His steps were quick, purposeful, carrying him straight to his room as he muttered a quiet instruction to his phone.
“Call Nico.”
The line barely rang once before it connected.
“I’m gonna have to move,” Percy said without preamble, his voice flat, certain.
Nico didn’t even blink. “I figured as much,” he replied, his tone plain, utterly unfazed, like he had already anticipated this conversation long before the call even started.
~~~
Percy had been forced to relocate four times in the past month alone. Each move felt like tearing another thread from the already fragile fabric of his life. The dingy motel rooms, the cramped apartments with flickering fluorescent lights, and the fleeting rental spaces all blurred into one haunting haze. His nights had become a battle between exhaustion and paranoia, neither allowing him more than a couple of restless hours of sleep. The circles under his eyes had deepened into shadows, making him look older, worn down, as though the constant upheaval was chipping away at his very soul.
Worst of all, Percy had lost contact with Sam. He had loved Sam like a brother—trusted him, confided in him—but now there was nothing but silence, a deafening void he wasn’t sure he could ever fill. HYDRA had hacked his phone, rifling through his life with chilling efficiency, forcing him to destroy it and get a new one. New number, new device, and with it, a crushing sense of isolation. Every message he wanted to send to Sam now hung unsent. Reaching out would only put Sam in danger. HYDRA was like a beast with too many heads, each one hungry for vengeance. And Percy had certainly given them reasons to want him gone.
It wasn’t just his public defiance—calling HYDRA out for the monstrous shadow it cast over society—it was everything that had followed. Every operation he’d led with Wade to uproot HYDRA agents and dismantle their bases. Every carefully orchestrated hit, every victory stolen from the jaws of the beast. HYDRA was a hydra not just in name but in nature, and Percy had made himself a target by severing too many heads. But none of that mattered now. He had to keep moving, keep fighting, even as the weight of his choices crushed down on him.
After the first move, Percy had reached out to the only person from SHIELD he still trusted—Mika Estensen. Mika had been one of the unsung heroes of SHIELD’s tech division, a mastermind in digital warfare and encryption, rarely stepping out from behind the protective glow of computer screens.
Their fieldwork had always been limited, not because of a lack of courage, but because of the mobility aids they had relied on since a severe accident when they were a kid. That accident had marked them physically, but it hadn’t diminished their resolve or brilliance. If anything, it had shaped them into someone who met challenges head-on with remarkable resilience.
Mika’s imposing height and striking Scandinavian features often caught people off guard. But beyond their stoic exterior was a sharp wit and a genuine warmth that Percy had found surprisingly rare in the cold halls of SHIELD. Mika wasn’t just smart; they were kind in a way that defied the cynicism of their environment. Percy had always valued that about them—the authenticity that made Mika feel less like a colleague and more like a true ally.
Percy had all but begged him to erase every trace of his connection to his family. The thought of them getting hurt because of him was unbearable, a gnawing fear that refused to let go. He couldn’t take the risk—not when HYDRA was relentless, not when his name was on their list. But cutting those ties, even just on paper, hurt far more than Percy had expected. Each step felt like severing a part of himself he wasn’t ready to lose.
They were still his family—nothing could change that. The bond was there, unshakable, and Percy clung to the promise that once the hunts for his head were over, he’d go back to them. He’d fall back into the rhythm of visiting them every week, like he had before all this chaos began. That was the plan, the hope that kept him steady. But for now, on paper, he had no family. On paper, he was no one. Alone.
And yet, the ache of that isolation cut deeper than he’d imagined, as if he were erasing not just the record of their connection, but the very essence of it. He told himself it was temporary, a precaution, but the emptiness it left behind felt disturbingly permanent.
After the second move, Percy decided to try his luck in a completely new state: Texas. The choice was impulsive, born out of equal parts curiosity and sheer exhaustion. He had never set foot there before, and frankly, he wanted an excuse to dust off his southern accent and live out the cowboy persona he’d always joked about. Texas felt like a chance to start fresh, to blend in, to disappear.
But his plans for reinvention crumbled quicker than he anticipated. Within a month, his small apartment—chosen for its anonymity and affordability—had been broken into more times than Percy cared to count. Each incident chipped away at his already fragile sense of security, leaving him more paranoid than ever. Doors that were supposed to keep him safe became useless against the relentless force of HYDRA. It turned out, Texas wasn’t the refuge Percy had hoped for—it was a breeding ground for HYDRA operatives.
As it turns out, HYDRA thrived in Texas.
The third move wasn’t triggered by an attack on Percy himself. This time, HYDRA went after his neighbors—a small family of four. Two dads, their bright and bubbly daughter, and their loyal, excitable dog. They were the kind of people who made you forget, even for a fleeting moment, that the world could be cruel. Warm and welcoming, they had opened their hearts to Percy, inviting him over for dinners and movie nights. Percy had never asked for their kindness, but he’d found himself basking in it nonetheless, letting his guard down in a way he shouldn’t have.
And that was his mistake. It was his fault they were attacked—he knew it deep down. Percy had let himself get close, allowed them into a life he was supposed to keep at arm’s length. He should have known better. He should have anticipated that HYDRA would exploit any connection he formed, any weakness he revealed.
The family didn’t deserve to be dragged into this war, and Percy hated himself for letting them become collateral damage. Their trust, their kindness—it was a cruel reminder of everything he had to sacrifice just to stay ahead of HYDRA.
Now, every gesture of goodwill, every innocent smile, felt like a threat—a vulnerability Percy couldn’t afford anymore. He told himself it was better this way. Better to be alone than to put anyone else in harm’s path. But the weight of that isolation was heavier than ever.
After the fourth move, Percy stopped pretending he could have a normal life. Running was futile; HYDRA always found him, no matter how far he went or how carefully he covered his tracks. They were like a parasite—relentless, insidious, draining him of any hope for peace. He had tried to fight it, to escape the shadow they cast over his every waking moment, but now he understood. This was his reality. This was his life.
Resigned to the inevitable, Percy accepted that he would have to endure the occasional attempt on his life as if it were just another inconvenient part of existence. The sleepless nights, the gnawing paranoia, the slow but undeniable erosion of his mental health—these weren’t obstacles to overcome anymore. They were constants, fixtures in the chaos that had become his life. He hated the toll it took on him, hated the way it hollowed him out bit by bit, but he told himself he could live with it. He had to live with it.
It wasn’t strength that kept Percy going—it was something far darker, something closer to stubborn survival. HYDRA might have taken away his sense of safety, his connection to others, his ability to dream of a better future. But they couldn’t take away his resolve to keep standing, even if he was standing alone.
It wasn’t until the seventh attack in just a few months that Percy’s father learned the truth about what had been happening. Percy had done his best to keep it from him, to shield him from the chaos that had become his life. But Poseidon had a way of staying close, of slipping into Percy’s life more than Percy had ever expected—or sometimes even wanted.
Against all odds, Poseidon was a father in ways Percy hadn’t anticipated. He showed up. Not in grand, sweeping gestures of godly power, but in quiet, human moments that caught Percy off guard. Whenever Percy gave him the green light, Poseidon was there—stopping by, offering advice, or just being present in a way Percy hadn’t experienced before.
It was strange, almost surreal, to have him involved like this. A part of Percy wanted to push him away, to keep his father at arm’s length for his own safety. But another part couldn’t deny the comfort of knowing that, for the first time, Poseidon was truly acting like a parent.
The absence of life-threatening prophecies hovering over Percy meant that the ancient laws had softened, the rigid barriers between gods and their children easing at last. It wasn’t just the shift in the laws, though—Percy’s own wishes had carried weight, nudging the gods toward a new era of interaction. They weren’t just distant figures of legend anymore. They showed up. They started to resemble something closer to parents, their presence tangible and steady in ways Percy hadn’t dared to hope for before.
It wasn’t perfect; Percy wouldn’t have called it the ideal father-son dynamic. Poseidon still carried the burdens of immortality and godhood, and Percy was only human—mortal and flawed. But it was better. Much better. The small gestures, the moments of genuine care, those fleeting glimpses of paternal warmth, it was enough for Percy.
Poseidon had decided to defy Zeus outright, ignoring the ancient laws and visiting Percy whenever he pleased. It was bold, reckless even, but Poseidon seemed unconcerned with the consequences. Unfortunately, one of those unannounced visits happened to coincide with Percy dealing with the aftermath of yet another attempt on his life. Percy had seen it coming—his father hadn’t been to his house in months, and the longer Poseidon stayed away, the more inevitable his return felt.
Percy had tried to delay the moment, even considering visiting Poseidon himself to keep him from stumbling into the chaos. But it was a futile effort. Poseidon was stubborn, and Percy knew that sooner or later, his father would find out about the danger that had been shadowing his every step. And now, here he was, standing in the middle of Percy’s wrecked living room, the evidence of the attack still fresh and undeniable.
“Dad!” Percy yelped, practically jumping out of his skin as Poseidon materialized in the middle of his living room without so much as a warning.
“Percy,” Poseidon greeted, his tone unnervingly calm, though his eyes sharpened as they scanned the room. “There’s a dead man in your living room.”
“Uh... yeah,” Percy replied, his voice laced with awkwardness. “There is.”
Poseidon’s shoulders stiffened as his piercing gaze settled back on Percy. “Why is there a dead man in your living room?” he demanded, his tone now edged with both suspicion and concern. “And, while we’re at it, I don’t recognize this living room—or this area. Have you moved recently?”
Percy sighed, whistling for Mrs. O’Leary, who trotted over obediently to drag the lifeless body away with surprising nonchalance. As the giant hellhound did her grim work, Percy made his way to the kitchen sink, scrubbing his hands as if it might wash away the guilt creeping at the edges of his thoughts.
“Oh, you know,” Percy began, his voice casual, though he knew he was rambling. “I’m not exactly the most popular guy. A little snarky, a little sassy, a lot sarcastic—basically, a total bitch. Sometimes people decide I’m just not cut out for this world and try to, uh, do something about it. It happens to the best of us.” He laughed lightly, a weak attempt to diffuse the tension. “Hasn’t really affected me much. Well, except for having to move... four times now.”
Percy’s words tumbled out in a rush, each one more flippant than the last, a poor attempt at masking just how deeply his situation had unraveled him. He could feel the weight of Poseidon’s silence pressing down on him. The tension in the room thickened with every passing second, and Percy didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know his dad’s expression had grown even graver.
He was failing miserably at easing Poseidon’s worry, and the god’s mounting tension was palpable. Percy could practically hear the unspoken questions hanging in the air, as sharp and heavy as a sword ready to drop.
“Four times?” Poseidon demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “Have people tried to kill you every time?”
Percy sighed as he turned off the faucet. The water dripped slowly to a stop, but his thoughts raced ahead, tangled with frustration and weariness. He dried his hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel before shoving them into his pockets, as if burying them might keep the truth from surfacing.
“Many have, yes,” he admitted quietly.
Poseidon’s expression darkened, his shoulders squaring as he took a step closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, his voice rising with the weight of frustration and worry. “I would have done something!”
“I didn’t want to bother you!” Percy shot back, his voice tinged with a defensive edge. “Plus, I could handle it.”
“That’s not the point, Percy,” Poseidon said, his tone softening into something closer to a plea. “Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you should.”
The weight of his father’s words hung in the air, heavier than Percy was willing to acknowledge. He could feel the unspoken sentiment woven into Poseidon’s tone, hear it in the way his voice nearly cracked: You’re still so young. But Poseidon didn’t dare say it out loud. He couldn’t, not when he bore some of the blame for Percy’s shitty life. He had played his part in turning his son into a soldier—a reluctant warrior thrust into the line of fire before he’d even had the chance to grow up.
“Are you planning to move again? Do you need help?” Poseidon asked, his tone careful but laced with concern.
“No,” Percy replied, shrugging helplessly. “I’ve decided I’m just going to stick it out. I mean, somehow, by some miracle—or curse—they’ve managed to find me every single time so far.”
He didn’t need to look at Poseidon to know his father was frowning. The silence said enough. Percy huffed loudly, throwing his hands up. “I can tell you’re giving me a look.”
“Nobody should have to live with the constant threat of someone trying to end their life at any moment, on any given day,” Poseidon countered, his voice taut with frustration. “Why are they suddenly coming after you with so much force? Mortals never had an issue with what you’d done before.”
“That’s because they didn’t know it was me,” Percy explained, leaning back against the sink with a resigned sigh. “Remember how I warned SHIELD about HYDRA infiltrating them? Well, Steve and Romanoff found out too. They were on a tight deadline, so their brilliant solution was to dump all of SHIELD’s files to expose the corruption. And I mean all of them.”
Poseidon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he pieced it together. “So now the public has your file—and HYDRA does, too.”
“Yep,” Percy said bitterly. “I got as much of it deleted as I could, but my priority was cutting every digital tie to my family. That mattered more.”
Percy sank onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow to his chest like it might anchor him in the chaos of his thoughts. Piper had picked them out for him, and from what he’d heard, they were a deep blue. He had to admit, he was surprised. He would’ve bet on something loud and eye-catching—neon pink or some other color that screamed Piper. But no, she’d gone with blue. It was very thoughtful of her, though Percy wouldn’t have minded either way.
After all, it wasn’t like he could see them. Colors were just words to him now, abstract concepts rather than vivid realities. He grinned faintly to himself. It wasn’t like he had much room for shame at this point in his life.
“I will not stand for a prince of Atlantes being hunted and attacked every week,” Poseidon declared, his voice resolute. “Your mother would be horrified if she knew. Triton and Amphitrite would be outraged. And your people—well, they would not take kindly to their prince living in such peril.”
It still felt strange, hearing the people of Atlantes referred to as his people. Technically, he was their prince, but Percy didn’t exactly feel princely. Not in the grand, regal sense Poseidon seemed to envision. Still, there were more pressing concerns at the moment.
“Do not tell Mom!” Percy blurted, his spine snapping straight like a spring-loaded trap.
“I won’t,” Poseidon said evenly.
Percy didn’t need Sight to know the ‘but’ was coming—it practically radiated from Poseidon’s posture, his tone, the entire room. He braced himself.
“But you have to let me help you,” Poseidon finished, his words like an edict carved in stone.
Percy exhaled and allowed himself to relax slightly. “That’s it? That’s all?”
“Yes,” Poseidon said, though his tone betrayed a faint trace of mischief. “I’m going to get you a house—”
“Wait, what?”
“—and I’ll call in a favor from Hecate to enchant it, make it invisible to anyone you don’t want finding it—”
“Dad, no—”
“—and I’ll see to it that it’s properly furnished, of course—”
“Dad, you can’t just—”
“Oh, but I can,” Poseidon interrupted, a smug grin creeping across his face. “A prince of Atlantes will not be living like this.”
“It’s not that bad!” Percy protested, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
Poseidon’s gaze sharpened, unyielding. “I will tell your mother.”
Percy groaned, slumping back into the couch as defeat washed over him. “You are the absolute worst.”
~~~
While Percy hadn’t chosen his fifth house—it had been forced onto him—he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. It was modestly sized, unassuming, but perfect for his needs. It had just enough space for Percy, Lea, and the occasional drop-ins from his friends, offering a sense of both comfort and privacy. Nestled on a secluded beach near the Philadelphia and New York border, the location was idyllic—a tranquil retreat where the sound of the waves provided a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos of his life.
Amphitrite had taken charge of decorating the house, and when she and Poseidon had walked Percy through it for the first time, she had described every detail with enthusiastic precision. The main color throughout the house was blue, a choice that was as unsurprising as it was fitting, given the designer’s identity. The shades varied, ranging from deep and calming to bright and lively. While Percy hadn’t expected to care much about the aesthetics—after all, he couldn’t see them—he couldn’t deny the thoughtfulness behind the effort. Amphitrite’s touch gave the place a warmth he hadn’t felt in a home for a long time.
The kitchen was spacious, each drawer labeled with both Braille and printed letters. When Amphitrite had first mentioned it to him, Percy had to fight to keep his emotions in check. It was a gesture he hadn’t expected—one that quietly acknowledged his needs without making him feel any less capable. The simple act of care hit him harder than he’d anticipated, leaving him momentarily speechless.
The living room opened directly to the beach, with the salty breeze drifting in like a soothing balm for his restless mind. From the balcony, Percy could lean over the railing and almost jump straight into the ocean. It felt like the water was inviting him back to where he’d always belonged, promising freedom just a few steps away.
Percy had thanked them profusely before they left, his gratitude spilling over in every word. He told them they were welcome to visit anytime, as long as they gave him a quick ten-minute heads-up. It was a small boundary, but one that felt necessary—his life was still too unpredictable for unannounced drop-ins.
Though the tension never fully eased, Percy knew he would never truly feel relaxed—not completely. His paranoia was a permanent fixture, a shadow lurking just out of sight. Still, as he stood in the quiet of his new home, he realized he felt more at peace than he had in months. Since the file dump, moments like these had been rare—fleeting pockets of calm amidst the chaos. And while his guard remained up, this house was the closest he’d come to feeling safe.