Qia

Camp Athens - Closed

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At first, Rae didn’t even register the shout. She was still staring at the bonfire, eyes half-lidded, trying to absorb some sense of calm from the flames. So when someone’s voice pierced through the music, shouting a nickname she hadn't heard in years, it took her brain a solid two seconds to connect the dots.

Lewski?

Her breath hitched, heart stuttering before kicking into overdrive like a car engine roaring to life. She spun around just in time to see a familiar figure plowing through the crowd with all the elusiveness of a wrecking ball. That slightly messy dark hair, the lopsided grin, the way he moved like he owned every space he entered. It could only be Wes.

“Oh, sh—”

The rest of her thought vanished as a strong arm scooped her up in a bone-crushing hug that lifted her clean off the ground. Rae let out an undignified squeak, her feet dangling uselessly as her suitcase nearly tumbled from her grip.

“Wes! Jesus!” she gasped between laughter, pounding a fist against his shoulder even as her other arm tightened around his neck without permission. The familiar scent of him flooded her senses, bringing with it a rush of memories: shared lunches, stupid dares, the way he'd always appeared when she least expected but most needed company.

When her feet finally touched ground again, Rae stumbled, her face burning as she tried to regain her balance and her dignity. She opened her mouth to speak, but Wes beat her to it, ruffling her curls with that infuriating grin that always made her want to both punch him and hug him at the same time. She swatted at his hand automatically, her traitorous cheeks flushing hotter.

“What the hell are you doing here!?”

“Uh, same question!I thought you’d be... I dunno, getting arrested in Cancun or…something.” Rae's responding chuckle died in her throat as her eyes caught on something wrong. Her gaze travelled down Wes's frame - same old typical jeans, same fitted tee stretched across broad shoulders - but where there should have been two arms, there was now only one. The right sleeve of his shirt hung empty, pinned up neatly near the shoulder.

“Wait. Wes…?” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. Before she could process this bombshell, however, Wes was already dragging her forward by the wrist with his remaining hand, that calloused grip just as strong as she remembered.

“You have to meet someone,” he announced, cutting off any questions about the obvious elephant in the room. All the while, Rae’s eyes darted between his face and that missing arm as she struggled to reconcile this new reality with the boy she'd known. How long had it been gone? Why didn't he seem bothered? A hundred questions bubbled up, but before any could escape, she found herself face-to-face with a stunning blonde woman

….who made Rae's stomach do something complicated because woah??

She was muscular and gorgeous in a way Rae wasn’t prepared for. Then again… Wes had always been the type to attract a wide range of beautiful girls. Even back in high school, it was like moths to a flame. Cheerleaders, baristas, that one exchange student who barely spoke English, somehow, they all ended up tangled in his orbit. Rae had spent most of tenth grade assuming that meant he’d never look twice at her. Not when she was just the short, scrappy tomboy who fixed vending machines and once built a working trebuchet for extra credit.

Still. Knowing that didn’t fully prepare her for the gut-punch of seeing this girl standing there now, effortlessly gorgeous and apparently the center of Wes’s universe. She couldn’t even finish wrapping her head around the arm situation, and now she had to process this?

Wes’s grin was unrelenting. The kind that made it hard to tell if he’d just brought home a new puppy or accidentally detonated a small emotional landmine. Either way, Rae forced a smile that she hoped didn’t look like she’d just swallowed a lightbulb and braced herself for whatever bomb he was about to drop next.

And oh boy, did he deliver.

“She also had a huge crush on me.”

Heat exploded across Rae's face so fast her vision momentarily whited out. Her entire body went rigid, every muscle locking up in horrified embarrassment. “Oh my god, Wesley,” she hissed through clenched teeth, the words barely audible over the blood roaring in her ears. Her hand flew out instinctively, smacking his remaining arm with just enough force to convey her utter mortification. “Did you seriously just—”

But Wes, being Wes, had already barreled on mentioning something about some kind of allure (whatever the fuck that was), leaving her standing there, cheeks blazing, utterly exposed. Meanwhile, the damage was done as far she could tell. Trinity’s expression was proof enough of that with her tense smile and eyes scanning Rae like she was a problem that didn’t quite check out.

And suddenly Rae was fifteen again, standing in the school hallway with grease on her sleeve and secondhand shoes while some girl looked her up and down like Rae had wandered into the wrong ecosystem. Wes’s exes, or hookups more accurately, had always looked at her that way. Like she was some weird pet he kept around for novelty. Too nerdy to be a threat, too plain to matter… until she dared laugh too loud at one of his jokes or get just a little too comfortable at his lunch table. Then the cat claws came out. They never said anything to her face of course because Wes probably wouldn’t have let that slide, but their eyes always spoke volumes. Rae remembered those looks most of all. The one that said You? Really?

College had been different, thankfully. Tons better. She'd found her footing there as the engineering wiz who could fix anything and the quiet girl who aced every exam without trying. She'd even dated a little. There was Mark from Physics 201 who kissed like he was trying to suck her soul out through her teeth. And Jamie, a girl who’d loved horror movies almost as much as she loved leaving hickeys in some pretty creative places. Nothing serious, nothing lasting, but it had been... nice. Normal. Proof she wasn't that awkward scholarship kid anymore.

But standing here, under Trinity’s stare and Wes’s oblivious grin, she sure felt like her. That girl with big feelings, too many freckles, and no clue what to do with either.

Still, Rae decided to swallow it all down. Mostly. When Trinity extended a hand, Rae took it with a firm grip, exactly how her mom taught her.

“Hi,” she managed, somewhere between polite and neutral. “Rae Kowalewski. And… uh, yeah. I’m here.” Her voice caught slightly on the last word but she pushed through, managing a small, crooked smile.

To the question about her godly parentage, Rae blinked, not used to being asked questions about her father most of all.

“Oh. Uh. Fire powers. So….Hephaestus?” She shrugged, more casual than confident. “He didn’t exactly give me a welcome packet when we met so….” A weak joke, but one she stood by.

The phys ed comment though….that one stung.

Rae adjusted her grip on the suitcase still wedged against her side like some sad security blanket. “Wes tried once,” she said, forcing a chuckle. “Dragged me to a track meet sophomore year. I tripped over my own shoelace and nearly concussed myself with a water bottle. So that was the end of that.” She shrugged again, this time with more conviction. “I'm not exactly varsity material, obviously, but I'm pretty good at fixing and making things.”

Her voice found its footing as she continued, “Guess I'm more useful in a workshop than a sparring ring. But hey, we all have our specialties, right?” There was a challenge in those words, a subtle insistence that her worth wasn't going to be measured in athletic ability. She hoped.

Rae glanced between them, then tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “So, uh… who’s your divine sponsor?” She offered the question with a curious tilt of her head, a genuine interest layered over a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this whole godly parent thing wouldn’t make her feel like an outlier again.

---

Location: Party outskirts
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir) and Trinity (@xNocturnax)
Mentions: N/A

Camp Athens - Closed

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The bar's overwhelming crowd didn't bother Elias one bit. If anything, he welcomed the suffocating press of bodies surrounding him as they formed a living barrier between himself and whatever social disaster he'd just created back at that table. Shoulders bumping against strangers, he could almost pretend the awkwardness hadn't happened. Almost. His mind kept replaying the conversation on loop, trying to pinpoint exactly where things had gone sideways. They'd been joking about terrible music and ridiculous parties one minute, then suddenly Anissa's smile had turned to ice, her posture stiffening like he'd insulted her ancestors. Exit stage left indeed.

Elias's fingers kneaded the tense muscles at the back of his neck as he shuffled toward the bar. “Cold hands, warm heart,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting even dumber aloud than they had in his head. What kind of idiot says that to someone they just met? Was he trying to be charming or auditioning for a role as the world's worst greeting card writer? The self-loathing was so thick he almost missed the sudden explosion of reflected light dancing across the bar's surface.

Rhinestones. Rhinestones everywhere. Flashing with each bounce of movement, like someone had decided to take inspiration from a disco ball tonight.

Elias blinked, his brain stuttering at the sight of the girl orchestrating the shot line like a Vegas magician about to saw someone in half.

Okay. That was... certainly an aesthetic choice. Not one he'd make personally, but he could respect the commitment to the bit. Besides, the way she commanded the space suggested she'd stab anyone who questioned her fashion decisions, and honestly? Fair enough. After his recent conversational train wreck, Elias wasn't eager to open his mouth again anytime soon anyway, especially not around someone who clearly had both the confidence and probable willingness to verbally eviscerate him if he said something dumb. And this woman? She looked like the type who'd do it while smiling and making it sound like a compliment. Still, when he noticed several limes threatening to escape, his hands moved before his brain could stop them, catching the rogue citrus before it could roll off the bar. Not that he seriously thought she needed help, but it gave him something to do besides stand there like an idiot.

When she called out, “Who's in?”, Elias simply nodded and grabbed one of the waiting glasses. The salt-lick-tequila-lime routine happened on autopilot, the burn clearing his mental fog better than any deep breath could.

Then reality came crashing back with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Shit.

He'd completely forgotten to ask Anissa what she wanted to drink, having been so focused on escaping the awkwardness. Now he had to return empty-handed or with some random drink he'd chosen for her, both options equally terrible. The tequila that had initially warmed his chest now sat like acid in his stomach. He stared down at the mangled lime wedge in his hand, lamenting the fact that life didn’t come with do-overs like some cheap video game. He could almost hear the imaginary reset sound effect as he squeezed the citrus between his fingers, the juice stinging tiny cuts he hadn't noticed before. With a defeated sigh, he tossed the lime back onto the bar where it landed with a sad, wet plop.

Running a hand through his hair, Elias reluctantly turned to scan the crowd. His eyes immediately sought out that distinctive beret, the one that had looked so effortlessly chic earlier. Part of him hoped she'd disappeared into the party, saving him from this fresh humiliation. No such luck. Not only was she still there, but some random guy had already claimed his abandoned seat. Even from this distance, he could see from their body language that their conversation appeared to be flowing with an ease his own with her had painfully lacked. A bitter taste filled his mouth that had nothing to do with the tequila once he took notice of the drink in her hand as well.

Elias quickly averted his gaze before he could see more, the brief glimpse confirming what his gut had been screaming this entire time: he'd well and truly fucked up.

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: Anissa, Sylas, Blair, General bar crew

Camp Athens - Closed

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Anissa kept her eyes fixed on the drink in front of her, refusing to watch Elias walk away. The fruit punch caught the bonfire's light, its surface shimmering like gasoline rainbows on a wet pavement. Her own reflection stared back from the red depths, warped and fragmented. The distorted image suited her current state too well, she decided, a visual representation of the ugly names still ringing in her ears.

Snake. Cold. Venomous.

She pressed a gloved fingertip against the cup's rim, tracing slow circles to mask the slight tremor in her hand. None of this was Elias's fault, of course. He couldn't have known about the verbal lashing she'd endured minutes earlier, couldn't have guessed how his careless joke would rub salt in fresh wounds. That didn't stop the interaction from feeling like being struck twice in the same bruised spot, though. So, when the unfamiliar voice spoke, Anissa didn't immediately look up. Her spine stiffened instinctively, shoulders squaring like a boxer bracing for another blow.

“Well… he was a bull in a china shop.”

The voice flowed smooth as bourbon, male and unmistakably amused. She heard the chuckle that followed, felt more than saw the chair near her groan under someone's weight as they settled without waiting for an invitation. Only then did she lift her eyes to meet his own, finding a practiced smile already in place.

“For what it’s worth, I think the gloves look nice and go well with your dress,” he offered, taking a small sip of his glass.

While he drank, Anissa cataloged his appearance in her usual way. The navy short-sleeved button-up hung open just enough to reveal a crisp white undershirt beneath, and the rose-coloured trousers hugged his frame with intentional elegance. Every element spoke of careful coordination: light against dark, soft fabrics against sharp lines. So, objectively speaking, he was the most put-together man she'd seen all evening. That, at least, commanded a sliver of respect.

Anissa’s attention lingered on the precise cut of his sleeves next and the way his shirt draped perfectly across his shoulders (no happy accident, that). When her eyes finally returned to his face, she'd already constructed her own mask, her berry-stained lips curving in polite acknowledgment while her eyes remained guarded but not hostile.

“Thank you,” she said, smooth and even. The tone was one she'd perfected through years of mirror practice - pleasant but impenetrable, the vocal equivalent of a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. This stranger didn't want to see her unravel; he wanted charming banter with a pretty girl. She could play that game. “It’s exactly why I chose it.”

“Guys like that don’t have a clue,” the man continued, gesturing toward her outfit with an appreciative tilt of his head. “They think gloves only serve one purpose… warmth, even though you’re obviously fashionable. Or they think being called a lizard is somehow a compliment?” He sighed and shook his head in what looked like disbelief.

Anissa arched an eyebrow, her voice dry as desert wind. “And yet, here I am.Still wearing the gloves because I know-we know better than that.” She clocked it immediately, then, after she’d said this; how he transitioned from amused spectator to intentional presence, smoothing out his posture like a man deciding it was time to properly enter the scene.

“Sorry, I’m being rude,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Sylas.”

Anissa looked at the gesture for a breath longer than necessary before placing her hand in his, curious as to what he’d do.

Which was when he brought her fingers to his lips as an answer.

Her lips parted in silent surprise, a soft, unvoiced oh forming in her throat. In all her years of deflecting flirtations and half-hearted romantic advances, no one had ever quite done that. Not the smooth talkers, not the ones trying to figure out what impressed her, and certainly not the charming ones who thought wit alone was enough. The unexpected intimacy of the gesture sent a peculiar warmth crawling up her neck, but by the time he released her hand, her expression had already smoothed back into practiced neutrality.

“And, for the record,” he added with a quiet chuckle, “you look beautiful. And definitely not like a lizard.”

Anissa's fingers remained slightly curled where his lips had brushed them, the ghost of the contact lingering like the afterimage of a bright light. It almost—almost—felt like a genuine compliment. The effortless way he'd executed the move,however, suggested this wasn't his first time playing this particular game.

He's testing me, she realized with sudden clarity. Gauging whether she'd be easy to charm or satisfyingly difficult.

Strangely, the realization didn't spark anger. Maybe because she'd endured far more insidious tests before from people who pretended their prying was concern and who masked their curiosity as affection. At least Sylas wasn't pretending this was anything beyond what it was: a moment, a game, a calculated move in whatever social chess match they'd stumbled into. More importantly, he didn't seem to be angling for anything beyond the interaction itself. No hidden agenda, no desperate need to impress. Just... play.

And if this was a game, Anissa might as well take her turn properly, right?

“Anissa,” she introduced herself, her fingers tracing the rim of her untouched drink absently. Then, without warning or permission, she reached across and plucked his glass from his hand. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—surprise? intrigue?—but he didn't protest as she brought the glass to her lips and took a measured sip. The liquid burned like swallowing campfire smoke: hot, bitter, and utterly vile. It seared her throat, demanding a cough she stubbornly refused to release as his gaze dropped to her neck, watching her swallow with undisguised interest. She set the glass down between them, her voice only slightly roughened by the assault on her windpipe.

“...That’s vile,” Anissa declared, blinking away the involuntary moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes. “It’s got a nice burn, though. What is it?”

Before she could get an answer, the sudden shout—“LEWSKI!”—cut through the party noise like a cannon blast, making Anissa's head snap toward the commotion. What she saw made her blink in disbelief. A human tornado of fair limbs and unchecked enthusiasm came barreling across the field, moving with the single-minded determination of a college kid who'd had one too many energy drinks.

“What in the Greek hell….” she muttered under her breath, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.

The guy vaulted over a bench like it was nothing more than a speed bump in his personal Olympic event. His target, a startled redhead, barely had time to react before being scooped up in a one-armed hug that looked equal parts affectionate and mildly dangerous. The laugh that followed was loud enough to scare birds from nearby trees, completely unselfconscious and brimming with pure, unfiltered joy. It was the kind of sound that made Anissa's chest ache strangely, like watching someone effortlessly speak a language she'd never mastered.

She couldn’t look away.

People like this fascinated her. The way they occupied space without apology, without constantly checking to see if they were welcome. They crashed through life like the world had personally invited them to the party, collecting affection and eye-rolls in equal measure. It was both baffling and mesmerizing to witness.

A dry chuckle escaped her nose, short-lived when her peripheral vision caught movement near the bonfire. River stood brushing snow from his clothes, his muttered words lost in the noise, but his body language screaming quiet retreat. She didn't need to see what had happened to recognize the signs of the art of disappearing without making a scene, leaving just early enough to avoid questions but late enough that his absence would still be noticed. Her eyes tracked his retreating form automatically, though she made no move to wave or call out. That wasn't their dynamic, she assumed. But something in her body tensed, and the slightest transfer of weight to her feet occurred if she might stand. The impulse died as quickly as it came, her gloved hands smoothing over her dress as she settled back into her chair.

The parallel wasn’t lost on her. River didn't need a witness to his exit. He didn't owe her an explanation for leaving any more than she owed him one when she'd vanished into the trees earlier.

Yet, despite knowing better, Anissa's eyes remained on him.

Maybe a little too long.

---

Location: Table near the bonfire
Interactions: Sylas (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: Elias, Wes, Rae, River

Camp Athens - Closed

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Rae didn’t know what she expected from a journey to a mysterious camp for demigods, but this sure as hell wasn’t it so far.

Part of her thought there’d be, like… floating staircases, maybe? Some talking animals. Maybe some Hogwarts-level nonsense where she was met by some mystical train or some other form of transportation. Shit, she'd half-expected a centaur with a clipboard to meet her at the airport and say something like, “Ah yes, another latent Chosen One. Do try not to die, will you?”

Instead?

Trees.
So many trees.
And rocks. And snow.
And an unfortunate lack of an epic John Williams or Howard Shore soundtrack to accompany her all along.

So…yay?

Rae huffed, slowing her steps and temporarily letting go of her suitcase to pull the map she was given from her coat pocket. She unfolded it with care, even though the corners had already gone soft from travel. The ink had smudged slightly—probably from the oil that had been on her fingers at the time—but the markings were still legible: a rough sketch of the campgrounds along with directions to it, labelled in that same unmistakable handwriting she’d come to associate with him.

Her father’s handwriting.

She still wasn’t sure what tripped her out more: that he’d shown up and handed her a map at all...or that he’d written it by his own hand. A personally scrawled guide from a god who could melt steel beams with his fingers.

Pretty damn gnarly.

She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d just appeared in the machine shop that night and how he’d reshaped her warped housing unit with his bare hand, like it was nothing. Like she was nothing special. And then he’d just…dipped without so much as a heartfelt goodbye or explanation. Just a nod, and this janky little map with scribbled notes at the bottom:

Rae exhaled, stuffing the map back into her coat. The air was colder here than she’d expected, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones if you stood still too long. Not that it bothered her much. Her body, after all, ran hotter than most. A lovely (and honestly, clutch) side effect of the whole firestarter gene pool.

The crunch of snow under her boots softened as the trees began to spread apart. Rae paused, pushing a stubborn curl of hair from her face where the wind kept tossing it. The ground here felt different; flatter, more packed down, like hundreds of feet had worn this path before hers. The cold air tugged at her coat like an impatient child, but she barely registered it.

Because there, just ahead through the swirling snow, something almost unnatural rose from the wilderness.

Iron. Big, tall, fortified iron gates. The kind that made Rae instinctively check her pockets and tighten her grip on the handle of her wheeled suitcase, as if expecting a security check. They stood like a wall of “keep out”, or maybe “you’ve been expected”. Either way, she couldn’t stop herself from mumbling a “Yikes” under her breath, ever so slowly dragging her suitcase forward.

What was this, a boarding school for magical delinquents?

It couldn’t be, though, because she just wasn’t that girl.

Rae had never been bad. Awkward? Sure. Blunt? Sometimes. But bad? No way. She was the kid who always handed in her lab reports early, who colour-coded her notes even when she swore she wasn’t that kind of person. She got scholarships because she worked her ass off, not because she charmed professors or knew how to play “the game”, as Wesley sometimes liked to put it.

Speaking of Wes…her record was clean, save for one stupid incident with him back in high school that somehow still made her cringe to think about. A smoke bomb. A homemade one. Meant for testing airflow mechanics in enclosed spaces and not for setting off in the ventilation system during a school-wide standardized test.

To be fair, Wes had dared her. To be even fairer, she’d laughed so hard afterwards despite nearly failing physics because of the whole ordeal. She probably would have failed, too, if she hadn’t begged her teacher for a retake with the kind of exhausted sincerity that only a sleep-deprived perfectionist could manage. That, and the fact that she showed up the next day with a twelve-page report on ventilation systems and the thermodynamic properties of aerosol dispersal under duress. (Complete with citations.)

Her teacher, bless her, had sighed like someone who regretted choosing this career and said, “You're lucky you're brilliant.”

So no, Rae wasn’t some wild-child rule-breaker. She was a walking contradiction: the kind of girl who could hack a coffee machine to pour triple espresso shots and remind you to stay hydrated. So why did the whole scene in front of her look like the opening to a Resident Evil game? All it was missing, at this point, was a creepy piano theme and a voice saying, “Welcome to the nightmare.”

The massive iron gates towered over Rae as she approached, their blackened metal streaked with frost like veins of ice. Each step forward made them appear more imposing, and as she came to a full stop, she tilted her head back to take in their full height.

“Alright,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the unwelcoming hunk of metal. “Now, how do I get past you?” Rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth despite her natural heat resistance, her eyes scanned the gate's surface, searching for any sign of a handle, a button, or, knowing her luck, some kind of magical puzzle that required solving. Just as she was considering whether she'd need to melt her way through ( which, even if she could do it, it was bound to make a bad first impression surely), a glint of metal caught her attention near the base. She crouched down, brushing away the accumulated snow with quick swipes of her glove to reveal a black panel about the size of a playing card embedded in the iron.

“Ohhh,” Rae said under her breath. “Now, there’s the dystopian tech I’ve been waiting for.”

She hesitated for half a second before pulling off her gloves and pressing her thumb against the box. All the while, she sent a hopeful prayer in her mind to the high heavens that if this was truly a horror game, that at least she be regarded as one of the main characters that lived to see another day, like Claire Redfield. Except, you know, without the badassery.

Click.

The response was immediate. A low mechanical groan hummed through the air, followed by the sharp screech of cold iron joints as the gates began to open slowly, parting just wide enough for one person and a suitcase with squeaky wheels. Rae glanced once over her shoulder at the snowy path behind her. Then, with a resigned huff, she yanked the handle of her suitcase upright and mumbled, “Well… here goes my protagonist arc,” before stepping through.

---

The gates eased shut behind her with a finality that made Rae’s stomach flip.

But also…was it just her, or?

She took a hesitant step forward, then another, her boots sinking slightly into the snow... except wait. The snow here was a bit patchy and somewhat melting. And the air? It had changed completely. Gone was the biting winter chill, replaced by a warmth so sudden it made her head spin.

Rae blinked up at the nearest signpost like it might explain this meteorological nonsense. Her eyes followed its arrow to a little kiosk that looked like it belonged in a national park, complete with a wooden roof and plastic display case. Inside hung a map so detailed it made her father's scribbled notes look like cave drawings. Cabins, training grounds, even something marked “Beach”, all laid out before her.

“Jackpot,” she muttered, snagging a copy before turning back to the path... only to stop dead.

“Seriously, what the actual hell?” The words burst out before she could stop them. The temperature had spiked from “unseasonably warm” to “surface of the sun” in the thirty seconds she'd been distracted. Her heavy winter coat, perfectly reasonable attire two minutes ago, now felt like a sauna suit. With clumsy, irritated movements, she wrestled it off, nearly dropping both the map and her suitcase in the process. The coat, with her gloves stuffed into its pockets, ended up slung over her shoulder by the end.

Underneath, her outfit - black cargo pants, fitted tee, and a striped knit sweater she'd impulse-bought during finals week - was already sticking to her skin. She shoved the sweater sleeves up to her elbows, the wool suddenly unbearably warm against her fire-resistant skin.

“This is some Jurassic Park climate dome bullshit,” she grumbled, plucking at her sweat-damp shirt. Even her curls felt heavier in the humid air, clinging to her forehead like they, too, were exhausted by this entire conundrum.

Then the trees parted like stage curtains, and the rest of Rae's complaints died in her throat.

Before her sprawled a scene straight out of some fantasy novel, if fantasy novels had a killer sound system and a huge countdown clock signalling the end of the year. A massive bonfire roared at the center, its flames dancing in time with the pulsing music. To one side, an ice rink glittered under strings of fairy lights, the incongruous mix of fire and ice somehow working. Campers swarmed between a food table and a makeshift bar, their talking and dancing blending into a constant hum of energy.

Rae's grip on her suitcase handle turned white-knuckled as the scene before her unfolded in overwhelming detail. This wasn't just a camp her father had sent her to; she was beginning to see this now. It was a living, breathing organism, and she stood frozen at its periphery, an uninvited guest at a party she didn't know how to join. Like it was high school all over again.

She could almost feel it in her spine, that cold, twitchy awareness of standing just outside the circle. The lunch periods spent pretending to study while actually counting the minutes until class; group projects where she did all the work while others took credit; the way conversations would pause just a bit too long when she approached. She hadn't been bullied exactly, just... overlooked. The scholarship kid with grease under her fingernails and thrift store clothes, too smart to ignore but too different for anyone to truly include.

Except for Wes. Wes, who'd sauntered through social barriers like they didn't exist. He'd plop down next to her in the cafeteria with that infuriating smile, stealing fries off her tray like they'd been friends forever. He'd make terrible jokes just to see her roll her eyes, defend her with cutting remarks when others tried to diminish her, and look at her like she was someone worth looking at. That had meant something, maybe too much, if she was honest with herself. Which she usually wasn't.

College had been her fresh start. No more waiting for invitations that never came. She'd built her own place in the world: the machine shop at 2 AM, her workbench covered in half-finished projects, the quiet satisfaction of creating something no one else could. She'd told herself that the insecure girl was gone, that she'd outgrown needing anyone's approval.

Yet here she stood, twenty feet from a crowd of strangers, that old uncertainty curling in her stomach. The suitcase wheels squeaked as she shifted her weight, the sound barely audible over the music. Her free hand found the edge of the map in her pants pocket, the paper crinkling under her fingers. She could almost hear Wes's voice in her head: “Don't overthink it, Lewski.” Easy for him to say, though. He'd never overthought anything in his life.

Rae let out a slow breath, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the roaring bonfire at the camp's center. Even from twenty feet away, she could feel its comforting heat pulsing against her skin in steady waves, familiar and strangely reassuring amidst all this unfamiliarity. Fire had always made sense to her in ways people never did. While the thought of introducing herself to strangers made her stomach twist, the fire asked nothing of her but to stand nearby and exist.

She glanced down at the coat still slung over her shoulder, hesitating. It was too warm for it now, and honestly, with her internal thermostat, probably always would be. She eyed the firepit for a second, debated, then draped it over the back of an empty chair nearby with a mutter:“You’re officially benched.”

And then Rae started walking.

As she neared the fire, the orange light hit her from the side, highlighting the copper in her curls, turning them almost molten. She stopped just shy of the inner circle and next to a pair of campers, a pretty girl and another person with a ukulele in their hand. She was, however, close enough to feel the heat but not so close as to intrude on their conversation. In fact, no one was paying her much attention, which she supposed was a blessing in disguise just for her. Because, for now, she could just be a girl standing near a fire, pretending her suitcase wasn’t still clutched in one hand like a security blanket.

“Happy almost freakin’ New Year,” Rae whispered to the flames, her voice barely audible over the crackling logs and distant music. The countdown clock ticked away somewhere behind her, not just marking the new year but also serving as an accompaniment to the beginning of something she didn't yet understand.

---

Location: Party, near the bonfire
Interactions: Open/ N/A
Mentions: Wes, Ocean, Marlen

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

Elias was halfway through chewing a mouthful of food when an unfamiliar voice cut through his focus. The feminine tone was polite but unexpected, causing him to turn his head while still processing the bite. His eyes landed on a girl gesturing toward the empty seat beside him, her lips moving in what was clearly a question, though the actual words didn't immediately register in his sauce-distracted mind. Operating on autopilot, he gave a quick, “Nope, go right ahead,” and absently waved his fork in permission like a bored traffic director barely paying attention to the intersection he was controlling.

The moment the utensil left his grip, he realized his error. There was a split second where time seemed to slow, just enough for him to see a glob of sauce threatening to launch from his fork's tines before Tapeesa's arm suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision like a well-trained goalie making a critical save. Her palm intercepted the airborne condiment, preventing what would have been an embarrassing assault on their new companion's face. Elias winced internally, his chewing slowing as he recognized the close call.

“Let’s not wave our forks around pretty girls in nice… clean clothes,” Tapeesa chided, her tone carrying that particular mix of amusement and exasperation he was starting to recognize as uniquely hers. Before he could formulate a proper response, she'd already slipped away on a mission for napkins, leaving him with the aftermath of his near-disaster. The girl, whose outfit he now noticed was indeed both nice and clean, simply blinked at the aborted food missile incident, her gaze darting between the offending fork and Tapeesa's retreating form before breaking into a light, gracious laugh. “It's fine,” she assured with a smile that suggested sincerity rather than offence.

Elias, meanwhile, stared after Tapeesa, momentarily dumbfounded by both her quick reflexes and sudden disappearance, then looked down at the fork in his hand as if it had personally betrayed him. “My bad,” he muttered to no one in particular, the words coming out gruffer than intended as the new arrival took her seat beside him. He carefully set the utensil down, suddenly hyper-aware of every potential food hazard in his immediate vicinity.

It wasn’t until Tappi returned with what looked like half the napkin supply at the party that Elias truly looked toward their third. And froze for half a second.

He took her in like a man who'd spent too long in the cold desert and had just stumbled upon an oasis: slowly and drinking in every detail. The boots she wore didn’t seem all that practical given the snow, but they hugged her legs up to mid-thigh where the fabric of her dress just brushed the tops of them. The beret on her head sat slightly askew, revealing more of her face than she probably realized, and firelight played across her features in a way that made her skin seem to radiate its own warmth.

For half a second, Elias forgot how breathing worked.

Then, he made a choking noise at the back of his throat, finding himself taking an involuntary breath just to confirm she smelled as good as she looked. She did.

“Thanks,” he managed, accepting his share of the napkin mountain with what he hoped passed for nonchalance. He set about cleaning his hands with exaggerated care, suddenly hyper-aware of every smear of sauce and stray crumb that might be clinging to him. Classy. Very classy. He stayed quiet as the two women exchanged introductions, committing the name “Anissa” to memory while pretending not to listen as intently as he was.

When Tapeesa announced her departure for the dance area with her characteristic buoyancy, Elias watched her go with an odd mixture of relief and something he couldn't quite name. There was something mesmerizing about how easily she moved through space, completely unselfconscious in a way he envied. The moment stretched slightly too long before he remembered he wasn't alone, turning back to find Anissa already studying him with those fire-lit eyes.

“She’s nice,” Anissa remarked, setting her drink down beside the plate she hadn't touched yet. “Is she your girlfriend or…?”

Elias snorted, shaking his head. “Nah,” he answered, shaking his head with more emphasis than necessary. “Just a friend. We only met today, actually.”

The surprise on Anissa's face was oddly satisfying, though he couldn't have explained why. As she started to comment on how close they seemed, he smoothly interjected, “Tapeesa's a hard person to say no to.” The words came easily, carrying a truth he hadn't realized until he said them aloud. “And she's got this habit already of dragging me everywhere, not that I mind, you know? It's just...how she is.”

Anissa hummed thoughtfully. “Well, she seems like the kind of person who would get along with anyone.” The subtle shift of her body toward him didn't escape his notice then, though he pretended not to see it as she added, “I like that.”

“Yeah, she's easy to like,” Elias agreed, the words coming out more fond than he intended, so he quickly tacked on, “Too easy. She'll probably convince you to do something reckless before the night's over. Like…” He jerked his chin toward the pulsating music, making a face. “Dancing to this.”

Anissa raised an eyebrow at that, and he smirked at her unspoken judgment.

“I’ve seen worse, to be fair,” he added. “Used to end up at these warehouse shows back home. Albuquerque. Half the time, the speakers were busted, and someone’s cousin was DJing with a cracked iPhone. You’d think it was Coachella the way people acted. Glow sticks, duct-taped shoes, the works.”

Anissa's laugh was unexpectedly bright, her gaze moving to where Tapeesa spun wildly across the makeshift dance floor. “I can't imagine you at a warehouse party,” she admitted, and something in her tone made Elias bristle a little. “Seems like more of a Tapeesa thing, to me.”

The observation needled him more than it should have. “I liked the energy,” he defended, then caught himself and dialled it back with a shrug. “And I liked watching people try to look cool when they didn't have a clue what they were doing.”

“You talk like you know everything.”

“Nah, definitely not. Some might even say the opposite is true most of the time.” He flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “But I do have my moments when it comes to noticing things like… how you're still wearing your gloves even though it's really warm here. Or how you're sitting so straight like you're afraid to get comfortable.”

The minute stiffening of Anissa's shoulders didn't escape him, though he couldn't quite parse its meaning. That familiar fog settled over his thoughts, the awareness that he'd noticed something important without understanding what to do with the information. He chewed the inside of his cheek, suddenly uncertain. Had he crossed some invisible line?

Then she said, lightly, “It’s just a circulation thing. My hands are always cold.”

Elias latched onto the explanation with relief, nodding like she’d just explained quantum physics to him.“Like… a lizard thing?”

Anissa's nose scrunched in a way that might have been cute under different circumstances. “A lizard thing?”

“Yeah. You know.” He flashed a sheepish grin, digging himself deeper. “Cold hands. Warm... heart?” The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they'd landed wrong. There was something in the way her posture went rigid, the way her smile froze in place. Shit.

Elias scrambled to backtrack, words tumbling out in a hasty jumble. “I mean, uh, not in a scaly way. I’m not saying you’re like... a lizard-lizard. Or a snake or anything. Unless you were going for mysterious and venomous, in which case, you nailed it.” The crooked grin he offered felt brittle on his face, a last-ditch effort to salvage the conversation.

“Though you don’t hiss. That’s good. I think.”

But nothing about Anissa’s expression changed, that polite, frozen mask still present, and that told him nothing and everything all at once. Elias felt the weight of his misstep settle heavily in his gut, though he still couldn't quite pinpoint where exactly he'd gone wrong. The music pulsed around them, suddenly too loud, the heavy bass grating against his nerves. He opened his mouth to say... something, anything, but no words came. The realization hit him with dull surprise:

For once, Elias had absolutely no idea what to say next. He cleared his throat, the sound embarrassingly loud to his own ears. The weak soda in his hand had long gone flat, but he'd been clutching it without realizing it before.

And now it served as the perfect excuse to escape this conversation he'd clearly torpedoed.

“I uh. I’m gonna grab another drink other than this soda. Something a little stronger. You want something?” It wasn't clever. It wasn't smooth. But in that moment, with his brain scrambling to recover from whatever social landmine he'd stepped on, it was the only olive branch he could think to extend.

Anissa didn't answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice had changed; quieter, more reserved than the easy tone she'd used earlier.

^“Sure.”

He nodded, the motion jerky and overeager. The chair legs screeched against the ground as he stood too quickly, the harsh sound making him cringe. Heat flooded his cheeks as he muttered a hasty apology, already backing away. “Cool. Yeah. Be right back.”

The moment he turned, Elias exhaled sharply, relief and embarrassment warring in his chest. He wove through the crowd with single-minded focus, shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to make himself smaller.

---

Location: Elias and Tappi's Table -->Bar
Interactions: Anissa (Me), Tapeesa before she leaves (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: N/A

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

“Go ahead and get some food in you, then. Don't worry about the guitar. I hope you feel better, too.”

“Thanks…Heath.” Anissa said softly with something adjacent to gratitude. She watched him take the guitar, her arms folding across her midsection as her lips pressed together in a strained, ambiguous shape, somewhere between a smile and a wince. She didn’t say anything else or try to stop him, standing there a moment longer with the absence of the guitar feeling like a strange kind of relief. Then, she turned and walked in the opposite direction, toward the table of food and noise and people, where no one would be watching her too closely. Or so she assumed.

As she walked, her gaze drifted across the scene with fresh curiosity. The party had blossomed in her absence; a few attendants were migrating toward the makeshift dance floor, including the girl in the green dress she'd noticed earlier, now swinging hands with a vaguely familiar boy whose name escaped her. The oversight made her cheeks warm with mild embarrassment. She really should remember these people better.

Then, there was the ice-skating rink, small, makeshift, and glowing faintly with that enchanted warm frostiness that coated the whole night. Only two people glided across it, both girls deep in conversation, and Anissa found herself pausing, watching their smooth glides longer than intended. A memory surfaced, sudden and vivid: cold Vancouver mornings at the community rink, her mother's strong hands adjusting her scarf around her neck. “It's a good date skill,” she'd teased, breath puffing white in the air. Young Anissa had scoffed but practiced diligently anyway. She remembered one spectacular fall, the sharp jolt of pain shooting up her spine, hot tears springing more from humiliation than injury. Still, she'd forced herself back up, determined to keep going until her mother's proud applause declared her ‘graceful’.

The memory tasted bittersweet. Graceful? Hardly. She'd been all trembling limbs and gritted teeth that day. Truthfully, she hadn't felt much of anything that entire frozen winter, just a numb detachment that even Canada's breathtaking landscapes couldn't pierce.

Shaking off the recollection, Anissa finally reached the snack table, although her eyes now wandered to the growing cluster at the bar. Andy (that was her name, right? From this morning?) was there along with a group of other campers, none of whom she recognized, before the brunette watched as the girl made her way to the dancefloor to join her brother (That was it! It was her brother! Not that this helped her to recall said brother's name.). The sight sparked a fleeting thought: maybe she should join them, try actual socialization for once. The idea, however, was so absurd she actually snorted aloud, coughing to cover up the mistake somewhat.

Yeah, right. That many people in one space? Absolutely not. She'd take whatever she could find here and a quiet corner, thanks.

The snack table sprawled before her like a culinary battlefield, delicious chaos in every direction. Skewers of grilled meat and vegetables stood at attention beside bowls of creamy hummus and stacks of warm pita. A tray of fancy mac and cheese, its golden crust still steaming slightly, sat next to rows of perfect mini burgers lined up like edible dominoes. Then she spotted the most bizarre pairing: a heaping bowl of gummy worms dumped into cheddar popcorn. Someone here had the snack preferences of a trash panda on a sugar high, and honestly? Anissa couldn't help but approve. This was her kind of party spread.

Anissa’s gaze locked onto a tray of black-and-white cookies, but her fingers hesitated mid-reach. Guilt gnawed at her appetite, twisting it into something complicated and unappealing. The memory of Anatoliy's angry face flashed behind her eyes, and something in her head told her she didn't deserve treats right now. Didn't deserve much of anything, really.

Oh, fuck right off with that!

Eventually, she grabbed a plate and added a small skewer, a half-scoop of the mac, and a single cookie. She didn’t trust herself with more. Her stomach turned at the thought of overeating, but she knew she’d regret having nothing later. Especially if she….

A nearby pitcher of fruit punch caught her eye, its nail polish red glow practically radioactive. It looked like the kind of drink that would stain your tongue for days. Anissa glanced at her empty glass, then abandoned it at the table's edge (surely the magical cleanup crew would handle it). She poured a cautious cup of the suspicious liquid, took an experimental sip, and immediately regretted it. The punch was cloyingly sweet, like drinking melted candy. Still, she knocked it back in one go, the sugar burning her throat like cheap liquor.

Penance tasted disgustingly saccharine.

But enough feeling sorry for herself. She poured herself another.

Scanning the area, Anissa spotted an empty chair near the bonfire. Or mostly empty, unless you counted the mountain of food occupying some of the table space. Its owner, a dark-haired guy with rolled-up sleeves showcasing toned forearms, attacked his plate with single-minded determination. The intensity in his eyes suggested this was less a meal and more a personal challenge. Normally, she'd avoid someone so... enthusiastically invested in their food, but the alternative was standing awkwardly by herself. So….

“Is anyone sitting here?” she asked, tilting her chin toward the vacant seat. Her voice landed in that tone used when pretending to be socially functional. A polite smile followed automatically, muscle memory from countless similar interactions.

Fork halfway to his mouth, the guy looked up with genuine surprise, like he'd forgotten other humans existed. A smear of sauce decorated the corner of his lips, which he made no effort to wipe away. The lack of self-consciousness was almost impressive. Anissa could never.

“Nope, go right ahead,” he said after swallowing his massive bite, waving his fork in invitation.

Anissa nodded and slipped into the chair, angling slightly toward the fire. The movement gave her a better view of her temporary dining companion: strong jaw, artfully messy hair, that particular brand of boyish confidence that usually set off her warning bells. The type she might’ve toyed with at parties back when she still got invited. She’d endure their inflated egos just long enough to feel something, then vanish the moment they expected emotional investment or a level of physical intimacy she couldn’t give, for her sake and theirs. She’d learned early that guys like this always needed to be the main character. So, she’d mastered the role of the compelling but ultimately forgettable side character in their stories. It was better that way. Safer.

The only downside was that, along with a handful of other labels her peers had started assigning to her, she’d earned a reputation for being a bit of a... tease.

Except... this guy didn't leer. Didn't even give her that once-over that most guys did when a girl as pretty as her sat nearby. He merely returned to decimating his food like she was part of the scenery.

What was with the guys at this camp? Except for maybe River (and even that was debatable), they all seemed immune to basic hormonal impulses. Strange. Maybe it was a demigod thing? Too much of a good thing available?

Whatever. Anissa's attractions had always been...flexible anyway. What could she say? Sometimes cookies were plain better.

And, luckily for her, across from her male companion was a girl. A cute one. She had long dark hair that shimmered firelight down one side, a square-cut top that clung like it had been worn for comfort rather than performance, and the kind of face that would be easy to underestimate if you didn’t know better, she was sure.

Anissa kept her expression unreadable, eyes dipping to her plate. “Food situation here’s kind of impressive,” she said mildly, then looked up and right at the girl. “I almost committed a felony over one of these.” She lifted the single Oreo-like cookie on her plate as evidence. It wasn’t exactly an icebreaker, but it was something. And she’d learned that at least pretending you knew how to human properly was better than letting awkward silence win.

---

Location: Outskirts of the field/party --> Snack Table --> Elias and Tappi's Table
Interactions: Elias (Me), Tapeesa (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: Heath, Andy + group at the bar, Rosalia, Daniel

Camp Athens - Closed

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Anissa almost winced at Heath’s patience, not because it annoyed her, though, far from it. It was more because it was too kind. Too gentle. It felt like being offered something that she’d done nothing to earn. If anything, she still felt she deserved the opposite. She’d been called a snake, and although Anatoliy hadn’t said it in so many words, she might as well tack on fake and judgmental, too. Because the worst part, the part that made her stomach turn, was that he wasn’t completely wrong.

She’d seen it clearly at the gate: the painful look of someone who’d felt deeply and profoundly rejected. She recognized that shattered expression intimately and knew what it was to carry that specific brand of hurt. And yet, despite that understanding, her careless words had acted like clumsy fingers prying at his barely healed wounds. She hadn’t aimed to cause harm, but her thoughtlessness offered no defence either. And for someone who navigated emotional ruins almost professionally (well, without payment), her lack of caution felt like a personal failure now, a betrayal of her own supposed skills.

Carelessness wasn’t an excuse. It could never be. Not for her. Not for the role she’d always played.

This realization made her burn with shame. She possessed an entire arsenal of knowledge built on grief and broken spirits, barely clinging to what was left of their lives. She handled the departed with reverence, creating sacred space for their memory. So why, faced with a living, breathing soul radiating that same brokenness, had she fumbled so catastrophically? Why had her instinct been defensiveness instead of sensitivity?

Anatoliy’s anger had been cutting, his words cruel. She couldn’t deny that. But a chilling possibility took root: maybe she’d unknowingly struck the first spark to begin with. Perhaps her presence, her words, her very existence in that moment had carelessly disturbed a deep, private pain she had no right to approach. And now, standing in the aftermath of that self-inflicted wreckage, Heath offered simple kindness again. It felt jarring, almost surreal, as if the ugly confrontation with Anatoliy had never occurred, as if she hadn’t just proven herself capable of causing that kind of hurt.

“Right. The lost and found….” Anissa’s fingers closed around the guitar’s neck, then abruptly released it, as if the contact burned. “Didn’t want to just… leave it. That felt wrong,” she repeated, her voice flat and distant. Yet holding it now felt equally wrong, tainted by association. Heath seemed inherently reliable, the perfect person to ensure its safe return alone. The logical solution was clear: let him take it.

Her gaze moved back towards Heath’s calm face. He radiated trustworthiness. The kind of person who kept promises without fanfare, who would carry the instrument faithfully to its owner without a single sigh of inconvenience. Furthermore, he was someone who absolutely didn’t deserve to be pulled into the emotional debris field she was currently trailing.

“You could… go ahead if you want,” Anissa offered to Heath, the words feeling clumsy and insufficient as she pushed herself up from her crouch. Her eyes darted away from his understanding gaze, unable to hold it, seeking the safer distance of the bonfire’s glow. The suggestion was partly genuine as sparing him her awkward company felt merciful, but also layered with a selfish desire to be alone again, to escape yet another well-meaning interaction she felt unworthy of and would more than likely fuck up.

Her attention snagged on a figure near the flames. River was still there, engaged in conversation with a camper she didn't recognize this time. The stranger wore thick layers, bundled against a cold that seemed to have retreated from the place by magic. Like they hadn’t noticed, she thought, a bit of judgment surfacing before she caught herself.

Who am I to talk? Her own hands were comfortably warm inside her soft suede gloves, yet she had no intention of removing them. Not unless….

Anissa frowned, dismissing the idea immediately.

“You don’t have to walk me there,” she reiterated, forcing her focus back to Heath. “You’ve already been…” She let the sentence hang, the unspoken 'kind enough' obvious. She couldn't bring herself to voice it directly, however. Needing to fill the silence and provide a plausible escape route, she tacked on, “Besides, I uh…skipped out on food before and I think I saw a snack table when I got here so….” She trailed off, making a vague, dismissive wave towards the general direction of the table in question. The excuse was flimsy, but she aimed for casual indifference, hoping it masked her desire to simply dissolve back into the crowd alone.

“Anissa, by the way,” she added almost as an afterthought, though it was an intentional reintroduction after her earlier forgetfulness. This time, she kept her hands firmly to herself, no offer of a handshake. Instead, needing an action to punctuate the moment, she lifted her nearly empty glass a second later. She gave the dregs of cranberry juice and melted ice a swirl, then tipped it back, finishing the last bit of it.

---

Location: Outskirts of the field/party
Interactions: Heath (@Pristine1281)
Mentions: Anatoliy, River, Marlen

Camp Athens - Closed

I can see Anissa doing it...cus she's used to it. But that's from an ooc perspective. She might just enjoy not having to deal with other people's regrets for a while. xD

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

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Panorama Part 2 of 2

Selene lifted her chin.

“Such as?” she challenged, her voice carefully controlled to hide the unease coiling in her stomach. She braced herself for the inevitable list of transgressions, knowing her movements hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed, even if she’d hoped otherwise.

Corvina’s response was completely factual. “You’ve visited the Grey Market far more often than you’d likely confess. You regularly spend time with smugglers, dealers selling illegal body modifications, and engineers who work outside the law. You’ve traded information off the official networks, found ways around council security posts, and, most recently, accepted a sealed, heavily shielded container from Krell.” She paused, letting the weight of each point settle. All the while, Selene remained silent, her face carefully blank. This surveillance wasn’t unexpected; they hadn’t needed Roach just to watch her. A small, defiant part of her clung to the certainty that she was safe with him, regardless of her mother’s obvious disapproval of the man. Still, knowing she was monitored occasionally was one thing, but the sheer detail of what they had on her still felt invasive and shocking.

Her surprise, however, was impossible to fully mask when her mother continued.

“That container was marked with a hidden tracker long before it ever reached your hands.” Corvina’s eyes held hers. “Not by our people. By another party entirely. We only began following its signal once it reappeared in the Grey Market.”

She allowed a pause, letting the implications sink in.

“You’re not facing consequences for possessing it. Not yet, at least.” Corvina’s tone shifted, becoming almost thoughtful, which was somehow more unsettling than anger. “I simply found it…noteworthy that out of every smuggler Krell employs, the request to deliver it was specifically directed to you.” Her gaze focused intently on Selene. “It seems almost as though someone anticipated you would accept it. That you would choose to hold onto it, even knowing the risk.”

The accusation was clear: she’d been played, predicted. But for what purpose, Selene couldn’t say. Neither could her mother, she realized then.

“You don’t know what’s inside it, do you?” Selene countered quickly, grasping for control of the narrative, needing to deflect the idea that her actions were foreseen.

Corvina tilted her head, a minuscule movement that conveyed a cool assessment. “No,” she conceded smoothly, “but our analysts have confirmed it’s protected against standard scans designed to identify biological or chemical contents. I also know you haven’t passed it on to anyone else, and that it remains in that shoebox you call an apartment, unopened. Though I suspect that’s not for lack of effort on your part.”

Selene swallowed hard, her mouth abruptly parched. Her mother seemed to know every move she’d made.

“Regardless…I don’t require knowledge of the container’s contents,” Corvina stated. “I only needed to observe what you would choose to do once it was in your possession.”

“Is that why I’m here?”

Corvina studied her daughter, the faintest crease forming between her brows, so subtle that anyone else might’ve missed it. But Selene knew better. That was as close to hesitation as her mother allowed herself to show.

“You’re here,” Corvina finally declared, her voice regaining its absolute steadiness, “because it is no longer secure for you to remain elsewhere. With Vexler’s trial and your stubborn determination to keep him involved in your life, you’ve stepped onto a playing field whose rules and players you don’t comprehend. I refuse to let you become unintended damage in a conflict your pride prevents you from even recognizing exists.”

The statement was final, seemingly leaving no room for argument. Selene was here for her own protection, whether she wanted it or not. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked at her feet, conflicted.

However, as if having read her mind, Corvina grimaced. “You can leave whenever you like. I won’t stop you. But if you stay, I’ll know where you are, and more importantly, so will everyone else watching you. No one will try anything under this roof. For now, that’s a better guarantee than what Mr. Vexler, being free as he is now, can offer.”

Selene’s head jerked up, her eyes wide and instantly alert, locking onto her mother’s face.

“Wait, he’s out?” She hadn't meant to sound so hopeful, but the news was utterly unexpected. Because Roach was free. After everything? The implications raced through her mind, a chaotic mix of elation and renewed anxiety for him. She searched Corvina’s impassive features, desperate for confirmation, her earlier sense of defeat momentarily forgotten in the wake of this revelation.

Corvina gave a small nod. “That he is. I was informed about it not too long ago.”

The information, delivered so casually, had an immediate, physical effect on Selene. Despite the vast, tiered expanse of the penthouse living area, the walls seemed to contract around her, pressing in with suffocating force. Her gaze darted towards the nearest wall, not a real window but the shimmering holographic panel displaying its endless, fake mountain sunrise. The serene, artificial light bled softly against the dark, matte panels, a constant, beautiful lie. Every inch of this view was manufactured, and now Roach was out there, somewhere in the real, grimy, dangerous world. He was probably battered, sore, and cursing the system with every other breath, just like always. But crucially, he wasn't trapped. He wasn't boxed inside a place he despised anymore.

And yet, Selene found her feet rooted to the spot. She didn’t bolt for the lift, even though the knowledge of Roach’s freedom pulsed like a beacon in her mind. Instead, her eyes tracked her mother as Corvina turned with her usual controlled grace, moving towards the large system console embedded in the far wall. Corvina paused halfway, her own gaze lifting to rest on the slowly scrolling holographic mountain range. Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer, almost distant.

“You used to sketch that specific mountain range constantly when you were very young,” she murmured, the observation seeming to drift out of nowhere. “Do you recall? I commissioned this exact simulation because seeing it seemed to help you fall asleep.” Corvina’s head tilted slightly, still observing the false peaks. “You truly believed it signified something tangible, a real place you might one day experience. You talked about climbing those mountains.”

Selene didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat felt strangled by too many feelings she hadn’t prepared to carry into this room.

She had no memory of drawing that range. Maybe she had. Maybe the memory was real, or maybe it was just another piece of the myth her mother built around her: Selene the prodigy, Selene the daughter with a destiny. Selene, who used to dream of peaks she probably thought one day reachable.

Her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Well, I don’t sleep much these days.”

Corvina didn’t turn to face her. Her gaze remained fixed forward, perhaps still on the mountains, perhaps already focused on the console ahead. Her next words were practical, dismissing the fragile moment of shared history as if it hadn’t happened despite having brought it up.

“Regardless,” she stated, her tone reverting to its usual composed neutrality, “you remember the layout. Where things are.” She paused, then delivered her final line with chilling simplicity:

“Nothing’s really changed since you left.”

Camp Athens - Closed