The sea groaned, a constant lament seeping through the cracks of Percy’s heart. Annabeth. Her name was a hollow echo in the depths of his soul, an echo that brought only the biting cold of her absence. It wasn't a heroic death in battle, no. It was a treacherous abyss that swallowed her whole, leaving Percy stranded on the shore of a pain no one, not even the gods, could comprehend.

The first few days were a blur of denial, a frantic, desperate search for any sign that this nightmare wasn't real. He clung to hope, scouring every shadow, every wave, for a glimpse of her. But hope drowned in despair, and with it, something in Percy shattered completely. The spark that once lit his eyes, the carefree humor, the intrinsic heroism—it all dissipated, replaced by a pervasive, suffocating darkness that took root deep within him.

He couldn’t stay in Muyil, so he went home. He returned to Camp Half-Blood, seeking the familiar comfort of its wards and friends. But the laughter of the younger campers, the easy camaraderie of his peers, felt like a cruel mockery. Every cabin, every path, every flash of an Athena Parthenos owl reminded him of her absence. He couldn't breathe there, choked by the ghosts of shared memories. The worried glances of Chiron and his friends, their attempts at comfort, felt like sharp knives twisting in his wound, their kindness a constant reminder of what he'd lost. He couldn't face their grief, because facing theirs meant acknowledging his own, and that was a torment beyond words.

He fled to his mother's apartment, hoping for the unconditional love and quiet strength of Sally Jackson. But her own silent, profound sorrow, the way her eyes mirrored his pain, was unbearable. He couldn't add to her burden, couldn't let his darkness consume her light. He became a silent, distant presence, unable to offer comfort, unable to receive it. The familiar scent of blue cookies only brought tears.

In a desperate, last-ditch attempt, he even sought out Camp Jupiter, the structured, disciplined world of the Roman demigods. Perhaps the order, the duty, the stark contrast to his chaotic grief, would offer some anchor. But even there, the stern gazes of the praetors, the rigid formations, and the ever-present sense of purpose only highlighted his own aimlessness. The memory of Reyna's quiet strength, Frank's loyalty, Hazel's warmth and especially the foundations of Kymopoleia’s temple only underscored the chasm in his own life. Their thriving community felt like a world he no longer belonged to, a world where Annabeth would have thrived, a world he had lost his place in. He was a visitor, an outsider, a ghost.

He distanced himself from everyone. He simply left, a silent, broken departure into the anonymity of the mortal world, fleeing the places that once defined him because they now only amplified his despair.

For weeks, then months, Percy drifted. He didn't seek anything, didn't plan. He simply walked, a hollow shell guided by instinct and the vague, bitter pull of the ocean. The grimy streets of nameless cities served as a stark, indifferent backdrop to his internal torment. He moved through crowds like a ghost, barely registering the faces, the laughter, the mundane arguments. Once, a child stumbled, nearly falling into a busy street, and Percy, the hero who would once have reacted without thought, found himself frozen, apathetic, the instinct to help utterly extinguished, a chilling emptiness where his empathy once resided. He ate when hunger gnawed, but the food tasted like ash. Sounds of traffic and distant conversations blurred into an irritating, meaningless hum, indistinguishable from the thumping of his own hollow heart. The salt in the air, once refreshing, now reminded him only of the bitter taste of his own tears. 

The world, once vibrant with life and purpose, turned a uniform, suffocating gray, utterly devoid of meaning. His world had stopped turning the day Annabeth fell, and the ceaseless motion of the living around him only emphasized his own frozen despair. He slept when exhaustion overwhelmed him, but his mind remained trapped in a silent scream, endlessly replaying the last moments in Muyil. He was a phantom, adrift in a world that no longer made sense, consumed by a grief that rendered him blind to everything but the gaping void Annabeth had left.

One rain-slicked night, on a deserted patch of Pensacola, Florida's coastline, under a sky choked by the urban glow, a familiar, hated presence solidified from the drumming rain just steps in front of him.

It was Cyrus.

The smugness in his eyes that Percy remembered from their last, fatal encounter—the one that stole Annabeth—flickered. A shadow of annoyance crossed Cyrus's face, quickly replaced by a dismissive smirk. He clearly recognized Percy, but saw only the familiar, beaten-down demigod he'd last seen consumed by grief. "Well, well," Cyrus drawled, a condescending lift to his brow. "Look what the tide dragged in. Still wallowing, Jackson? Pathetic."

The sight ignited a cold, burning rage in Percy, unlike anything he’d ever felt. The ocean within him roared, not with his usual protective power, but with a destructive fury. This wasn't a hunt he had planned, but a collision, a twist of cruel fate that brought vengeance directly to a soul too shattered to seek it. Percy’s eyes, once the vibrant green of the ocean, were now almost black, reflecting the churning abyss of his soul. His voice, however, was chillingly calm, a stark contrast to the storm gathering around them.

"I found you," Percy said, the words barely a whisper over the drumming rain, yet they resonated with an unnatural weight that made the hairs on Cyrus's neck prickle. Cyrus's smirk faltered slightly, a flicker of unease entering his eyes as he noticed the unnatural stillness around Percy, the way the rain seemed to swirl around him rather than directly on him. "Or rather," Percy continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze never leaving Cyrus's, "the tide brought you to me. Right to the edge of the water."

Cyrus took an involuntary step back, his casual stance crumbling. The dismissive air he held moments ago began to thin, replaced by a dawning comprehension of something profoundly wrong. He saw the black depths of Percy's eyes, the utter lack of the usual fiery defiance or even the expected sorrow. This was something new, something empty and terrifying. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and the metallic tang of something dark and ancient.

"You don't understand," Cyrus said, trying to regain his bravado, but his voice was a little too tight. "I'm home. This is my territory."

Percy simply tilted his head, a gesture of chilling indifference. "Get in the water," he commanded, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, yet it carried the undeniable force of a breaking wave. The waves on the shore crashed harder, impossibly so, the very air vibrating with Percy’s power. Cyrus stumbled back again, his eyes widening in alarm. This wasn't the usual demigod bluster. This was cold, absolute authority.

"What are you talking about?" Cyrus stammered, now genuinely unsettled, his facade cracking.

"I'm talking about the price for Annabeth," Percy replied, his voice still unnervingly level. "And it starts with a swim. A very, very long swim." He raised a hand, and with a groan, the sea level around them visibly began to rise, the waves surging higher up the beach, creeping towards Cyrus's feet. "Get in the water," Percy repeated, each word a hammer blow against Cyrus's fading arrogance. "Or I'll raise the tide so high, all of Pensacola will die."

"Wait!" pleaded Cyrus, desperation seizing him, his smugness completely evaporated. He looked wildly around, as if searching for an escape.

"Get in the water," Percy's voice was merciless, a cold blade scraping against bone.

"Stop this, please!" His voice was a whimper now, panic setting in.

"I'll make tidal waves so profound," Percy’s voice rose, resonating with a terrifying power that vibrated through the sand and salt, "Both your sister and mother will drown!"

A gasp escaped Cyrus’s lips. His mother, Kymopoleia, the goddess of violent sea storms, was powerful, ancient. But the raw, unbridled fury in Percy’s eyes, the sheer, unimaginable magnitude of power he was projecting, made Cyrus believe it. He saw, in that moment, the true, terrifying potential of a son of the sea god unburdened by empathy, a force that could truly challenge even a goddess of the very domain they both shared. Cyrus shrieked, "No!"

"Get in the water!" Percy advanced, his presence radiating pure, vengeful energy. "Get in the water! Don't mistake my threats for bluff, you have lived more than enough." The rain intensified, swirling around them like a miniature hurricane.

"Get in the water!" Percy's voice was a chilling whisper, right in Cyrus's ear. "Get in the water! I'll take your sister and gouge her eyes, that is, unless you choose to die. Get in the water!"

The final words hung in the air, a terrifying promise. The hero was gone, drowned in the dark tide of his grief and fury. In his place stood an instrument of vengeance, forged in the crucible of loss, with the chilling anthem of retribution echoing in his shattered heart. The world would soon learn that a broken demigod was far more dangerous than any monster or even a minor godling like Cyrus.