Gold eyes lazily flickered around the room, glowing from behind the blood-spattered sunglasses that hid the identity of Olympus's attacker. Yet nothing could hide the painfully empty expression that hid the melancholy mind. He had slaughtered them, his new life's goal, so… Now what?
(I remembered each flash as time began to burn)
He had lived, loved, lost, left, lynched. He had spent so much time loving and losing that he had begun to wonder if it was worth it, and he had decided that it wasn't. So he dropped the little kitchen knife that had spelt in ichor the downfall of the Olympian gods, grabbed a gun from his waist, and spun it around. He grinned cruelly.
The phrase "sink or swim" had never really applied to a son of Poseidon. They always swam.
So it must have come as a shock when a pair of polarized blue sunglasses fell down to the earth, reality sinking in when a bullet hole through the left lens provided a perfect view of a blood shower.
Percy Jackson? Dead. For years now. Greeks, Romans? Gone. Extinct. No more horrific demigodly lives.
Some people weren't sure that was a good thing.