Chipped plaster on the ceiling. An old whizzing fan, attached to it. The sound of Annabeth's pencil scraping paper, coming from the guest room.

He stared at dried white paint and felt despair drown out all of his previous thoughts. He tried to ignore the pressure, the slightest fraction of forceful pain, on his finger—as well as how the silver line pierced the ceiling above him, gleaming and almost impossible to miss. Just one look at the string made Percy feel squeamish, his stomach in knots.

The more that he stared at it, the more it seemed to tighten. He didn't know if it was some psychological effect, or if it was actually digging more deeply into his skin... Either way, he felt sick in his gut.

He hated it.

He hated, he hated it, he hated it. There was no other way to reiterate it; the loathing he felt encompassed his thoughts, making his brows come together in frustration and rage.

In the passing time, which was early nighttime judging by the nearby window, Percy had done everything he could to get rid of the string.

He'd gotten out scissors, because he was that fucking idiotically desperate. He'd brought out matches too, keeping a glass of water on standby in case it got out of hand; he'd hoped to somehow burn it out of existence. He'd tried to rip at it with his bare hands, rubbing his hands red and raw with the surprisingly rough, durable material. When he got sick of his utter and indisputable failures, he'd even slid Riptide out of its sheathe and began swiping the celestial bronze blade over the silver.

He had only stopped when Annabeth, hearing the loud, banging sounds of his pitiful attempts, had sent him a short text: It won't work, Percy. Stop trying, you're going to get yourself hurt.

And she was right—not about him getting hurt, but about how nothing was working.

He sealed Riptide back into pen form, staring at the string. Every time he'd dug his blade into it, it seemed to bounce back with a resounding, loud thud. The string felt like, well, string when he touched it with his left hand, some thread-like material that was smooth and flexible. When he'd began to cut it, it was like metal. Some kind of alloy, strong and impossible to break through with a sword.

Every time he attempted to get rid of it, with his arsenal of matches and metal, it seemed to pulse brighter and wrap itself more snugly and tightly around Percy's pinkie. It felt condescending in a way.

It was like the string had a mind of its own. Like it wanted to be a nuisance as much as humanly possible. He could practically see the string's cheeky little smile, every time it decided to flare up like a shining strand of steel, mischievous and tricky and still stuck on his fucking finger.

After he'd put Riptide back in the drawer, Percy sank into his bed.

He had only one thought.

I really don't deserve this.

When he had done nothing wrong... On his birthday...

While his wife, hurt and tearing up in the room, was flipping through divorce papers. His soon-to-be ex-wife. The thought was spoilt, churning in his mind and making him feel nauseous. How had this happened?

Where did it all go wrong?

The fan whipped cold air on his face. He felt himself close his eyes at the overhead breeze, and he let his dark hair go haywire all over his face, too stuck in thought to care. He allowed himself to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, allowing for a small bit of lethargic numbness to swallow him up; he was lost in both chaos and silence, as his mind whirled with a tsunami of destructive, painful thoughts.

He hadn't talked to Annabeth once, since the incident.

When Percy inevitably went back to the party, feeling so bitter and pained that it was hard to keep a smile on his face, he'd tried to reach out to Annabeth. She'd been in the corner, sipping something from a red cup and looking away at the distance city's view from the window, ignoring his lingering looks. He and Annabeth hadn't said anything about what had happened to the others; it was obvious Annabeth needed time to think, without being under scrutiny. And Percy respected that, doing his best to wave off his sudden departure as nothing, trying to smile as best as he could.

That night, after a whole day of celebrations, Percy didn't sleep. His blankets weren't over him, as he laid down dejectedly on the bed. Annabeth didn't either, and he could hear pacing coming from the other room, and a barely discernible sound of Annabeth quietly mumbling to herself, the noise unintelligible to Percy. A lump formed in his throat.

Some tiny part of him wanted to go to her. Embrace her. Tell her it was all going to be all right.

But he couldn't bring himself to move.

Percy didn't know how he'd remained so calm through the night. A deeply primal, instinctual, hurt part of him wanted to scream—to bring his fists to the wall, letting the anger and frustration leave him in bloody punches. But he didn't, glued into place. He kept thinking about Annabeth, two doors down, and what her reaction would be to such a violent display. So he held back, sullen, withdrawn, and unable to sleep.

He had everything he wanted, once upon a time. He'd won the war. He'd married the girl of his dreams. He'd found his life's purpose.

He'd found true happiness too, in a way, after a long period of time wasting away his childhood on fighting gods' wars. The joyous buoyancy he felt with Annabeth on the weekends, meeting up and holding each other so close they could practically exchange heartbeats. The feeling of delight, the splintering kind that turned all of his greatest troubles into child's play.

He knew it was stupid to latch his happiness onto Annabeth, but still. It felt like his free-choice was being ripped from him. Because just hours ago, everything had been fine. He'd wanted her, and she'd wanted him, and that was that. There was a natural, beautiful simplicity in that.

All the memories seemed to fade away, stolen by an invisible force, leaving him with a desolate numbness.

Percy's dull green eyes flicked over to the string, as he lifted his hand up.

He inspected it coolly. It, glinting prettily in the darkness, seemed to mock him. His fists clenched.

And one word echoed through his mind—

Enough.

Enough was enough.

Because someone else...would have just sucked it up and followed the rules.

Someone else would just divorce their wife, obediently and dutifully. They would follow whatever stringent laws the Fates set out for them. They would find their soulmate instead, get married, and forget about having any semblance of a freewill.

But that was not who Percy was.

Because Percy Jackson wasn't some fucking doormat. At his core, he was loyal, proud, and he'd rather die than have three old sock-women tell him who he could be with.

He looked to the silver string, sneering. He wouldn't allow for this thing to control him.

I'm going to get rid of you, he thought with a clear-cut conviction.

I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I am.