Work Text:
Brooklyn Nine-Nine, late evening. The lights hum overhead. Something about tonight feels off.
There was a kid in holding.
Jake didn’t like him.
Not in the usual “this guy definitely did something illegal” kind of way. More like... the “this guy might be the reason I don’t sleep tonight” kind of way.
He hadn’t resisted arrest. Hell, he hadn’t even looked surprised when they found him alone in a locked warehouse at 2:17 a.m. No break-in marks. No signs of how he got in. Just him, sitting cross-legged on the floor like he was waiting for someone.
Now he was sitting cross-legged in their holding cell, staring at the wall like it owed him money.
Jake stood outside the glass with a coffee in hand that he hadn’t sipped in twenty minutes.
Terry approached from the bullpen, glancing through the window. “Still nothing?”
“Still nothing,” Jake muttered. “Won’t talk, won’t sleep, hasn’t even asked what he's being held for.”
“What is he being held for?” Terry asked.
Jake flipped open the file. “Loitering. Sort of. Technically trespassing. Mostly just… vibe-based suspicion.”
Terry gave him a look.
Jake pointed at the cell. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.”
Terry crossed his arms. “Feel what, Jake? He’s just a quiet kid.”
“No,” Jake said, watching Percy tilt his head ever-so-slightly, like he’d heard them. “He’s too quiet. Like, trained assassin who can kill you with a spoon quiet.”
Terry raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s military?”
“I think he’s something,” Jake muttered. “And I don’t like not knowing what.”
Terry sighed. “Look, we’ll run the prints again, see if anything turns up. Maybe he’s just a runaway with an attitude problem.”
“Maybe,” Jake said.
He didn’t believe it.
The kid didn’t twitch. Didn’t pace. Didn’t shift like the others in holding always did. He just sat there like the room belonged to him and they were the ones trespassing.
And then he did something that made Jake’s blood go cold.
He looked directly at him.
Not through the glass—not past him.
At him.
Like he knew.
And then he smiled. Barely.
Jake turned to Terry, voice low. “Okay, that’s not normal.”
Jake Peralta prided himself on being good at reading people.
That guy with the neck tattoo and the nervous twitch? Definitely guilty.
That sweet old lady with the bag full of cat treats? Smuggled diamonds in her knitting needles.
People had patterns. You could learn to spot them.
The kid in Interview Room 3 had no pattern.
He hadn’t done anything. Not really. Found trespassing in a locked building with nothing but a pen in his pocket. No record. No ID. No story. Just… stillness.
Jake watched him through the two-way glass for a full minute before going in.
“Hey there,” he said, sliding into the chair across from him. “So. Let’s start easy. Name?”
“Percy,” the kid said, quietly. “Jackson.”
Jake clicked his pen. “Alright, Percy. Want to tell me what you were doing in that warehouse?”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
Silence.
Jake leaned back. “You know, most people would at least pretend to be sorry.”
Percy’s face didn’t move. “Are you expecting an apology?”
“No,” Jake said, “but the blank stare isn’t really helping your case.”
Percy didn’t blink. “Am I being charged with something?”
“Not yet,” Jake said. “But trespassing’s still a crime. Especially at 2 A.M. Especially when the building was locked and had zero signs of forced entry.”
“I didn’t break in,” Percy said.
Jake looked up. “No? Door just opened for you, huh?”
Percy tilted his head, and Jake had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that the kid was studying him.
“That’s one way to put it,” Percy said.
Jake gave a small, humorless laugh. “Alright, cool, so you’re just gonna be cryptic. That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I love riddles at midnight. That’s why I became a cop.”
Percy looked at him for a long moment.
“You don’t believe I did anything wrong,” he said.
Jake froze.
It wasn’t a question.
It was said like a fact. Like a diagnosis.
Jake cleared his throat. “I believe you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been. That’s usually enough.”
“I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
Jake hesitated. “You weren’t doing anything, period. That’s kind of the problem.”
That faint smile again. Like he knew a joke Jake didn’t.
“You asked for Rosa Diaz,” Jake said. “Why?”
Percy didn’t answer.
“She your sister?”
“No.”
“Old friend?”
Percy was quiet for a long time.
Then, softly: “We fought in the same war.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “What war?”
Percy’s lips twitched. “I don’t think you’d know it.”
Jake wrote that down even though it didn’t help. None of this helped.
Every second he spent in that room made him more certain of something he couldn’t prove. The kid wasn’t lying. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t smug.
He was just… waiting. For what, Jake didn’t know.
He closed the file.
“You know what’s weird about you?”
Percy met his eyes. “A lot of things.”
Jake smirked, but it faded quickly. “You’re nineteen. No priors. No record. You look like a college dropout with a poetry hobby, but my gut says if I let you out of that chair, something really bad happens.”
Percy said nothing.
Jake stared.
“You ever kill anyone, Percy?”
The pause was long.
Then: “What kind of answer are you hoping for?”
Jake swallowed.
And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know.
Jake was still in the observation room when Rosa walked in.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her through the glass, expecting the usual—cold stare, controlled stride, aura of general badassery.
She walked in like she always did.
But then she saw him.
And stopped.
Not a big stop. Barely a pause, even. But Jake noticed it. The shift in weight. The brief tightening of her jaw. The smallest, blink-and-you-miss-it hitch in her breath.
Jake never missed it.
Because Rosa Diaz didn’t flinch.
She once stared down a guy with a knife in one hand and a squirrel in the other and didn’t blink. She routinely made murder suspects confess with nothing but silence.
But now she was standing completely still. Just looking.
Jake leaned forward, arms crossed. “Well, that’s not ominous.”
Beside him, Terry looked up from the file. “What?”
“Look at her,” Jake said. “She’s hesitating. Rosa doesn’t hesitate. I’ve seen her punch a guy before the thought even finished forming in her brain.”
Terry squinted through the glass. “She does look… weirdly tense.”
Jake pointed. “Thank you. That’s not a poker face. That’s a ‘I’ve seen this guy before and it didn’t end well’ face.”
Inside the room, Percy finally turned his head.
Slowly.
Like he already knew she was there.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
No one spoke.
The room felt like it was holding its breath.
Rosa’s eyes flicked down—just once—and then back up. She stepped forward. Not all the way. Just a couple inches. Just enough to show she could.
Percy nodded.
Tiny. Barely perceptible.
Rosa turned around and walked out.
She didn’t look at Jake. Or Terry. Or anyone.
Just kept walking.
Jake stared after her. “Okay. No. No no no. What was that? What just happened?”
Terry closed the file. “You should probably ask her.”
Jake scoffed. “Ask Rosa why she looked like she saw a ghost and then didn’t murder it immediately? Yeah, that’s gonna go great.”
He looked back into the room.
Percy was sitting again. Calm. Relaxed.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Jake found her in the locker room.
Rosa was standing in front of her open locker, half-turned away, tying her hair back like she was preparing for war. Or worse—conversation.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual and not at all like he’d sprinted there.
“So,” he said, “are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”
Rosa didn’t look at him. “Yep.”
Jake blinked. “Okay, wow, bold choice. But I’ve got questions. You—you hesitated. You looked at that kid like he was a ghost. And not the fun Halloween kind—the ‘this person buried something and didn’t bother labeling the grave’ kind.”
“I looked at him like he’s an idiot in a holding cell,” Rosa said coolly. “Which he is.”
“No,” Jake said, stepping in. “See, that tone? That’s your lying voice. And you’re doing the wrist thing.”
Rosa glared at him.
Jake raised his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. You want to get weirdly rattled by a soft-spoken nineteen-year-old with weird vibes and great posture? Fine. I just want to understand.”
Rosa slammed her locker shut. “You don’t need to.”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “Why did he ask for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
Rosa turned to face him fully. Her voice was quiet. “Drop it, Jake.”
And okay, that should’ve been the end of it. Normal people would have dropped it. Terry would’ve dropped it. Even Holt would’ve taken the hint.
Jake Peralta? Absolutely not.
“Rosa, I’ve seen you take down gang leaders twice your size without blinking. I’ve seen you break a guy’s nose for calling you ‘ma’am.’ You are the most terrifying person I know, and I’ve met Hitchcock’s chiropractor. But you saw him and you paused.”
Rosa’s jaw tightened.
Jake lowered his voice. “What is he?”
“he’s not what he looks like”, she said again, flatly.
Jake swallowed. “What does he look like?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she turned, walked to the door, and paused with her hand on the frame.
Then, without looking back:
“He’s not afraid of anything. That’s the part you should worry about.”
And then she was gone.
Jake stood alone in the locker room, processing that.
“Cool,” he muttered to himself. “Awesome. Definitely fine. Just a mysterious maybe-criminal who unnerves Rosa Diaz. Totally normal Wednesday.”
Jake found Captain Holt in his office, standing behind his desk in that very specific way that said I am contemplating something deeply meaningful and/or judging your tie.
Jake didn’t knock. He just stepped in, shut the door behind him, and said:
“Okay. So. The kid in holding.”
Holt didn’t look up from his monitor. “Yes?”
Jake pointed an invisible finger-gun. “There’s something off about him.”
“That does tend to be a common trait among those brought to police stations in the middle of the night, Detective.”
Jake exhaled loudly. “Sir, he’s weird. Not ‘committed tax fraud’ weird. Not even ‘secretly a hitman for hire’ weird. He’s... I don’t know. Still. Unnaturally still. Like a pond right before something terrible breaks the surface.”
Holt glanced up. “That’s uncharacteristically poetic of you.”
“I’ve been journaling.”
“Hmm.”
Jake leaned on the desk. “Look, I know I usually jump to conclusions—”
“Understatement.”
“—but this time I’m right. Rosa saw him and froze, and you know she doesn’t freeze unless she’s literally calculating how many bones she can break in three seconds.”
Holt’s face was unreadable. “I see.”
“Do you?” Jake asked, narrowing his eyes. “Because you’re being... weirdly calm about all this. Calm for you. Which is basically a flatline.”
Holt blinked. “He’s nineteen, no priors, not charged. What are you expecting me to do, Peralta?”
Jake pointed toward the bullpen. “Okay, but you haven’t even talked to him.”
Holt’s eyes flicked back to his screen. “I reviewed the report.”
Jake stared. There was a shift in Holt’s tone. Just barely. Jake was used to Holt being unreadable, but this? This was guarded.
Jake leaned in. “You know him.”
Holt didn’t answer.
Jake’s voice dropped. “Captain. Seriously. You know him, don’t you?”
A pause.
Then Holt said, without looking up, “I know of him.”
Jake stared. “Okay, what does that mean? Is he, like, on a list? Like, a watchlist? Is he a hacker? A spy? A long-lost royal heir??”
“No,” Holt said slowly. “He’s just... unique.”
Jake flailed slightly. “That is not reassuring!”
Holt finally looked up. His expression was... odd. Neutral, but not bored. Calm, but with something flickering underneath. If Jake didn’t know better, he’d say Holt looked... excited.
“That young man,” Holt said carefully, “has a complicated history. And a reputation. In certain... circles.”
Jake blinked. “Sir, are you telling me we have a minor celebrity in holding?”
Holt’s mouth twitched. “In a way.”
Jake straightened up. “Okay, you need to explain this to me right now or I’m going to start googling ‘Percy Jackson’ and end up in a fandom wiki hole I may never crawl out of.”
“No,” Holt said firmly. “You must not Google him.”
Jake stared. “Oh my god, he is a royal heir.”
“He is not,” Holt said.
Jake paced. “You’re being cagey. That’s not normal Holt behavior. That’s like... Boyle when he finds out someone doesn’t like risotto. Or me when I find out Amy has a crush on someone who isn’t me.”
“You’re married.”
“It’s the principle, sir!”
Holt stood suddenly, and Jake stopped talking.
Holt adjusted his cufflinks and said, with unmistakable finality, “Detective, I trust you to be cautious. Mr. Jackson is not a threat to us. He is, in fact, someone deserving of... respect. And distance.”
Jake blinked. “Wait. So you like him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it.”
Holt straightened his tie. “You may resume your duties, Detective.”
Jake squinted. “You're starstruck, aren't you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re trying not to fanboy right now.”
“Leave my office.”
“I knew it,” Jake whispered, backing out.
Captain Holt told him explicitly not to do it.
“Do not Google Percy Jackson, Detective,” he’d said.
Which was the same as saying, Please Google Percy Jackson immediately and ruin your night.
So now Jake was sitting at his desk, lights dimmed like a criminal, typing the name slowly—“percy jackson -facebook -linkedin -mythology”—and bracing for impact.
What he found was... not what he expected.
Because there was only one.
Just one Percy Jackson talked about online.
And apparently, he had a BuzzFeed Unsolved documentary.
Jake clicked instantly.
The thumbnail showed the St. Louis Arch mid-explosion, with a figure midair—arms spread, falling backward into smoke. It was blurry, but unmistakably human.
He hit play.
“There are a lot of urban legends out there. But this one? This one’s different.”
“They say he jumped from the Arch seconds before it exploded—and walked away without a scratch.”
“Who is Percy Jackson? Hero? Hoax? Government experiment? All we know is—where he goes, things happen.”
Jake stared.
The footage cut to grainy security clips: a boy on a rooftop during a lightning strike, sprinting from a crumbling bridge, vanishing into a wave off the Long Island coast.
No interviews with him. No public statements.
Just whispers. Just witnesses. Just Rachel Dare.
He paused the video at her name.
Rachel Elizabeth Dare – Artist, Witness, Close Friend.
Jake whispered, “Of course she’s involved.”
He clicked over to Twitter and found her immediately.
@RachelFreakingDare
✔️ Verified. 6.3M followers.
Bio: Not a prophet. Just persistent.
Pinned tweet:
“There’s only one Percy Jackson. And no, I won’t tell you where he is. He doesn’t need more cameras—he needs space.”
Jake scrolled.
@RachelFreakingDare
“Yes, I saw him jump. Yes, it was real. Yes, he survived.”
“No, I won’t explain it. You wouldn’t believe me.”
@RachelFreakingDare
“He’s my best friend. If he’s blurry in your camera roll, maybe you’re the problem.”
@RachelFreakingDare
“If you think he’s dangerous, you’ve clearly never met him.”
Jake blinked. “Okay. Cool. She’s either in love with him or in some kind of magical witness protection thing. Possibly both.”
He went back to the documentary.
More clips. More questions.
“San Francisco. A freak hurricane ends just as he’s seen leaving.”
“Manhattan blackout. He’s spotted outside a storm drain five minutes before the lights return.”
“Bay Bridge collapse—he was on it. Allegedly.”
“No death records. No arrest records. No family. Just blurry footage, half-believed interviews, and one artist who swears he’s real.”
Jake leaned back.
“Okay. Holt definitely knew all this.”
He looked toward the holding cell.
Percy Jackson was still there. Still calm. Still unreadable.
Jake stared.
One kid.
One name.
One impossible trail.
And he was sitting twenty feet away.
Jake wasn’t eavesdropping.
Eavesdropping was something amateurs did.
Professionals just happened to be walking by the observation room at the exact moment something weird and emotionally loaded was about to happen. Totally different.
He had a paper cup in his hand and everything. That made it casual.
Inside the interrogation room, Rosa stood in front of Percy Jackson with her arms crossed and her expression locked into something Jake could only describe as “if intimidation were a religion, she’d be pope.”
Percy looked... exactly the same as he always did. Calm. Quiet. Not leaning back, not slouching, just existing like someone who never questioned whether the room belonged to him.
They hadn’t spoken yet.
Then Rosa said, voice low but sharp:
“So. You gonna pull rank, or what?”
Jake blinked. “Pull what?”
He pressed closer to the glass, coffee forgotten in his hand.
Percy didn’t move. Just tilted his head the slightest fraction, like he was measuring the weight of the question.
“I could,” he said.
Rosa smiled without warmth. “I dare you.”
Jake mouthed, what is happening.
“You wouldn’t like it,” Percy added, softer this time. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a statement.
“I didn’t like it then,” Rosa said. “Didn’t stop me from following orders.”
Jake’s brain screeched to a halt.
Then?
Orders??
WHO IS THIS KID?
“Things are different now,” Percy said.
“No,” Rosa replied. “You’re different.”
A beat passed.
Then Percy gave a faint, faint shrug. “Still wouldn’t pull rank on you.”
“Good,” Rosa said, turning to leave. “I’d break your nose.”
Percy’s response was a breath of a smile.
Jake barely managed to duck back behind the wall as Rosa stepped out of the room. She didn’t look at him as she passed. Didn’t say a word.
But Jake couldn’t help himself. He stepped into her wake, voice barely above a whisper:
“Rosa. What the hell was that?”
She didn’t slow down. “Nothing.”
“That was not nothing! You said ‘pull rank’ like you’re in the army and he’s your CO.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jake.”
“Oh, I’m so far past worry. I’m in a new zip code of worry.”
Rosa stopped at the door.
Glanced back just enough to make eye contact.
“He’s not the problem,” she said. “He never was.”
Then she was gone again.
Jake turned back to the glass, staring at the boy in the room.
Percy Jackson still hadn’t moved.
Jake exhaled. “Cool cool cool cool. So he’s not the problem. He just... outranks Rosa Diaz and casually shrugs off threats like they’re seasonal allergies. Totally normal. Definitely not going to have an existential crisis about it later.”
He paused.
Then whispered:
“Seriously though. What is he.”
POV: Rosa Diaz
She told herself it wasn’t him.
Couldn’t be.
Too much time. Too much distance. Too many years of burying that part of herself under leather jackets and NYPD training manuals and walls made of silence.
But then she saw him.
Same face.
Same stillness.
And that thing in her gut—the thing she’d fought to kill off with badge numbers and rage—lit up like a flare.
She stood in the doorway for a moment too long. Just looking.
He looked up. Met her eyes.
And smiled like he knew.
Rosa stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.
Percy Jackson sat at the metal table like it was a throne he didn’t want. His hands were folded. No cuffs. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Hadn’t demanded anything.
He was waiting.
And she hated that she remembered what it meant when Percy Jackson waited.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” he replied.
His voice hadn’t changed. Still calm. Still young. But there was something behind it. Weight. History. Dust from old battlefields she thought she’d forgotten.
“You broke into a locked building.”
“It was open when I got there.”
She gave him a flat look. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe that?”
“No,” he said. “I think you’re the smartest person in this building. Still.”
Still.
Rosa’s mouth twitched. She hated that he could still throw her off balance with two words.
“You’ve got Holt all twisted in knots,” she said. “He’s pretending not to care, which means he cares a lot. He told Peralta not to Google you.”
Percy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He Googled me anyway, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did.”
Silence stretched between them.
She folded her arms. “What do you want from me?”
Percy looked up again. Really looked. Not through her—at her. Like he could see straight past the NYPD badge and the weapons permit and the walls.
“I want you to let me go.”
Rosa didn’t flinch.
“No.”
“I didn’t break any laws.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“You mean in the precinct?”
She stared at him. “You know what I mean.”
Percy nodded slowly. “Then let me go.”
She told herself she wasn’t angry.
Not really.
It was just old instincts, waking up in her blood like they still had permission.
She’d trained herself to forget the war. Forget the ranks and the formations and the way the battlefield whispered her name like it knew what she was. Mars Legacy. Born to fight. Born to serve.
And she had served. Under him.
Now he was here—older, sharper, but still wrapped in that same impossible calm—and asking for things he shouldn’t.
Percy Jackson didn’t explain himself. He never had to.
But he didn’t demand. He asked.
And she almost laughed—because he could’ve ordered it.
All he had to do was say the words, and her bones would still remember how to obey.
Instead, he sat there like the war hadn’t followed them into this room.
She crossed her arms.
“So. You gonna pull rank, or what?”
“I could,” he said.
There was no edge to it. No challenge. Just fact.
Rosa smiled. Cold. Hollow. “I dare you.”
His voice dipped lower, quiet enough to make the lights feel too loud.
“You wouldn’t like it.”
Not a threat. Not a boast. Just that same damn calm.
Rosa’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t like it then,” she said. “Didn’t stop me from following orders.”
He looked at her.
And then: “Things are different now.”
“No,” Rosa replied. “You’re different.”
She hated how true it felt. How much she missed the version of him who hadn’t already checked out of the world they both fought for.
He gave a tiny shrug.
“Still wouldn’t pull rank on you.”
Her jaw clicked shut.
“Good,” she said, turning toward the door. “I’d break your nose.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t want one.
Outside, Jake nearly tripped over himself trying to not look like he’d been eavesdropping.
She walked past him without slowing.
Let him ask.
Let him wonder.
Let him spiral.
Because Rosa Diaz had stopped following orders years ago.
But she wasn’t sure if she’d ever really stopped following him.
POV: Jake Peralta
Jake was halfway through trying to decode Percy Jackson’s vibe using only his own gut instinct, three BuzzFeed conspiracy videos, and a half-eaten bagel when Holt summoned him to his office.
Not unusual.
What was unusual: Holt’s tone.
Very... composed.
Which was bad. Because Holt was always composed. And when he got extra composed? That’s when people went missing or turned out to be spies or—worse—got transferred to Staten Island.
Jake walked in, trying not to show how fast his brain was spinning.
“Yes, Captain?”
Holt looked up from his desk, hands folded, face a serene mask of professionalism.
“I’ve just received communication from... higher up the chain,” he said.
Jake blinked. “Like, NYPD high-up? Or... other high-up?”
“I don’t believe I need to clarify.”
Oh. Oh, this was worse than Staten Island.
“They’ve asked us to release Mr. Jackson. Effective immediately.”
Jake’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“Are you seriously telling me the same kid who broke into a warehouse without setting off any alarms, has zero traceable background, and makes Rosa Diaz act like she’s in a high school flashback is just... free to go now?”
“That is correct.”
Jake stared. “He asked to speak to Rosa by name. Rosa called him ‘sir’ without saying ‘sir’ and then threatened to break his nose with visible respect. We don’t know what he is.”
“He’s Percy Jackson,” Holt said.
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “You said not to Google him.”
“And yet you did.”
Jake pointed dramatically. “That’s not an answer!”
Holt’s face barely changed. But Jake had worked under him long enough to feel the faint glimmer of something dangerous. It wasn’t fear. It was reverence.
“You knew who he was the moment he gave his name.”
Holt’s voice was low, smooth, and just a bit too careful.
Jake blinked. “Wait. Are you... excited?”
“I am conducting myself with appropriate decorum.”
“Captain,” Jake said slowly, “are you trying not to freak out because The Percy Jackson is sitting in our building?”
“I would advise against sensationalizing, Detective.”
Jake gaped. “You’re fanboying.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You’re fanboying in, like, Morse code.”
Holt didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
Jake turned and stormed out.
Downstairs, Rosa stood outside the holding cell with her arms crossed, not looking inside. But when she saw Jake coming, she straightened.
“They’re letting him go,” he said.
She nodded, slow and steady.
Jake squinted. “You’re not surprised.”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you relieved?”
Rosa didn’t answer.
But she didn’t deny it, either.
That was the worst part.
Jake looked past her, toward the kid still sitting calmly in the cell. Like this had all gone exactly the way he expected.
Like he never planned to stay.
Jake muttered, “Unbelievable.”
Then louder: “No, yeah, totally fine, I love being the only person here who doesn’t know what’s going on. Great for morale. Huge fan.”
No one answered.
From inside the cell, Percy Jackson finally stood up.
And smiled.
POV: Jake Peralta
Jake had no idea what he expected to happen when he stepped out into the cold night air, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Percy Jackson stood near the curb outside the precinct, hands in his pockets, face tilted up like he was listening to the sky.
Still no phone.
Still no coat.
Still not explaining anything.
Jake stopped a few feet behind him.
“Hey,” he said.
Percy turned, calm as ever.
Jake shoved his hands into his jacket and tried to not sound like he was unraveling. “So... you’re just leaving, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“No explanation?”
“Nope.”
“Right,” Jake muttered. “That tracks. You show up like a myth in sneakers, make Rosa act like a reprogrammed assassin, get Holt to speak in riddles, and somehow you’re the one getting chauffeured out of here like some VIP.”
Percy raised an eyebrow. “You know I didn’t ask for that.”
Jake squinted. “Didn’t ask for what?”
That’s when the limo pulled up.
An actual limousine.
Glossy black, windows tinted like secrets. The kind of car mob bosses use when they’re feeling sentimental.
The driver stepped out.
He was pale, stiff, wore a driver’s cap and gloves like he’d stepped out of a 1920s photograph. His posture was perfect. His vibe was... off.
Jake whispered, “Oh my god he’s dead.”
“Technically, yeah,” Percy said.
“WHAT.”
“Relax,” Percy added, stepping toward the limo. “He’s harmless. Mostly. His name’s Jules-Albert.”
The driver nodded with eerie formality. “Master di Angelo sends his regards.”
Jake made a wheezing noise that may have been English.
Percy turned back.
“You’ve got questions,” he said.
“Do I?” Jake snapped. “Because I’m pretty sure everything about you violates at least three laws of physics and one of personal space.”
Percy studied him a second longer.
Then said, “You know how sometimes, when something crazy happens, and you think, ‘Wow, I bet there’s a whole secret world out there’?”
Jake nodded slowly.
Percy smiled—small, tired, real.
“There is.”
Jake’s mouth opened. “Wait, what does that—”
The limo door shut behind him before Jake could finish the sentence.
The engine didn’t roar—it purred like a cat with a knife collection. The limo pulled away from the curb as if the street had already moved to accommodate it.
Jake stood frozen for a full ten seconds.
Then whispered, “What the hell is my life right now.”
Behind him, someone whistled low. Rosa. Arms crossed. Watching the limo vanish down the street.
“He was never ours to hold,” she said.
Jake turned to her. “Okay. Seriously. What was he?”
Rosa looked at him.
“War,” she said. “Wearing sneakers.”
And she walked away.
Leaving Jake alone with the night, the cold, and way too many unanswered questions.