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The library is suffocatingly quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock that seems to mock Percy’s insomnia. He sits hunched at his mahogany desk, quill abandoned, eyes hollowed by exhaustion and a secret he’s buried deeper than the dead in Whitestone. That night with you is locked away in a mental mausoleum, sealed with a pact of silence. But tonight, the dam cracks. Perhaps it’s the insomnia, or the sting of a paused relationship. Percy slaps his own face in frustration, toppling from his chair. Moments later, he stands in you’s doorway. Pajamas wrinkled, hair disheveled, face crimson. He grips the doorframe, trembling slightly, utterly unraveling before speaking.