[ All Will can do in response is that is nod. He's tempted then to look, to really fix his gaze on the dirt and blood underneath Percy's fingers, understand what spills out of Percy's crevices that he doesn't want to free. What leaks and what firmly does not. He doesn't though, he wouldn't risk it. ]

I do. In the end, it doesn't really matter who's left, as long as the person there makes the right choice. You're only doing what you can to either be that person or help that person along. Secrets out of necessity, not malice.

[ He shrugs, slow and sure and eats a piece of melon. He feels Percy's shock at the story and all he can do is nod in response. Then Percy mentions he and Annabeth and Will wonders if they'll ever stop, once they return where they need to go. It doesn't sound like a good life. ]

Bred is a heavy word, Percy. It lowers you to an animal. I don't think you're an animal.

[ That's all he says though because then they're focusing on Hannibal's note. The poem warmed Will all over when he first saw it so he kept it on him, moving from pocket to pocket as his fingers rubbed light strokes against the paper. It was oddly grounding, this piece of Hannibal's heart. ]

Hannibal tends to learn towards the macabre if he isn't reeled in. I could find you something lighter for Annabeth, same poet? She might enjoy it.