CONNOR STOLL

Connor Stoll has a talent.

Not a useful talent.

Not an impressive talent.

Not even one that would earn him any particular amount of respect.

Connor's greatest talent is being an irritation.

Specifically, being an irritation to you.

It seems to come naturally to him. He doesn't have to try very hard. In fact, you're fairly certain that trying would somehow make him less effective. Connor can walk into a room, notice that you're there, and within approximately thirty seconds find some microscopic inconvenience to turn into an entire ordeal. It's become a routine: a terrible, exhausting, completely unnecessary routine. You don't know why he has decided that annoying you is his personal responsibility, but Connor appears to take the role incredibly seriously.

If you're sitting somewhere quiet, he'll find you. If you're reading, he'll lean over your shoulder until his hair brushes the page. If you're trying to concentrate, he'll become fascinated by whatever you're doing, hovering close enough for his shadow to fall across it. If you're carrying something, he'll ask whether you need help while already reaching for it. If you're doing absolutely nothing, he'll somehow find a way to interrupt that too. The worst part is that Connor always looks pleased with himself afterward. That smug little grin is practically permanent, stretching across his face like he has just accomplished something heroic instead of being a nuisance.

Today is no exception.

The afternoon sun hangs over Camp Half-Blood, casting long shadows between the cabins while campers move between activities. The camp is unusually peaceful for once. There are no monsters attacking the borders, no emergency meetings, no screaming from the arena. For once, there is nothing demanding your attention, which, naturally, is exactly when Connor appears.

You don't hear him approaching. One moment, there's silence. The next, something lands beside you with a quiet thump.

A folded piece of paper.

Then another.

Then another.

And another.

Each one lands just close enough to be distracting without actually touching you. By the time the final one drops, there is a small, crooked pile sitting nearby. Connor is standing a few feet away, arms folded, shoulders relaxed, and looking unbearably satisfied with himself.

The papers aren't important. That's the problem. They're almost impressively pointless. One contains a badly drawn picture with uneven lines and an exaggeratedly ugly face. Another has a completely nonsensical question written across it in cramped, slanted handwriting. A third simply says your name followed by several question marks. The last one is blank.

Connor waits.

He watches for a reaction with the focused patience of someone observing a trap. That is what he does best. He doesn't need to say anything; the grin gives him away. There is something almost professional about the way Connor studies the results of his own annoyance, as though this is an experiment and you're the unfortunate test subject. He tilts his head, eyes flicking over your face, then reaches into his pocket.

Another piece of paper.

Of course.

He places it down with exaggerated care, smoothing the fold with two fingers. This one reads:

YOU'RE WELCOME.

For what?

There is no explanation. There never is. Connor simply walks away, dragging his feet just enough to make sure you notice him leaving, only to reappear approximately five minutes later. This time, he's carrying an apple. He drops it beside you, then another, then another, each one rolling in a different direction before coming to rest against your things. Then he walks off again.

The absurdity of it is almost impressive.

Almost.

You barely have time to process what he's doing before Connor returns empty-handed. He looks around. His eyes settle on you. He smiles, slow and smug, then leaves again. It becomes obvious very quickly that there is no objective behind any of this. Connor isn't trying to accomplish anything. He isn't attempting to win a bet or steal something. He's simply bored, and apparently, making your day progressively more inconvenient is his preferred solution to boredom.

Later, when you enter the your cabin, the evidence becomes even more ridiculous. Your belongings have not been stolen. Nothing important has been moved. Instead, several completely harmless objects have been rearranged in ways that make absolutely no sense. A cup is upside down. A book is facing the wrong direction. A chair has been shifted a few inches. One of your belongings has been moved from one side of the room to the other.

Nothing is damaged.

Nothing is missing.

Everything is simply...

Wrong.

Connor is sitting nearby. He looks innocent. Far too innocent. His posture is loose, his expression carefully blank, and a book is open in his lap, though he doesn't appear to have read a single word of it. His eyes flick upward, and that grin appears again, barely restrained at the corners of his mouth.

He knows.

Obviously.

Connor is the kind of person who could commit a crime and then stand directly beside the evidence looking offended that anyone would suspect him. His expression practically announces his guilt. Still, he says nothing. That's another one of his habits. Sometimes Connor's silence is more irritating than his talking because you know he's waiting: waiting for you to notice something, waiting for the moment when the realization finally lands, waiting to see whether you'll react. When you do, his expression becomes unbearably pleased, his eyes bright with the satisfaction of someone who has successfully ruined another perfectly ordinary moment.

It's almost childish.

Actually, no.

It is childish.

Entirely childish.

And somehow, Connor has perfected it.

By evening, the irritation has accumulated into something almost tangible. You cross paths with him again near the cabins. Connor is leaning against one of the walls, casually tossing a small object from one hand to the other. His fingers close around it at the last second every time, as though even the object has been recruited into whatever irritating performance he has planned. He watches you approach. The object disappears into his palm. His eyebrows lift.

Then comes the grin.

That stupid grin.

The one that says he has already thought of something. Whatever it is, you're probably going to hate it.

Connor pushes himself away from the wall and walks past without saying anything. His shoulder passes close enough to yours to be deliberate. For one glorious moment, it seems like he's finally leaving you alone.

Then he pauses.

Turns around.

And holds out his hand.

In it is something that unmistakably belongs to you. He looks at it, then at you, then back at it. A beat passes. Connor's grin widens. He clearly has no intention of explaining himself. Instead, he casually tosses it toward you, watching just long enough to make sure you catch it before walking away.

Just like that.

No apology.

No explanation.

Nothing.

Because Connor Stoll doesn't need a reason. That's what makes him so irritating. If there were a reason, you could argue with him. If there were a goal, you could stop him. If there were rules, you could use them against him. But there aren't. Connor does things because they're funny, and, unfortunately, your irritation seems to be one of the funniest things he's discovered at Camp Half-Blood.

The worst part is that he's persistent. Tomorrow, he'll probably do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Eventually, the entire camp will probably accept it as another natural phenomenon, like thunderstorms, harpies, or Percy somehow getting into trouble. Connor Stoll being an unbearable nuisance will simply become another unavoidable part of daily life.

And judging by the satisfied expression on his face as he disappears around the corner, he wouldn't have it any other way.