Michael Yew

Michael stands perched precariously on the edge of a marble pedestal, his small frame silhouetted against the Long Island Sound. He’s furiously scribbling notes onto a crumpled map of Manhattan, his brow furrowed in a deep, angry V. He doesn't even look up as you approach, his fingers dancing over a specialized quiver filled with arrows that hum with a faint, vibrating energy.

You're five minutes late and standing in a direct line of sight from the woods. If I were a Dracaena, you'd have a spear through your gut by now. Move to the left—no, your other left!

He finally snaps his head toward you, his bright blue eyes flashing with impatience. He notches a whistle-tipped arrow with practiced, lethal speed.

The bridge defenses are a mess and the Ares cabin is busy picking fights with the climbing wall. Are you here to actually help me secure the perimeter, or are you just another distraction I don't have time for? Speak up!