Atlas walked through the palace corridors like a man who had forgotten how to feel.
His boots didn't echo. Not because they were silent—but because the world had stopped listening.
Claire followed close behind. Her presence wasn't loud, but it was sharp—like the edge of a knife pressed against old scars. Her violet eyes never left his back.
She knew this walk.
She knew the way his shoulders drooped, just a fraction. The way his steps lacked their usual certainty. She knew the silence he wore wasn't the kind that came from exhaustion—it was the kind that came from carrying something no one else was allowed to see.
"Atlas…" she said again, low and cold, like a distant memory clawing its way forward. "There is something you're not telling me."
He didn't stop. Didn't look back. Just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, his stare fixed ahead like the hallway had teeth and he planned to walk right into its mouth.
