The blood on Atlas's hand had begun to dry.
But it hadn't cooled.
It clung to his skin with a heat that didn't belong to the jungle. Not physical. Not natural. Memory heat. Soul heat. The kind of warmth that left burns on the inside of your ribs, even when your body didn't scar.
Atlas flexed his fingers slowly.
Each joint cracked with the precision of a knife being unsheathed. His palm ached—not from pain, but from use. From the motion of ripping hearts free of their cage. From the silence that came after.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
A breath.
Not to grieve. Not to pray.
To forget.
To forget the scream. The look in their eyes as the light went out. The reflexive flinch just before steel pierced skin. The way the said captain had gasped—not in pain, but in disbelief.
As if dying at the hands of a boy like him… was unthinkable.
His breath left through his nose, sharp and controlled.
