Dr. Atlas's eyes fluttered open slowly, the dim light of a single oil lamp casting long shadows across the stone walls. His head throbbed violently, a dull, persistent ache that seemed to echo with the remnants of a memory he could not grasp. His body lay still on a modest cot, the sheets rough against his skin. He reached up, fingers brushing the painful spot on his temple, trying to piece together the events that had led to his current state.
What happened? he thought, trying to steady his breath. His mind was foggy, the last coherent memory a conversation with a patient then nothing. The dizziness, the weight of an unseen blow, and then this place... this basement.
As he shifted, trying to sit up, a voice cold and deliberate cut through the silence. "Dr. Atlas, I've heard much about you. It was urgent, so I had to book a private appointment. I hope you won't mind."
Atlas froze. His heart skipped a beat. He should have been frightened, yet his mind immediately sharpened. He had been taken, and he had been drugged or knocked out,no one entered his home undetected without a reason. Someone capable of that had the power to end his life with a simple flick of their hand.
Focus, Atlas commanded himself. He was a doctor, and a survivor. Fear was for the weak.
It took a moment before he regained his composure, his eyes scanning the shadows in search of any hint of the intruder's presence. He didn't dare to move too suddenly, lest he provoke whatever enemy stood before him. In a voice that carried the weight of his years, he asked, "May I dare ask, sir, what the problem is? And how may I help you?"
For a long moment, there was silence, a weight hanging in the air. Then, the voice returned, soft but laced with an unmistakable sharpness. "I've injured myself... by my sword. The wound is deep, and I am quite wounded. I hope you would help me."
Atlas blinked. The words seemed normal—too normal. A sword wound, a simple request for medical aid. But beneath the surface, something felt off. His heart didn't race; it remained steady, like a man who had lived through a hundred battles with death. The voice gave him no hint of danger, no edge of malice. Yet, the knowledge that this person had the ability to subdue him without so much as a whisper, made every instinct scream danger. Still, Atlas kept his calm.
Grey's words were a veil, a mask that hid the true nature of the man before him. And that, Atlas knew, was the real threat. A person who concealed their true intentions was infinitely more dangerous than one who acted in the open.
I'll play along for now, Atlas decided. If I don't, I may never see the light of day again.
Taking a deep breath, he rose from his cot, the creaking of the old wood echoing in the stillness. His steps were measured as he moved to gather his medical tools, setting them on a small table beside him. He turned to the figure standing in the shadows.
"Show me the wound," Atlas instructed, his voice firm yet controlled.
Grey's hand extended forward, the pale skin marred by a deep, jagged wound. Blood had long since dried, the scarlet staining the edges of the injury. Atlas's breath caught for a moment as his eyes studied the injury. The sword had pierced through the flesh with brutal force whoever had done this to him had no mercy.
This is no common fight, Atlas thought, his mind calculating. A sword wound like this suggests power... and desperation.
But there was little time for contemplation. His patient ,if one could call him that was standing silently, waiting. The threat in the room was palpable, and Atlas was keenly aware of his precarious position. If he angered this man, or failed to treat him adequately, it could be his last mistake.
"Very well," Atlas murmured, moving swiftly to apply the necessary salves and stitches. He worked quickly, his hands steady despite the unease gnawing at him. Time seemed to stretch as he focused on the task, his mind flickering with thoughts of what had truly brought this stranger here.
As the minutes passed, Grey remained eerily still, his presence both unnerving and enigmatic. There was no sound but the faint rustle of Atlas's medical tools and the occasional shift of the air.
An hour later, Atlas stepped back, his brow glistening with sweat as he surveyed the now bandaged hand. The deep wound had been tended to, but the true danger, Grey himself remained untouched.
At least I've done my part, Atlas thought with a sigh of relief. Now... I live another day.
He turned to glance at the room once more, but the space was empty. Grey was gone. The room, once tense with the presence of the unknown, was now eerily still. Only the faintest trace of a shadow lingered in the corner, like a specter that had never truly been there.
Atlas sank back onto his bed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The weight of the near-miss pressed down on him. His life,his very existence had been spared, but for how long?
In the jungle, Grey moved like a shadow, his feet barely making a sound against the earth. His breath was shallow, his body running on sheer instinct. He could not stop, not now. Not after everything.
The treatment had gone as planned. The doctor had played his part, and now it was time for Grey to move on. The church could not be far behind, and the closer he got to any settlement, the greater the risk of being discovered. He could not afford to linger.
The decision to leave the doctor alive had been a calculated risk. Grey knew the church's methods well,memory reading, illusion casting. It would have been far too risky to kill Atlas outright. Such an action would have drawn unwanted attention, made him the target of an investigation. And the last thing Grey needed was for the church to connect the dots.
By sparing Atlas, he had given the church a false trail to follow. They would waste time searching in places they believed he had gone, while he, meanwhile, would slip beyond their reach.
I must push further, Grey thought, his mind steely with resolve. I cannot stay near the cities. I must go beyond the limits of their search.
The path was treacherous, and the stakes higher than ever. But Grey knew what was at stake now. His survival. His vengeance.
And the price of failure was one he was unwilling to pay.