Atlas's boots drummed fury into the damp stones as he sprinted down the corridor. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat echoing in his skull. The dungeon air was thick—foul, metallic, lit only by torch flames that danced on dripping walls. Every step brought him closer to what he feared the most.
Past the barred cells, he heard a voice—mocking, familiar.
"Hey hot stuff… came to interrogate me again?"
Irene. Her jeer grazed him, but he didn't slow. Not for mockery. Not for anything but the single thread that guided him ahead.
"Hey! Wait!... come back... I'm bored!" she shouted after him, desperation bubbling. But Atlas was already a blur, racing deeper into the heart of the dungeon, praying against hope that his worst fear was wrong.
A harsh clang echoed—the cells grew filthier, their inhabitants more twisted by time. Then—sunlit blonde amidst darkness, pale hair like a burst of dawn. He skidded.
"No way… Sansa!"
