Atlas stood at the center of an unmaking world.
Reality trembled beneath him like glass straining against a storm. His right hand burned with raw mana, the veins of power coursing through it too bright to look at.
Each pulse made the air warp, colors bleeding, structures bending like molten wax.
The false heavens above him—those carefully painted lies—shivered. He could smell ozone and dust, the metallic tang of existence about to fracture. The ground beneath his feet cracked, threads of light cutting across the horizon.
He was ready to end it all.
He had seen through the illusion—the perfect lie the world had spun to keep him asleep. A mirage of comfort, a whisper of home. But Atlas was done being deceived.
His breath came shallow and slow.
His heartbeat echoed like the hammer of a god.
And as he raised his hand to erase everything, to bring final truth through destruction—
—she appeared.
"Atlas…"
Her voice was small, trembling, almost human.
