Atlas rose until the air itself surrendered.
He passed the last wisps of cloud, climbed beyond the reach of eagles and angels alike, into a silence so complete that even his own heartbeat felt like an intrusion.
Here, sound died. Here, the world shrank to a curved blue marble suspended in black, fragile as blown glass. Storms coiled far below him like chained beasts, lightning flickering in their bellies but never daring to reach this height.
The sun burned at his back—white, merciless, the light of Heaven he had once served. Beneath his feet yawned the abyss, a darkness that swallowed stars and screamed of Hell. Atlas hung between the two, motionless, arms outstretched as though crucified on the axis of creation itself.
He was neither hero nor villain.
He was a calculation.
