Atlas sat near the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched. The quiet hum of magic pulses filled the room, distant but ever-present, like static in the walls. He leaned closer. The bed groaned under the uneven weight sprawled across it.
One hand—massive, oversized—twitched. Fingers splayed unnaturally, pale skin taut like a glove stretched over stone. A leg, just as distorted, hung off the other side of the bed like a misplaced branch grafted to a young tree.
The rest of Loki's body looked shrunken, almost gaunt in contrast, his breathing erratic but steady.
"...You said he was okay..." Atlas muttered, voice dangerously calm, like thunderclouds before the lightning strike.
A small black sludge unfurled near his shoulder, taking on a vaguely humanoid form, its single eye blinking open lazily. Veil hovered, as if weighing his words.
"You looked busy... And hey, it wasn't me, alright? He told me to say that. I was just the—uh—messenger."
