Atlas raked a hand through his dark hair, the strands clinging damp with sweat and dust. His knuckles were still buzzing, aching faintly from the blows he hadn't yet given.
He had thought—no, hoped—that finally there'd be someone worth the effort. Someone to punch until the ache in his bones stopped feeling like an absence. Someone who could stand after one hit. Someone who could let him breathe through violence.
In truth? He wasn't helping Blam.
In truth? He wasn't trying to save the city.
In truth, Atlas simply wanted to let go. To tear the leash, even for a heartbeat.
The giants had looked like the perfect outlet. Great hulking silhouettes blotting out sections of the night sky, moving with the kind of arrogance only size could grant. His first thought had been simple: maybe he should drop every single one of them. They were the bad guys… right?
