When Atlas awoke, the world was wrong.
The first thing he felt was weight—not the natural heaviness of flesh and bone, nor the ache of exhaustion, but a crushing pull from above.
Something invisible pressed upon him, worming through marrow, sinking hooks into his very soul.
He lifted his head, only barely, and saw it.
A halo. But not radiant, not holy. This one was forged of shadow, a dark circlet hovering just inches above his skull.
It flickered faintly, not with light, but with a darkness deeper than midnight, as though a ring of abyss itself had been carved and chained to him.
The moment he realized it, pain surged through his limbs. His strength—gone. His vitality—stripped tenfold. Muscles that once obeyed without question now quivered at the weight of his own breath.
His arms were bound wide. His body slumped against wood. Chains bit into wrists and ankles, and when his eyes focused, he saw the truth. He was crucified.
