The cracked plains of the First Layer stretched outward in broken plates of obsidian and slag, each fracture glowing faintly as heat bled upward from deeper hell. The ground itself seemed to breathe, slow, labored inhales that sent sulfurous plumes curling into the air like incense offered to forgotten gods.
The sky above was no sky at all: a low, bruised vault of perpetual ashfall, lit from beneath by rivers of molten stone that snaked through the distance. Every step crunched; every breath tasted of old violence and older regret.
Atlas stood motionless at the center of his strike team, senses extended like invisible roots probing the landscape. Hell was loud—not in decibels, but in *intent*. Everything here wanted. Blood. Souls. Direction. Meaning. The hunger pressed against him like a crowd waiting for the gates to open, patient and ravenous.
Then another presence brushed the edge of his awareness.
Familiar.
Annoyingly so.
