Noah woke with something light in his chest for the first time in... he couldn't remember how long. Yesterday. His mother's visit. Atlas.
Real?
His hand found the phone where he'd left it, tucked against the mattress edge. The screen lit up—a message waiting.
Atlas: morning
Noah's thumb moved across the screen.
Noah: morning
Atlas: ready?
Noah: yeah
Atlas: what's your schedule
Noah: usual stuff. gym, shower, breakfast. sophie this afternoon
Atlas: sophie?
Noah: therapist
Noah slid the phone under the bed, let his face rearrange itself into something neutral before opening the door. Downstairs, he gave the staff member a brief nod in passing.
Fuck. Tonight. It's really happening.
The gym was empty. He ran, letting his mind drift to Atlas, a small pull at the corner of his mouth he didn't try to stop. Then the bike. Back upstairs for a shower, dressed, grabbed a book on his way down.
Breakfast came and went. He opened the book but the words wouldn't stick. Tonight kept pushing through. What if they catch me? He mentally traced his route again—which window, what to wear, how to get out without—
"Hey."
Sophie stood in the doorway.
"Hi," Noah said.
She settled into the chair across from him, studying his face in that therapist way. "How are you?"
"Good."
Her eyes stayed on him. "How was seeing your mom?"
"Good. Missed her."
Noah's fingers found the coffee cup on the table, wrapped around it just to have something to do.
Tonight. Tonight I'm out.
Sophie asked about the books he'd been reading. He answered. Eventually she stood, gathering her bag.
"See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
She paused at the door, glanced back. Noah had already turned to the window.
Upstairs, his phone had several messages from Atlas—detailed screenshots of the route, maps with markers, exactly where they'd meet. Noah studied each image. Snow everywhere. Through woods. His stomach tightened but—have to do this.
Noah: leaving at 2:30am
Atlas: ok
The window—he'd already picked it days ago. A knock interrupted his planning. Staff member, dinner tray, gone. Noah picked at the food, went back to studying Atlas's images. Trees and snow, more trees and snow.
Atlas: drones will track you
Noah: miss you
He waited. Nothing. Then:
Atlas: don't leave the path I showed you. seriously
Noah smiled at the screen.
Noah: got it
The house sounds became his clock—footsteps, doors, voices dying down. He turned off his light and waited in the dark. The house went silent.
2:27 AM on his phone screen.
Noah: leaving now
Atlas: dress warm. be careful
He pulled on his coat, grabbed his shoes—better to put them on outside. Cracked his door, peered out. Empty hallway. He slipped out, eased the door shut behind him.
Down the stairs on the edges where they wouldn't creak. The staff member was passed out on the couch in the living room, mouth slightly open. Noah moved past on his toes, into the room beside the gym.
Darkness. He felt his way to the window, worked it open slowly—the cold hit immediately, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath. No one outside. He climbed through, hung from the sill, dropped.
The shock of cold on his sock feet made him fumble with his shoes. Snow was already soaking through. Everything was white and dark at once, trees looming like—
Stop. Just move.
He started walking, following the path from Atlas's images. Each step crunched too loud. The snow was deeper than it looked, already working its way into his shoes. No gloves—fuck, why didn't he think of—
A shadow between the trees. His heart hammered. Just branches moving. He walked faster, slipped, caught himself against a tree. When he looked back, only his footprints marked the white.
The cold bit at his face first, made his eyes water. The tears froze on his lashes, blurring everything. His fingers had gone from aching to burning to... something else. Something worse than pain.
How long?
He looked up—lights hovering above. Drones. At least if I die they'll find me quick.
"Atlas is waiting," he whispered, the words barely making vapor in the air. "Few more steps."
But his legs had gone strange—needles first, thousands of them, then nothing. Like they belonged to someone else. He leaned against a tree, tried to pull in air but it burned going down, left a metal taste that made him want to gag.
His fingers were curling on their own, trying to make fists they couldn't form. Should take off the coat—he was burning up suddenly, sweating—no, that was wrong, that was—
Atlas? Or was that his mother's voice? Someone was calling but the snow muffled everything.
Am I walking?
Time went sideways. Each step took hours. Or seconds. The world had shrunk to a tunnel, darkness eating at the edges. The snowflakes stopped falling—no, he'd stopped moving. Everything went crystal clear for a moment, every branch outlined perfectly, then it all bled into gray.
Atlas... remember the name. Atlas.
His knees weren't there anymore. The ground came up or he went down—didn't matter which. The wind stopped. His breathing stopped. Or maybe he just couldn't hear it anymore.
A thought tried to form—a name—his? Someone else's? It dissolved before he could catch it.
Then the world just...
stopped.
The drones held position above the still form, their lights creating shifting shadows through the falling snow.
The team appeared minutes later—medical, security, tracking specialists moving efficiently through the trees. Atlas followed, his pace barely controlled.
He saw the body in the snow and froze.
His eyes went wide, then the blood drained from his face so fast he had to lock his knees to stay upright. His throat closed. He tried to swallow, couldn't.
"Noah."
Nothing.
The medical team dropped beside the body. The doctor's voice cut through the snow-muffled silence, sharp and professional, but her hands moved with practiced urgency.
"Pulse?"
"Bradycardic—42. Weak but present. Get the thermal gear now."
"Core temp's at 31."
Atlas's medical training kicked in automatically—hypothermia, cardiac arrest risk, organ failure—but the words just rattled around while his hands shook. When he saw Noah's blue lips, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Two medics opened the kit. Atlas stepped closer, watching. He couldn't look away from Noah's face—Jesus. The phone still frozen in his hand.
The doctor barked orders: "Cut the coat. Stabilize his neck. Gentle—rough movement could trigger cardiac arrest. Turn him. Slowly."
"Pupils?"
"Sluggish but responsive."
"Get the thermal cocoon open. He goes in now."
Atlas's throat felt like he'd swallowed glass. His hands had fisted so tight his nails bit into his palms, little crescents of pain he didn't notice.
The last time he'd seen Noah this still, he was sleeping, smiling in his sleep. Not like this. Never like this.
They cut through Noah's coat carefully—Atlas recognized the layers he'd chosen, trying to stay warm. They moved him into the thermal cocoon with practiced precision. Someone supported his head, another straightened his legs. Heat packs went against his chest, his sides, his groin.
"Starting core warming." The doctor activated the device, warm air flooding the cocoon.
Atlas had to lock his knees again to keep from dropping beside the stretcher. Calculations ran through his head— How long has he been like this? Five more minutes and—
His shoulders trembled but his voice came out steady: "Is he—will he make it?"
The doctor didn't look up from the monitor, couldn't quite hide the worry in her tone: "He's critical but alive. We need to move now."
The medical team exchanged quick glances—communicating severity without words.
They brought the stretcher. The team lifted Noah and the cocoon together in one smooth motion. The snow had picked up, muffling all sound. Security formed a circle around them.
Atlas walked beside the stretcher, trying to process if this was real. Get it together. You have to be strong. He pushed down the rage building—at himself, at letting this happen. How the fuck did I let—
After what felt like hours of walking, the team by the vehicles spotted them. Some ran to help carry the stretcher. They loaded him into the specially equipped van.
Atlas moved to the stretcher's side, his hand automatically finding Noah's arm through the cocoon. Even through the material, the cold radiated out.
He handed his keys to his security, turned to the van driver: "I'm coming."
He climbed in, looked at Noah's face. Purple lips, ice crystals on his lashes, hair frozen stiff. Atlas's eyes burned for a second before he forced it down. He pulled in a breath through his nose, let it out slow.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Come on, breathe. I'm here. I didn't—I wasn't too late"
Was I?
He found Noah's wrist through the cocoon, feeling for the pulse. Weak, irregular—but there.
"Just hang on, okay? I've got it from here."
Noah didn't respond.
As the van started moving, Atlas kept his hand on the stretcher rail.
"Not losing you," he whispered, barely loud enough for his own ears. "Never again."