THE OVERSEER

As Atlas regained consciousness, his senses started returning one by one. First, he felt the cold, damp floor beneath him. Small tufts of fuzz tickled his ankles and hands. Cold, tight cuffs bit into his wrists, nearly cutting off his blood flow.

Next, his sense of smell returned. It was like the slums his family had once passed through—wet soil, dirt, and a palpable aura of despair and depression.

Opening his eyes, Atlas saw cold grey bricks stacked to form a cell. Small patches of moss burst from the seams of several cracks. He tried to stand, but his elbows gave out, and he collapsed back to the ground, feeling weak and sluggish. His surroundings offered no comfort: wet stone, a large iron door with an eye-level hatch that was several feet above him.

His clothes had changed too; he was now wearing dirty rags. Any semblance of civilization he once had was gone. There was nothing to do but wait. Alone with his thoughts, Atlas felt neither anger nor sadness—just a blank emptiness, as though any remaining humanity had left with his parents. He felt like a husk.

Hours passed before he heard the first signs of life: heavy footsteps marching in unison outside his cell. The iron door creaked open, the sound echoing like thunder in the small space. A figure stood there, cloaked and wearing a plain white mask. The simplicity of his attire was deeply unsettling.

"Boy, get up," the hooded figure commanded, waiting for Atlas to rise.

Atlas struggled to find the strength to stand but failed.

"I have no idea what the overseer has planned for a boy who can't stand," the man muttered before walking over and hoisting Atlas up by his cuffs.

Atlas followed the man through several narrow halls made of the same cold, grey bricks. Each cell they passed was empty, some containing only skeletal remains.

"Boy, the overseer says you're more special than the last subjects. For your sake, I hope you are," the large man said.

Atlas felt a flicker of alertness as they approached a massive iron door. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he had no choice. The escort opened the door, revealing a figure he could only assume was the overseer.

The man's skin was ghostly white, his short hair streaked with gray and slicked back. His deep blue eyes were surrounded by large dark bags, and his high cheekbones emphasized his age. It was impossible to tell if he was driven by knowledge or madness—perhaps both.The overseer stretched out his arm and pointed a bony finger at Atlas. "Let the boy inside. Just the two of us."The escort obeyed without hesitation. "Yes, sir."As Atlas was released from the man's grasp, he paused, still too weak to move. He stood for a second, considering his options. But what options did he have? He had no choice but to listen.