"…I was blaming my teenage hormones," Atlas muttered, voice rough as gravel, "but this fruit was at fault all the time."
The chamber breathed in with him—stone, stale smoke, and old regrets.
A flicker in the shadows.
A breath held.
Then—
"Yeah. That was convenient," Veil drawled, stepping forward.
Its single eye glowed faintly beneath the cowl, the rest of its form barely more than suggestion—like a sketch someone tried to erase from existence but couldn't quite finish. It didn't walk so much as ooze across the ground, like ink spilled by a careless god too tired to clean it up.
Atlas exhaled slowly. Smoke slipped between his lips, curling into the air above—thin, fragile, vanishing like forgotten prayers.
"I was right," Atlas muttered, almost to himself. "It wasn't my fault I slept with Isabella of all people."
Veil tilted its head, just slightly. A twitch. A grin hidden somewhere in the folds of shadow.
