The Broken Paths

Atlas staggered back, his breathing wild. His older self— the one trapped in this nightmare—was watching it all unfold, shaking, his hands clutching his ears.

"Nein! Genug! Hör auf! Hör auf!" (No! Enough! Stop! Stop!) he screamed, shaking his head violently.

But the memory didn't stop.

The dying breaths of the woman echoed in his ears. The girl's cries of terror rang endlessly, looping over and over and over and over and over and over again. The fire burned without end, consuming everything—

And Masked Atlas just stood there, grinning.

"Ohhh, there it is! That's the reaction I was waiting for!" he clapped his hands, delighted.

"Look at you! The great Atlas, broken and screaming like a child! Just like back then. Just like always."

Atlas squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling violently.

"Make it stop.." he whimpered like a child.

Masked Atlas leaned in, his grin pressing dangerously close. "Why should I? This is who you are. You think you buried it, locked it away, erased it like it never happened? Guess what? I kept it all for you."

He grinned wider. "And I'm going to make sure you feel every. Last. Second."

Atlas let out a raw, pained scream.

The flames around him roared higher, devouring everything. He was no longer standing as his older self—he was back in his fifteen-year-old body, curled over the lifeless form of the woman who had saved him, his second mother.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, refusing to let go. The warmth was already leaving her body but the blood remained—thick, sticky, seeping into his clothes. He didn't care. He couldn't care. She was slipping away.

"Bitte... Bitte komm zurück!" (Please... Please come back!) he sobbed, rocking back and forth, his trembling fingers clinging to the fabric of her dress. "Nicht noch einmal... bitte nicht noch einmal...!" (Not again... please, not again...!)

The girl—his sister in all but blood—was gone, dragged away screaming just like before. And now, his second mother, the only warmth he had left in this world, was silent.

The house groaned as it began to collapse around him. Burning beams crashed down. Sparks flew. Cinders choked the air. The fire raged, but Atlas didn't move.

He held onto her like a drowning man clinging to a sinking ship, as if sheer desperation could bring her back.

"Ohhh, would you look at that?" Masked Atlas whistled, standing off to the side, arms crossed. "Clinging to a corpse like a lost puppy. How pathetic."

Atlas shook his head violently, his fingers tightening around her. "Halt die Fresse! Halt die Fresse! Halt die Fresse!" (Shut up! Shut up Shut up!)

Masked Atlas leaned in, voice dripping with exaggerated pity. "Didn't learn the first time, did you? You get attached, you lose them. Over, and over, and over again. And here you are, sobbing like it was ever going to end differently."

Atlas's body shivered. His screams were raw, grief strangling the breath from his lungs. His throat burned from the smoke, his chest heaving with the weight of loss, of helplessness, of rage. It was too much.

And then—

A hand grabbed the back of his collar.

He barely had time to react before he was yanked backward, dragged away from the inferno. The woman's body slipped from his grasp, vanishing into the fire as he thrashed weakly against the iron grip of whoever had taken hold of him.

"Nein!" (No) Atlas fought, kicked, screamed. "LASS MICH!" (LET ME GO!)

"Stop struggling, boy" a deep, steady voice commanded. Firm. Absolute.

"If you stay, you die."

Atlas turned, his tear-streaked face looking up at the man who had pulled him from the fire. He was tall, imposing, in his early 40s and dressed in a long dark coat. His features were sharp, his expression unreadable. But what stood out the most—

His eyes. Cold, calculating. The kind of eyes that had seen too much, yet revealed nothing.

"You have a choice" the man said, dragging Atlas away even as the younger boy tried to claw his way back. "Die here, or learn how to survive."

The flames roared louder. The world around him crumbled.

And for the second time in his life—

Atlas was alone.

A slow, mocking clap echoed through the ruins of his mind.

"Now this—this is priceless!" Masked Atlas doubled over in laughter.

"You don't remember their faces, the ones who loved you, who cared for you, but him?

He gestured dramatically. "Ohhh, you remember him in perfect, flawless detail. What does that say about you?"

Atlas didn't move. His breath was ragged, his body shaking as the flames behind him burned away the last remnants of the only home he had ever known.

Masked Atlas stepped forward, and the scenery shifted again.

Now, they stood in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of ink and aged parchment. A grand mahogany desk sat at the center, stacks of books meticulously arranged on its surface. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with knowledge, strategy, power.

Behind the desk sat him.

The man who saved Atlas that night.

The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows over his chiseled features, his sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes reflecting nothing but calculation. His jet-black hair was combed back, not a strand out of place, and the crisp tailoring of his dark coat hinted at discipline, power, and absolute control.

"Go on, say it" Masked Atlas whispered, nudging him.

"Say his name. You remember it."

Atlas swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. "Gregor Faust."

Masked Atlas smirked. "That's right. The man who picked up a shattered, pathetic orphan and turned him into something... useful. 

He leaned in, his voice low, taunting. "He didn't coddle you. Didn't comfort you. Didn't treat you like some lost child—"

"He trained you, molded you and you ate it all up, didn't you?"

Masked Atlas grinned, his voice laced with something almost like admiration.

"Because it was better than being weak."

Atlas's younger self sat at the desk across from Gregor, his small hands folded neatly as he listened intently.

"People are predictable, boy." Gregor said, tapping a gloved finger against the polished wood of the desk.

"They think they are rational, but they act on impulse, emotion, desire. Learn to see it. Read their fears, their ambitions, and you will own them before they even realize it."

Atlas nodded, his face far too serious for a child his age. "And if they resist?"

Gregor smirked. "Then you make them think it was their idea all along."

He leaned forward slightly, his piercing blue eyes gleaming with something almost amused. "Influence is an art, Atlas. Not brute force. Not fear. Control."

The memory played on. Scene after scene. Lessons upon lessons.

Gregor teaching him how to read the smallest of gestures—how a slight twitch of the lips could betray a lie, how a clenched fist could reveal suppressed anger. How words, when wielded correctly, could be sharper than any blade.

Atlas absorbed it all. Every lesson. Every manipulation. Every tactic.

"And you wonder why you ended up the way you did" Masked Atlas mused, gesturing to the scene before them.

"The man who loved you? Forgotten. The girl who called you family? Lost in a haze. But this bastard? Oh, you remember every single thing he taught you, don't you?"

The memory twisted. The boy at the desk became older. Atlas was no longer a child. He was 18 now.

He sat across from Gregor, the same desk between them—but this time, it was different.

Gregor. His mentor's piercing blue eyes locked onto him, cold and calculating. "You're finally ready, Atlas."

Atlas's heart pounded. "For what?"

"I know where your siblings are" Gregor said smoothly, tapping his fingers against the desk.

"I've always known."

Something cold slithered down Atlas's spine.

Atlas felt his world tilt. "You… knew?" His voice cracked.

Gregor smirked. "Did you really think I wouldn't? I trained you, molded you—I taught you everything."

Atlas's hands clenched. The weight of years of training, of learning to manipulate, to deceive, to survive, all culminated in that moment.

"Where are they?" He forced his voice to stay steady.

Gregor's smirk widened. "Find them yourself."

Atlas stilled.

Gregor tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "If you're truly as capable as I made you, you'll figure it out."

And so, Atlas did. It took months of planning, deceit, and calculated murder.

Gregor died by his hand. It was a perfect accident. The perfect murder.

But by the time Atlas found his siblings… they were dead.

Eighteen years old. Alone. Devoid of purpose.

"And that." Masked Atlas whispered, his voice dripping with mockery, pointing at the cheek of his dead siblings.

"That was the moment you truly broke. You killed the only other father figure you had, thinking it would set you free." 

Masked Atlas let out a breathy laugh. "But in the end, you lost everything anyway."

Atlas stood, silent. Numb.

"Say it" Masked Atlas taunted. "Say you regret it. Say you wish you had never learned his lessons. Say you want to forget him."

Atlas couldn't. The past was who he was. And that was the true curse.

Masked Atlas's grin twitched.

Then—

A fist slammed into Atlas's face with bone-crushing force.

He staggered, pain exploding through his jaw as he barely caught himself before collapsing. Blood dripped from his split lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, glaring up—

Only to see something different.

To see Masked Atlas's expression shift.

The usual taunting smirk was gone, replaced by something darker. Frustration. Rage. His hands trembled at his sides, his breath coming fast, his fingers twitching—like he wanted to hit him again.

"Why…" Masked Atlas's voice was low, almost guttural. "Why won't you just break already?!"

Atlas panted, his ears ringing. "Because you don't get to win."

The world lurched violently.

Atlas barely had a second to react before the scene around him changed again.

He was older now—twenty.

He sat alone in a dimly lit room, his back hunched, his arms resting limply against the desk. An empty bottle of something strong rolled across the wooden floor. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol and exhaustion. Papers were strewn across the desk—documents, ledgers, business plans, contracts.

But he wasn't looking at them.

He was staring at a knife.

His fingers traced the handle absently, his expression void of emotion.

The blade was clean. Sharp. Unused. Because he had tried.

So many times. And every time, he had stopped. Just as he was about slit it, he stopped. Every single time.

Coward.

He had grown his business, built an empire from nothing, climbed from the depths of despair with only his mind, turned pain into strategy, survival into power—

And yet. None of it mattered.

Not really..

"Ahhh, this part's my favourite!" Masked Atlas's voice echoed in mock delight as he sauntered around the memory.

"Atlas Fucking Faust, the brilliant, manipulative genius—reduced to a miserable wreck, failing at the one thing he actually wanted to do."

Atlas flinched.

"So." Masked Atlas continued, voice brimming with fake sympathy

"You did what you do best, didn't you? You distracted yourself. You turned your pain into numbers, investments, strategies.

His voice dropped into a whisper, curling around Atlas like smoke.

"You became so consumed with building an empire… that you forgot how to feel."

Atlas's hands clenched into fists. The memory twisted again.

This time, he wasn't alone.