The Broken Paths

A filthy warehouse. The air thick with the stench of damp wood, sweat, and something far worse—hopelessness. A sea of slaves stood in silence, their eyes dull, their bodies unmoving. They weren't people here. They were inventory. His younger self stood among them, expression unreadable, observing.

Then—his gaze landed on her.

Meyu.

She didn't flinch like the others. Didn't cower. Her body was battered, starved, but her eyes? Dead.

Atlas tilted his head, watching as his younger self scrutinized her—not as a person, but as a variable. An object. A piece in his chess board mind.

Masked Atlas let out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "And then you did the one thing I never expected. You saved her. Why? Because of some grand moral code? Because you suddenly developed a conscience?"

He scoffed. "Oh, please. Let's not rewrite history."

Atlas's younger self wasn't moved by pity. He was calculating.

Measuring the weight of every soul in that room.

Who would break? Who would serve? Who would fight?

And yet—

He chose her.

"Why?" Masked Atlas leaned down, sneering.

"Why her, Atlas? Was it really kindness? Or was it because you saw yourself in her? A reflection of what you could have been? Or—worse—what you already were?"

Atlas stared at the scene, silent. For once, he had no answer. No sarcasm. No clever retort. No joke.

Just silence. The memory shifted.

The warehouse doors stood open, the cold night air pouring in, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat inside. Behind him, murmurs filled the space—the hesitant, disbelieving whispers of those who had been freed.

Meyu stood in front of him, her posture rigid. She wasn't trembling. Not like the others. She wasn't crying. Just staring at him, waiting. Atlas had bought her for 5 gold. Using every bit of his wealth into freeing this broken girl.

Atlas exhaled sharply and looked at her, really looked at her.

She was just a kid, barely a teenager, maybe 16 at best. Battered, starving, yet standing like nothing in this world could break her if it didn't already.

"You're free" he said, voice flat, as if stating the weather.

"Go."

Meyu blinked once, her expression blank. Then, a flicker of something—confusion.

"...What?" her voice, hoarse from disuse, cracked slightly.

Atlas crossed his arms, irritated that he even had to repeat himself. "You heard me. I bought you, and now I'm letting you go. Congratulations. You're no longer property."

Silence stretched between them. She didn't move.

"I don't understand?" she finally said, her tone almost accusatory. "Why?"

Atlas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't own you. I just hated the way they looked at you. You can leave, stay, stab me—it's up to you. I also just felt like it. Because I can. Did what felt right. No deeper meaning, sorry. Because I don't particularly enjoy the concept of human ownership. Pick whichever reason that helps you sleep at night."

Meyu's fists clenched. "That's not an answer!"

"It is if you stop thinking about it. Now go along, you're free." Atlas turned on his heel, walking away, dismissing the conversation entirely.

But she followed.

"Then why buy me at all?" she demanded, her voice gaining strength.

"Oh, for fu—" Atlas groaned, turning back.

"What do you want, a receipt? A contract with the fine print? Would that satisfy you? Would it make you feel better if I said I did it out of the kindness of my heart?"

Meyu didn't react. She just stared. As if searching for something in him, something he wasn't willing to show.

Atlas clicked his tongue, exasperated. "You don't owe me anything. You're free. End of story. Leave."

Meyu opened her mouth, hesitated—then closed it. She lowered her gaze, staring at the worn floorboards beneath her feet, the gears in her mind turning.

Atlas didn't wait to see what she chose. He walked away, vanishing into the cold, indifferent night.

"And that was something wasn't it. " Masked Atlas clapped his hands together, snapping Atlas back into the present

"This was our main event, folks! What a show!" He whistled. 

"Truly, what a touching scene! A man, so benevolent, so generous, letting a poor slave girl go, expecting nothing in return! You're just so noble, Atlas."

Atlas remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Except, wait—hold on!" Masked Atlas gasped, feigning shock.

"You don't actually believe that load of crap, do you?" He leaned in, voice dropping into something sharp, almost venomous.

"You were reading her. Studying her, just like you do with everyone else. She wasn't some exception. She was just another equation to solve, another pattern to break."

Atlas's fists clenched. Wanting to say back something but knew this was the truth. This is him.

Masked Atlas grinned wider. "Come on. You didn't set her free because you were a good person. That's adorable, but let's be real—you did it because you saw something interesting. A gamble. A test. A question. 'What happens if I let her go?' That's what you really wanted to know, isn't it?"

Atlas's breathing slowed, but the weight in his chest grew heavier.

Masked Atlas's voice turned into a low chuckle. "And ohhh, look at the results. She came back. She devoted herself to you. So tell me, Atlas—was she truly free in the end?"

Atlas lifted his head, eyes burning with defiance. "She was."

Masked Atlas froze for a split second before his grin twitched. "Oh?"

Atlas pushed himself up, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You're right. I read her. I studied her. I calculated every variable. And I still let her go. Not because of pity, not because of weakness—but because I wanted her to have a choice."

Masked Atlas's fingers twitched, his stance shifting slightly. "You—"

"I could have controlled her" Atlas continued, gaining ground.

"Gregor taught me how. I could have broken her down, built her back up into something loyal, something useful. But I didn't. Because for the first time in my life, I saw someone who was just as ruined as I was. And I gave her something no one ever gave me. A chance to decide for herself."

Silence.

Then—

A fist slammed into Atlas's face again.

He barely had time to react before the force drove him into the ground, the impact cracking the void beneath them. His ears rang, his head spinning, and before he could move—

Masked Atlas was on top of him. Gripping his collar, his voice was no longer mocking. No longer amused.

It was furious.

"Why!?" Masked Atlas snarled, his painted smile warping into something almost twisted.

"You had the perfect opportunity. The perfect test subject. You had control. And you threw it away? After everything Gregor taught you? After everything you became? Why?!" punching him as he kept asking, each punch becoming heavier and heavier.

Atlas coughed, blood pooling at the corner of his lips. His body ached, but his mind was clear.

He met Masked Atlas's burning gaze with cold certainty.

Masked Atlas let out a breathless laugh, his grip tightening on Atlas's collar. "You do realize, don't you? Every hit, every word, every torment—this is all you. I'm not some external demon haunting you. I'm you, Atlas. Your deepest, most repressed thoughts. The things you wish you could forget, but can't." He leaned in, pulling his collar upwards and bringing atlas ears closer. His voice dripping with venom.

"You're the one doing this to yourself. Because deep down, no matter how much you pretend otherwise—you believe you deserve it."

Atlas's breath hitched. But before he could say anything, the world lurched violently once more.

Atlas was with a noble. Sitting across from a trembling noble, the very man responsible for ordering the massacre of his family.

The man was sweating through his silks, his hands clutching a goblet of wine too tightly. His rings glinted under the chandelier light, gaudy and excessive—remnants of the wealth built upon the suffering of others.

Atlas smiled, pleasant, polite. Deceptive.

"You seem tense, Lord Reinhardt" he said smoothly, pouring himself another glass of wine.

"Is something wrong?"

The noble swallowed hard. "I... I just find it difficult to believe that someone of your, ah, status wishes to invest in my business. You're—"

"Young? Unproven? A foreigner?" Atlas arched a brow, swirling the wine in his glass.

"All valid concerns. But I assure you, my wealth is very real. My influence, even more so."

Reinhardt forced a chuckle, attempting to regain some composure. "Of course, of course. It's just... unexpected."

Atlas leaned forward slightly, the dim candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. "The world is full of unexpected things, Lord Reinhardt. Some more pleasant than others."

The noble shifted in his seat. "Well, if you are serious, then we can finalize the agreements."

Atlas smiled wider. Hook, line, and sinker.

The next scene shifted abruptly.

Blood. So much blood.

The lavish estate was in ruins, its marble floors stained red. Servants, guards, even the noble's family—all dead. The estate was burning in flames. 

Atlas stood amidst the carnage, rolling his wrists, calm. Unshaken.

Meyu was beside him, silent. She didn't question why he had asked her to accompany him. She never did. If Atlas told her they needed to be here, she followed. If he told her they needed to be killed, he would order assassins or kill them himself.

But she wasn't looking at the bodies. She was looking at him.

"You got what you wanted" she said simply.

Atlas exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "That depends. Do you think it was worth it?"

Meyu didn't answer. She didn't have to.

She had seen what he did. How he manipulated Reinhardt into handing over everything—his wealth, his assets, his power—before silencing every last witness.

And she never once questioned him.

"So tell me, Atlas" Masked Atlas's voice coiled around him like a serpent, pulling him back into the void.

"Are you so different? You talk about giving Meyu a choice, about not being Gregor, about not controlling people. But you knew. You always knew she'd follow you to the ends of the earth."

Atlas's breathing was steady, his expression unreadable. "And if I am?"

Masked Atlas let out a mocking laugh. "That's the best part! You don't even need me to answer. You already know the truth. You're not different at all."

The world lurched again, shifting violently, and suddenly, Atlas was 21.

Meyu stood in front of him, her expression unreadable, but something dark burned in her gaze. The dim glow of the lanterns in his study flickered against the storm raging outside. She was tense, arms folded, yet her voice was steady.

"Why don't you order me?" she asked.

Atlas, sitting behind his desk, barely looked up from the documents he was reviewing. "What?"

"Why don't you order me?" Meyu repeated, stepping closer.

"You own me, don't you? That's how this works. You could tell me to serve you, to amuse you—hell, you could force me into your bed like any other noble did, pleasure you and I wouldn't have the right to resist." Her voice was sharp, but her fists trembled at her sides.

"So why don't you?"

Atlas finally set his quill down, exhaling as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're overthinking things again."

Meyu's eyes narrowed. "Am I? Or are you the one pretending you don't know what I'm talking about?"

Atlas tilted his head, watching her carefully. She was angry. But underneath that anger—there was fear. Wounds too deep to be seen.

"Plenty of people did that to you, didn't they?" His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words made her flinch.

Her nails dug into her palms. "That's not the point. I want to know why you don't do it. Why you don't take what you could?"

Atlas leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the desk. "Because it's not who I am."

Silence stretched between them.