30 Minutes Prior
Dracula held Atlas aloft by the throat, his grip unyielding as steel. The boy struggled faintly, his body writhing in silent desperation, but it was futile against the ancient being's strength. His golden eyes—once defiant, now clouded with panic—darted wildly, searching for escape or salvation that wasn't there.
'Fuck, am I gonna die again? Really?' Atlas thought, the coldness of Dracula's hands seeping into his veins like frost claiming warmth.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, rising higher and higher until it felt like a war drum pounding out the seconds left to live. Memories surged forward without warning—the sharp sting of his first death, drunk and falling from grace, the despair still lingering like an open wound. Then came the second time, consumed by rage and vengeance as he watched Eli crumple before him, lifeless.
They say what happens twice will come for you thrice—and here he was, staring down the barrel once more.
