Mercy was not in my nature.
And threats rarely looked like threats at first — they started small, helpless, quiet.
They started just like this.
3
Atlas
The girl hadn’t spoken a single word since I pulled her out of that house.Not one.She barely even breathed.She sat curled against the car door, stiff and silent, gripping her nightgown with both hands like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
Maybe it was.It was the last piece of the life she had.The last thing that connected her to a home and a family she’d never see again.
Everything else had been taken from her in a single night.So she held on to what was left.
The further we got from the city, the darker the roads became.Streetlights disappeared.Houses thinned out.The road narrowed into a strip of cracked asphalt swallowed by trees and old stone walls that looked like they’d been standing since the world began.
When we reached the small fork in the road, I pulled over, killed the engine, and stepped out.Cold night air hit my face like a warning.Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked around to her side.
I opened the door.
“Out.”
She hesitated—for one second, maybe two—before she climbed out.Her legs buckled.She gripped the door frame to keep from collapsing.She still wouldn’t look at me.She wouldn’t even lift her chin.
That should have made this easier.
Instead, guilt dug under my ribs, harsh and insistent.A thought I hated flashed through my mind: maybe killing her would’ve been kinder than leaving her to survive a world that wouldn’t spare her twice.
I forced it away.
The convent sat at the end of a gravel path, lit only by the moon.A long stone building with narrow windows and a bell tower that looked too small to protect anyone.It was quiet.Still.Untouched by the kind of violence that had created both of us.
I’d been here before—more times than the sisters probably wanted to remember.
A donation when our reputation needed polishing.Money for repairs after a storm tore off part of their roof.Cash for a new heating system when the old one failed.
Every time, Sister Ana accepted it with a tired nod—always grateful, but never surprised.Resigned to knowing exactly which sins were paying her bills but choosing not to say it out loud.
Tonight, the door opened before I could knock.
Sister Ana stood there.
She was older than I remembered.Thinner.But her eyes hadn’t changed.She was still astute enough to narrow her eyes in suspicion as I stood on her front doorstep.
“Atlas,” she exclaimed, not hiding her surprise.
“Sister Ana.”
Her gaze dropped to the girl beside me.The girl stiffened.
“We don’t usually see you this late.”
“It was an urgent matter.”
“I don’t recall a time when you came and it wasn’t urgent.”
I ignored that and stepped aside so she could see the girl clearly.She didn’t lift her head.She was shaking, small, silent.