1
Heath woke up gasping.
His body was slick with sweat, his sheets tangled around his legs. His heart pounded in his chest, slow and heavy, as if something inside him had shifted overnight.
Flashes of the night before flickered through his mind—Clay’s hands on him, the way his touch burned, the moment his eyes had turned black.
"Atlas sends his regards."
The words echoed, deep and resonant, like an incantation still thrumming in his bones.
A shudder ran through him, but it wasn’t fear. Not entirely.
It was longing.
A deep, aching pull in his gut that made his skin crawl and his breath hitch.
Heath sat up abruptly, rubbing his hands over his face. His body still felt… off. His fingers trembled as he reached for the bundle of crystals on his nightstand—amethyst, rose quartz, obsidian—his nightly protection.
The moment his skin touched them, a wave of disgust rolled through him.
He recoiled, nearly knocking them to the floor.
His stomach twisted.
Why did they feel wrong?
These were his things. His protection. His light.
But now, as he looked at them, they seemed… pathetic.
Weak.
Heath swallowed hard. He turned to his altar in the corner of his room—a sacred space he had tended for years. Candles, fresh herbs, a small cauldron filled with dried lavender. His tarot deck lay neatly stacked beside it, the top card showing The Star, a symbol of hope, renewal.
He felt nothing.
No warmth. No comfort.
Only revulsion.
Heath’s breath came faster, his hands curling into fists.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He stood, heart racing, and knocked the altar over.
The crash echoed in the small apartment, candles rolling across the floor, dried flowers scattering. He stared at the mess, his chest heaving, but instead of guilt—
There was satisfaction.
A dark thrill curled inside him, deep and dangerous.
The love and light bullshit he had clung to for so long felt false. Weak. Useless.
He had seen something real last night.
Felt something powerful.
And now, his mind burned with a singular, undeniable truth—
He needed to find Atlas.
2
The first thing Heath did was grab his laptop.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he opened his browser and typed the name into the search bar.
Atlas.
Nothing useful.
Mythological references. Fitness trainers. Companies named after the Titan.
He gritted his teeth and refined his search.
Atlas, The Den, mysterious muscle bear.
Still nothing.
A flicker of frustration burned in his gut. But beneath it, something else stirred—an instinct, whispering to him, guiding his fingers as he typed a new phrase.
Atlas, The Den, darkness.
One link caught his eye.
A forum post.
The Den’s Darkest Secret—Have You Seen Him?
Heath clicked.
The post was nearly a decade old, buried deep in a forgotten paranormal message board. The user, VoidTouched, described meeting a man at The Den who was unlike anyone else—massive, charismatic, wrong.
The way he pulled people in. The way they changed after meeting him.
The way some of them were never seen again.
A chill crawled up Heath’s spine, but it wasn’t fear.
It was recognition.
Because every word in that post described exactly what Heath had felt in Atlas’s presence.
He scrolled down, searching for more, but there were no replies, no updates. The original poster had vanished, their account deleted.
A grin stretched across Heath’s lips.
Good.
That meant they had found him.
And soon—
So would Heath.
3
The hunger grew as the day went on.
Heath ignored texts from his friends. Ignored the calls from his coven group chat. The old Heath would have spent his Saturday at the crystal shop, meditating, doing a tarot reading for the week ahead.
The new Heath?
He spent the day digging.
But the deeper he went, the more frustrating it became. Atlas wasn’t real—not in any way that left a trail. No pictures, no records, no digital footprint.
The Den had no social media posts mentioning him. No gossip threads. No whispers beyond the ones buried in paranormal forums long abandoned.
It was as if he had never existed.
Or worse—
As if he had been erased.
4
By the time night fell, Heath had made up his mind.
He was going back to The Den.
He needed to see him again.
He needed to worship.
The thought sent a shudder through him—not of fear, but of pleasure.
But when he got to the bar, something was wrong.
The air still felt thick with energy, but it was… different.
Lesser.
Dimmed.
And when he asked around, the answer was always the same.
"Haven’t seen him."
"He left town."
"He’s gone."
Gone.
A cold, hollow rage swelled in Heath’s chest.
No.
Atlas wouldn’t leave.
Not when Heath had only just awakened.
He stood in the middle of the bar, body thrumming, skin itching, breath shallow.
And then—
A hand on his shoulder.
Firm. Strong.
Familiar.
He turned.
Clay.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Clay’s lips.
"Looking for him?"
Heath swallowed hard.
Clay’s fingers dug in slightly, a subtle, possessive grip.
"He’ll be back," Clay murmured, voice thick with certainty. "And when he comes—"
His black eyes gleamed.
"—you’ll be ready."
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