"Everyone here understands the gravity of the situation," Mr. Sanchez began, addressing the room with a voice that strained to stay steady. The cluster of doctors and nurses absorbed his words, the heavy tension palpable. Beneath his composed exterior, I could sense the tremor of fear—fear that was justified. If Atlantic caught even a glimpse of Mr. Sanchez, I had no doubt the man would end his life on the spot, no hesitation.

"Our priority is to locate him and secure his return swiftly," Mr. Sanchez continued, his eyes scanning the room. "For now, keep this under wraps. The public doesn't need to be alarmed yet."

I observed my colleagues—each one visibly unsettled, exchanging anxious glances. The weight of impending danger hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Their fear mirrored my own, though I faced a different kind of peril: the man I was heading home to now, the man whose darkness I sought to understand, to heal.

Then, as if to fracture the heavy atmosphere, Mr. Sanchez shifted tone. "On a brighter note, let's take this moment to congratulate Dr. Ross on receiving the Most Promising Award!" He gestured toward the man in question, whose face brightened with that infuriating, smug grin.

Applause erupted around the room, a chorus of congratulations and well-wishes. I forced a polite clapping, the burn of jealousy licking at my chest. Dr. Ross hadn't earned that recognition honestly—another's work, plagiarized and paraded as his own.

"The ceremony will be televised live," Mr. Sanchez added, a hint of pride in his voice. "Dress accordingly. No scrubs."

I shot Dr. Ross a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but he never met my eyes. I turned on my heel and exited swiftly, eagerness to escape the room overtaking any desire to linger.

Back at my apartment, the atmosphere was different. Atlantic wasn't lurking in the backyard as he had been the previous evening. Instead, I found him seated on my worn couch, eyes fixed on the flickering television screen. Explaining the device to him had been far from simple, but here he was—absorbed in a world I barely recognized.

He turned his head as I entered, his cold gaze locking on me. My steps were heavy with frustration; I tossed my jacket onto the counter and kicked off my shoes with more force than usual.

"That bastard," I muttered under my breath. Approaching him, I planted myself in front of the towering figure. "Dr. Ross didnt make that breakthrough—someone else did, and he just stole their research!"

Atlantic's expression remained unreadable, flat and distant. Whether he cared about my tirade was unclear, but I needed to vent, to release the frustration that gnawed at my insides.

"That award should've been mine," I confessed, voice low but fierce. "I will win it one day."

His dark eyes lingered on me, inscrutable. He wore the black t-shirt and joggers I'd picked out for him just yesterday. The faint scent of cherry body wash—my favorite—clung to him, evidence of another shower taken without complaint.

I pivoted toward the living room wall, eyes rising to a photograph hung just above eye level. It was a snapshot from my childhood: my father, beaming broadly, clutching an award, with a younger version of me standing at his side, cheeks flushed with pride.

Before I could linger longer, Atlantic's voice broke the stillness, cold and quiet behind me. "You never speak of him," he said—"your father."

A sharp pang stabbed through my chest. Swallowing the sudden tightness, I turned to face him, meeting the shadowed depths of his gaze. A stray lock of hair fell over his forehead, softening his otherwise formidable presence.

"You dont speak of yours, either," I replied, the words tasting bitter.

He nodded slowly, shadows dancing in his eyes. "Thats true. But you didnt kill my father."

The words landed hard. The hospital fire, the ruin of my fathers past—Atlantics veiled accusation stirred a knot in my stomach.

The rational side of me, the doctor trained to find the good in darkness, whispered, He saved lives before it happened.

Atlantic murmured thoughtfully, "No. I hadnt."

My brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I killed my father," he confessed, voice low and haunted. "I was sixteen. They let me out, and I did it. He allowed those experiments, the trials they ran on me. He turned me over to them, locked me away. But the public never knew. They wanted to protect his image."

Surprise flickered across my face as I absorbed the revelation. Atlantic reached out, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. Despite the tension, I let him, standing close to the very man I should fear.

"Ive never been good," he whispered, voice raw. "Goodness is for people like you."

A smile broke across my face, involuntary and fragile. "You think Im good?" I asked the man I was using to unravel the mystery of his own destruction.

"I do," he replied, dark eyes never softening. I bit my lip, returning the smile, but he remained stone-faced.

His fingers grazed through my hair, a fleeting tenderness. "I could kill Dr. Ross," he said quietly. "If you want."

My eyes widened, startled by the casual cruelty in his tone.

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head.

He stepped back, irritation flickering in his gaze. "Why not?"

"Because I dont want people to die," I said, as plainly as if explaining the obvious.

He scoffed. "They deserve it. Every last one of them. They should feel the rage Ive carried all my life before I tear them apart."

His voice rose with fury; it was a raw hunger for revenge. Atlantic didnt want to be confined to my apartment; he wanted to hunt down every enemy and annihilate them without hesitation.

"Do you realize what Ive endured, Aria?" he demanded, voice sharp. "Torture, endless testing, bullets through every inch of me to see if Id die."

"Ive lived in misery," he spat. "Because of them. Im going to find them, and Im going to rip their heads off myself."

"Atlantic!" I interrupted, cutting through his spiraling anger. His glare remained fixed on the floor. I softened my touch, placing my hands on his chest, guiding him to sit beside me on the couch. I cupped his cold cheeks in my hands; his skin was chilling to the touch—he was not warm-blooded.

"I understand your thirst for vengeance," I murmured gently. He met my eyes, dark and vulnerable, finally lifting his gaze from the floor.

"But you cant go out there," I said quietly. "Its too dangerous. We need them to believe youre gone, far away — out of state, maybe even overseas."

Unspoken words lingered between us: Stay here, so I can find a way to end this—end you—before the world is lost. But I kept that thought locked away.

His gaze locked onto mine as he reached for my hand, his large, rough fingers enveloping mine. He pressed it against the left side of his chest.

"Do you feel that, Aria?" he asked. "Theres no heartbeat. No heart."

We sat in silence, the weight of his confession settling between us. I searched for words, for comfort, for a way forward.

"Please," I whispered, "just do this for me. Stay."

He didnt answer. My hand slipped away, but his palm found my cheek, warm and steady despite his own coldness.

"Youre not what I expected," he breathed, thumb tracing my skin. "Little lamb."

"And youre not either," I whispered back.

—

Atlantic arched violently against the cold metal slab beneath him, electric shocks tearing through his body for what felt like the third time that hour. He could feel the scream rising in his throat, vibrations thrumming through his chest, but the ringing in his ears swallowed all sound.

"Please stop," he begged, voice hoarse. "I didnt ask for this."

As always, the people in the sterile room ignored his pleas, their faces blank, their focus elsewhere. He was a ghost to them—an experiment, not a man.