His body wasn't just crumbling—it was betraying him. A mutiny of nerves and marrow. Flesh that had once moved like lightning now stuttered under its own weight, rib by rib, breath by breath. His bones no longer bent with force—they cracked under it.
Atlas dropped to one knee, not in reverence but in collapse.
A white-hot jolt lanced through his chest, sharp enough to blind him for a heartbeat. Then another.
Each breath felt like drawing razors through his lungs. His ribs ached like they'd been kicked in by a god, each inhale a warning, each exhale a scream. His skin burned with fever, but it wasn't heat—it was pressure. Something beneath the surface pressing outward, testing the seams.
And then—
[@#$$## Heart is reacting]
His heart didn't beat. It thrummed, a caged beast behind his sternum, slamming against the bars of his chest like it wanted out. Not a rhythm, not a pulse—something wild, something old.
