The emergency council chamber smelled like polished marble and old panic.
Only seven high-ranking members sat at the crescent table, plus Elara standing rigid at attention and Atlas lounging in a reinforced restraint chair like it was a park bench.
Raphael presided from the center, wings tucked tight, expression carved from disapproval.
"Atlas Vale," Raphael began, voice smooth as always. "The Theta-9 incident has elevated you from anomaly to Class-Z existential threat.
We are here to decide whether you spend the next century in a suppression vault or face immediate dissolution for the safety of Middle Heaven."
Atlas tilted his head. Mortal Insight clicked on without fanfare. No dramatic glow, no announcement. Just threads—thin, pulsing lines of fear—snaking off every person in the room.
He saw them clearly now. Colors, intensities, targets. It felt like reading subtitles on reality.
