The alarms start as a low growl in the walls, rising to a scream.
Then—silence.
The kind that means every system just failed at once.
Atlas doesn't flinch. He knows that sound like his own heartbeat. "Backup grid's dead," he says. "Cassian's cutting the tower off from the pack channels."
You don't ask how he knows. You just feel the echo through the tether — the flash of teeth and silver in his mind, the static of anger that doesn't know whether to protect or destroy.
"Elara?" you manage.
"Securing the southern exit," Atlas says. "Or dying for the privilege."
He takes your wrist. The contact lights the thread again — bright, alive, defiant. "We don't have time for control. You follow what your body tells you. Not your fear. Not me."
"That's your version of comfort?" you ask.
"Mine doesn't include comfort." He looks at you, and the truth in his eyes is beautiful and terrible all at once. "Just survival."
He pulls you through the glass corridor. Lightning flashes behind you, and for a second you see two reflections in the glass: him — all sharp edges and control — and you, eyes glowing faintly, jaw set like someone learning what she was made for.
You look… feral.
Something explodes three floors down — a sound of metal surrendering. The lights shatter into darkness. Atlas doesn't stop…. Because He knows the dark.
You stumble once, your knees buckling. He turns and catches you against his chest. The world steadies.
"You smell like fear," he says quietly, not unkindly.
"You smell like war."
"Good. Then we match."
They reach the stairwell — cold concrete, red emergency glow painting the walls. You hear the others before you see them: claws dragging across the floor, breath that isn't human, laughter that shouldn't exist.
Atlas's voice drops an octave, all Alpha. "Scatter dogs."
You catch movement — four shapes, eyes gold in the red light. Wolves, but not the kind from myth or story. Bigger. Wrong. Their shoulders brush the railing as they prowl upward, grinning with too many teeth.
"Stay behind me," Atlas says again. His body moves before your brain catches up — a blur of muscle and moonlight. When he hits the first wolf, the sound is like a gun going off in the dark. The creature slams into the wall, dust falling like snow.
You should run. You don't. The tether won't let you. Instead, you reach for it—for him—and the pulse answers.
The next wolf lunges. You raise your hand without thinking.
The air between you folds.
Silver light flares—an invisible barrier, thin as glass but strong as rage. The beast crashes into it, howls, then bursts apart in a mist of blood and static.
You fall to your knees. The power burns through your veins like ice.
Atlas turns, eyes wide. "Lexa—"
"Don't tell me to stop!" Your voice quivers with excitement and fear
"You could kill yourself." He replies, in shock. Unaware you possessed such powers…
"Better that than watching you die!"
For a heartbeat, the air freezes. The tether is a live thing, thrumming between you like a wire strung too tight. Then Atlas moves.
He grabs your face in his hands, pulling you to your feet. "You're not dying. Not until I say so."
And then—he lets go.
He turns back toward the stairs and shifts, not fully, but enough. You hear the sound of bones remembering the right shape, the growl rising low from his throat. His silhouette expands, muscles coiling under skin, eyes burning white-blue.
The remaining Scatter wolves hesitate. They've seen Alphas before. They haven't seen this.
Atlas lunges.
The fight is short and brutal. The stairwell becomes a confession booth. When it's over, Atlas stands amid silence and ruin, breath fogging, blood drying on his jaw.
He looks at you — really looks — and for the first time, something breaks in his face. Not pain. Not fear. Recognition.
"You shouldn't have been able to do that," he says.
"I didn't," you whisper. "We did."
He wipes blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "You're changing."
The words should terrify you. They don't. They feel like truth.
"How long do I have?"
He hesitates. "Before the moon finishes what it started?"
You nod.
Atlas's jaw tightens. "Until the next full rise."
"Four nights," you say.
"Three," he corrects softly. "The blood moon shortens the cycle."
Your pulse stutters. "And what happens when it completes?"
He steps close — too close — his voice nothing but gravity.
"Then the bond becomes what it was always meant to be."
"Which is?"
"Permanent."
Your heart skips. "Permanent how?"
Atlas lowers his head until his breath touches your temple.
"Your blood will sing mine. And I will never be able to silence it again."
The tether hums — softer now, tender almost.
You should be afraid. But You're not.
Because somewhere under the thunder and ruin, a part of you whispers:
Finally.