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"The following is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names and details have been changed."

Every night at eleven o'clock, a man sits on the edge of a bed that isn't his and opens a notebook nobody was ever supposed to read. He writes the same three lines, every night, without fail — like a man whispering the combination to a safe he can't open yet. By day he wears the uniform, follows the orders, plays the role. By night, he's still running — from a woman three thousand miles away, from a line of powder he still can't unsee, from a version of himself he's been selling to anyone who'd buy it since he was a teenager.

This is Atlas. No last name. No face. Just the dark — and whatever's still alive inside it.

The lights are still off. But somewhere in the walls, the electricity is humming. And tonight, he starts feeling for the switch.

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