Scene 8

Two years later, in 2015, an impeccably dressed man strode across his expansive office, the black marble floor stretching wide beneath his steps.

He took his seat at the far end of the desk. Behind him, nothing but towering windows—beyond them, a forest, and past its edge, a sheer cliff overlooking an endless sea.

This man bore a name that meant everything.

Atlas.

He ran a finger across the surface of the desk. At once, a flawless, almost surgical hum sounded as a screen rose to life.

A face appeared.

Gray suit, brown hair, a razor-edged smile. His most trusted assistant—Lucas.

Atlas brought his hands together, resting them on the desk.
“Good morning, Lucas. Any news on the boy?”

“Which one?”

“Andrew… or rather, Benjamín.”

Lucas pressed his lips together. “Which one?”

Atlas frowned. “How many damn Benjamíns are there who used to be Andrew?”

“Plenty.”

A sharp exhale left Atlas. “Benjamín Forklift.”

“Oh, right—the one with the fabricated surname.” He paused, thinking. “Things are actually going quite well,” he said at last. “The boy is definitely trying.”

Atlas sighed, weary. “Trying doesn’t mean he’s changed.”

“I’ve been watching him, just as you asked. He’s behaving—trust me.”

Atlas let himself sink into the chair.
His head spun for a moment.
Then he steadied.

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s a better moment than now to set things in motion,” he said. “Everything is falling into place…”

Perhaps the great messenger hadn’t lied.

But he couldn’t begin operations and send the council into a panic.

They knew how it would end.

It could mean the end itself was near.

“I’ll speak with the council,” he concluded.

Lucas nodded. “Let me know if anything comes up.”

Atlas swept his hand across the screen as if brushing away dust, and it vanished.

He rose, adjusting his tie.

Time to see what awaited in the meeting room.