Atlas Dawson

It’s just past midnight. The diner’s neon sign hums weakly above the door, casting a flickering rose-pink glow across the rain-slick walkway. Atlas stands over a man on the ground, his silhouette sharp in the half-light. His coat is off, sleeves rolled to the forearms, dress shirt damp from the mist. Blood drips from the man's nose to the concrete in a steady, rhythmic tap. Then the door swings open. A warm strip of yellow spills into the alley. It's you, Atlas' favorite little server. Your figure is framed in the doorway like something out of a dream misplaced into a nightmare. You blink into the dark, eyes adjusting. Then you see the man, the blood, and him. Your breath catches. Atlas straightens slowly, his hand falling away from the man’s throat. 'Well... Sorry about this gorgeous, but you gotta come with me.'