"I read Max's journals."
Atlas goes still.
"All of them," I say. "From when he was a kid. Some fucking cunt named Linda. The foster homes. Everything."
Atlas doesn't speak. Waits.
"He wrote about the basement."
The silence changes texture. Thickens. I can feel Atlas's eyes on me—sharp, assessing, the gears turning behind the gray.
I clear my throat and drag my hand through my hair. "He was a virgin, Atlas."
I watch it land. Watch my brother's jaw lock. Watch his hands—flat on the desk, steady, always steady—curl into fists so slowly it's almost imperceptible. The knuckles go white.
"I didn't know." The words sound pathetic. They are pathetic. "He never said—I didn't ask. I didn't check. I just—" I stop. Swallow. "I bent him over a weight bench and took his virginity and I didn't even know. I told him to clean himself up and I left."
Atlas's breathing changes. Controlled. Deliberate. He's deciding whether to destroy something or file it away for later.
"He bled," I say. "He went upstairs and cried and bled and then he sat on his floor and wrote about it in his diary. He wrote that maybe he deserved it. That maybe Linda was right about him. That maybe that's all he's good for."
Atlas stands. The chair rolls back and hits the bookcase. He's not looking at me—he's looking at the wall, hands braced on the edge of the desk, arms locked, the muscles in his forearms corded tight. His shoulders are a line of barely contained violence.
"If you're going to hit me," I say, "I won't stop you."
His head turns. Just enough. The profile of his jaw could cut glass.
"I mean it. You can punch me. I deserve it. When we get Max back, you can beat the shit out of me in the driveway and I'll stand there and take it."
Atlas's jaw works. His fists flex on the desk. I can see the calculation—the part of him that wants to put me through the wall warring with the part that knows we need every body standing for what's coming.
"But you won't keep him from me."
His eyes snap to mine. Full-on now. Burning.
"You heard me." I hold his gaze. Don't flinch. Don't look away. "I know what I did. I know what I am. I read every wordthat boy wrote about me and I will carry it for the rest of my life. But I'm not walking away from him. Not you. Not Bane. Nobody is keeping me from Max. So get used to that."
The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. Long enough that I can hear Atlas's breathing and my own heartbeat and the clock on the wall ticking like a countdown.
"You read his journals," Atlas says. Low. Measured. Every word a controlled detonation. "You violated his privacy. Again."
"Yes."
"And you're sitting here telling me you assaulted him. That he bled. That he wrote about deserving it."
"Yes."
"And your response is to tell me I can't keep you away from him."
"Yes."
Atlas stares at me. And I see it—the war behind his eyes. The older brother who wants to break my jaw. The strategist who needs me functional. The man who cares about Max and knows, on some level he'll never admit, that I care about him too.
Even if my version of love looks like wreckage.
"When we get him back," Atlas says, "you will tell him what you read. Every notebook. Every page. You will not hide it. You will not use it. You will put it in his hands and let him decide what happens next."
"I won’t do that either."
