20 | ☕Atlass Invasion ☕ #3
The words caught in her throat, choking her as she tried to process what had just happened.
Her heart was a relentless drumbeat in her chest, the sound drowning out everything else.
He didn't just drop a bomb on her; he'd detonated an entire arsenal, and now she was standing in the fallout, gasping for air.
He didn't rush her. He didn't even seem to notice the havoc he'd wreaked. Instead, he repeated it, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. "I want you." His hands moved with that maddening precision, as though these words were simple, obvious, and entirely unremarkable.
And in that moment, the surrounding air thickened—grew heavier with each passing second.
The room, once familiar and safe, suddenly felt suffocating.
She could almost feel it closing in on her, the walls pressing tighter, the space between them growing larger and more suffocating.
She couldn't breathe. Her chest felt as if it had caved in under the weight of his words.
His words hung there, dangling in the air, thick and unavoidable.
It was like some awful thing that couldn't be unheard, some truth she wasn't ready to hear.
His gaze never wavered. He watched her with that same infuriatingly calm expression, as though he'd just revealed something trivial, like the weather or his lunch plans.
But it wasn't trivial. Not in the slightest.
Anya, for once, didn't know what to do. She was paralyzed.
Her brain, usually quick with a sharp comeback, was scrambling—stuttering like a malfunctioning engine.
She couldn't form a single coherent thought.
Her heart was hammering in her chest, but it wasn't from anger anymore.
It was from shock. She didn't know what to feel.
Couldn't figure out what her body was doing.
She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
And then, in a burst of desperation, the only thing she could think to do was grab a dumpling—and throw it.
At his smug, infuriating, ridiculously self-assured face.
It was the only action she could control at that moment. It wasn't the best solution, but it was all she had left. And, if she was being honest, part of her knew it was kind of funny. He deserved it. Deserved to be jarred by something. A little jolt to break him out of that damn composure.
But then, somehow—somehow—he caught it. Without even looking at it.
The dumpling flew, and, in one effortless movement, he reached up and snatched it out of the sky like he'd done it a thousand times before. No hesitation. No panic. He just... caught it. His fingers grazed it as it passed, plucking it from mid-air as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
His eyes never left hers. He didn't flinch, didn't even smile in surprise. That smirk—that infuriating, unbeatable smirk—remained in place. He didn't even seem to think the dumpling was worth any reaction beyond that.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he popped it into his mouth. No rush. No haste. Like it was just another part of their strange, dysfunctional routine. He chewed. Took his time. It was like he was savouring it. Her reaction. Her frustration. The whole thing.
He swallowed. The movement of his throat was more infuriating than anything else he'd done so far.
And then, with that goddamn smirk still plastered on his face, he spoke.
The words echoed in her mind like a taunt, like a reminder that, once again, he had turned the situation on its head and made it something ridiculous.
He had completely disarmed her—literally and figuratively—and now he was standing there, perfectly composed, praising her for the only thing she'd been able to do in that moment of pure madness.
Anya stared at him, her body frozen, as though she were trying to will herself into action.
But her limbs wouldn't obey. Her mind was still stuttering, trying to piece everything together—his words, the way he'd caught the dumpling, how everything had spiralled so far beyond her control.
Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of disbelief and rage and...
something else. Something she wasn't ready to name.
Finally, she turned on her heel, unable to look at him for a second longer. She walked straight into the living room, needing to escape. She needed a moment to breathe, to think, to feel something other than this swirling knot of emotions.
And then, as soon as she was out of his reach, out of the suffocating space of that kitchen, she did the only thing she could think of: she screamed into a pillow. Loud. Long. A sound that probably reverberated through the entire apartment complex and shook the neighbours' windows.
And Atlas?
He smiled at his success.
A small, knowing curve of his lips, like he'd just won a game and had been expecting it all along.
He didn't rush after her, didn't chase her into the living room to gloat or demand a reaction.
No, he simply stood there, unmoved, enjoying the quiet aftermath of his subtle, but undeniably effective, victory.
There was no trace of regret on his face. No hesitation. Just the satisfaction of someone who knew, deep down, that he'd pressed all the right buttons.