If dreams were scented, Atlas knew his would be filled with suffocating sandalwood incense and the chill of disinfectants. But they weren't. He could only see the red tinted smoke and the stark white walls of Mission Hospital that hinted of their existence.

His subconscious removed all things pleasant. There were no oil paintings of waterfalls and grazing deer. Light did not glint off of the expansive development in bursts of orange and purple as the sun hugged close to the horizon of mountains. The view beyond the window was black, darker and wetter than inside the Eye. Yellow light washed down on him as he stood at the foot of Grandma Georgie's bed. The doctor's clipboard was made of pink skin. Her foot tapped clay floor indented with hundreds of footsteps and the wheels of metal carts.

The longer you stay, the worse she'll be. The doctor's warning clogged the air. She never said it. She may as well have. The pressure for him to leave was palpable. But yet, he didn't. He was too tired.

Grandma Georgie's thin skin was yellow-gray with protruding purple veins. Her eyes were closed. Atlas told himself just one more minute as he stepped closer, placing his hand on hers. Warmth seeped out of his skin and the chill ran up his arm. He squeezed it slightly and then cupped it in both hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice echoed like he was in a cavern. He had never been as close to her as some of his other relatives, but seeing her on her deathbed left him tearing up. She wasn't healthy by any means, but even he knew she still had another fifteen years of fight in her yet, if not more. Seeing her like this felt wrong.

He closed his eyes. The room went dark around him. He breathed out in a slow sigh, willing the wetness in his eyes to disappear. If she woke up, he didn't want her to see him crying.

In those moments of pure blackness, he could almost hear the drumming of leather boots on skin and the breathing of his fellow captives, feel the tingling pressure of air along his fingers and face; but when he opened his eyes again, he was doused once more in yellow light.

Water thrashed in the distance. He let go of his grandmother's hands, his body tensing at the sound. That was his father, his brain told him.

Grandma Georgie's eyes flew open. Atlas shouted, backpedaling from the bed when she jerked upright, blank white eyes staring straight through him.

"This is all your fault!" she shrieked.

The walls of the hospital room faded away, and now he was standing ankle deep in hot water. Steam rose and wisped against his face. A team of nurses trudged through the water like it were viscous corn syrup, pushing forward a stretcher. His father laid on it. He looked completely normal with his arms crossed on his chest.

His grandmother continued to scream somewhere in the distance, but all Atlas could do was stare as his father slowly blackened in front of him, his skin chipping away like old paint. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, drowning out the sound of the nurses yelling. Somehow he knew they were scared they wouldn't make it. There was too much water on the ground. They would drown before they got him to the ER.

Suddenly, the water started rising. It slammed into him like a rogue wave, and before he knew it, he was rocketed flat against the dock leading out of the Eye. He clawed and grabbed at the planks, but he was trapped.

Atlas gasped for breath, eyes snapping open.

His chest begged for air as he jerked awake. He pressed a hand to his ribs, staring at the ceiling of the nose jail. Blood continued to pound through his veins as he laid there.

Everyone around him was asleep now.

He squeezed his shirt in a fist, forcing quick shallow breaths to slow down, swallowing the lump in his throat.

In the distance, he knew the movie films were making his nightmare a reality. All he had to do was sit up and he'd see them expanding over the mountainous lower section of the face.

He covered his eyes with his elbow. His face heated with tears.

Dreams were the body's way of processing their fears and stress throughout the night. He knew that. Yet it still left him feeling the same. Tired, sore, and uncertain. And scared. He couldn't let go of his father dying on the stretcher, his body disappearing from the world like he was just some unimportant spawn in a video game.

Why couldn't they give him answers?

He swallowed once more. It was very apparent Chaos' realm wasn't healing them anymore. His mouth was dry like he had spent all day outside in the summer sun. Or like he hadn't drank water all day, which was more similar to the truth.

Water was the last thing he wanted. He'd had enough of it.

Atlas rubbed his eyes once more with his rolled up sleeve. Bruises ached on his arm. He didn't realize how much he took the realm's healing ability for granted until then, because now, he felt terrible.

With the typical lack of warning, Chaos' voice boomed overhead. Atlas winced at the explosive sound.

Enjoying your victory?

"Sure," he muttered.

His teammates didn't stir beside him. Was this another one of those freeze-frame moments? Could he do that to everyone? More than just his own specters?

That thought twisted his gut more than it should have. He knew everyone in these cells were real. This wasn't a game this time.

Chaos laughed. How about next time you play by the rules, okay?

Atlas said nothing at first. The uncertainty he felt right then made him feel squirmish. He sat up, arms slumping into his lap. Right? They were real, right?

He couldn't help but peek at them. Dizzee and Grayson lay motionless not far from him, and back in the corner with her shoulder leaning against the wall, Ashe, for the first time since he met her, actually looked at peace despite the long gouges that ran up and down her arms that were slowly turning green with pus. She had been asleep ever since Atlas initially woke up. He hadn't noticed her there for hours.

He was pretty sure he interrupted Chaos when he spoke next. "You can do anything to anyone here, can't you?" he asked.

Possibly.

Something about that playful response told Atlas the answer was, "no." He wasn't sure why.

Atlas fixated his gaze on a far corner of his cell, watching sticky not-liquid drip from one spot of the ceiling and slide forward like little slugs. They'd eventually dissipate into the skin before reaching him. He was too tired to be disgusted by it and everything nose-like about the jail.

Any more questions?

"Yes, if I may." Arrone's voice emanated from the opposing cell.

He wasn't frozen? Atlas turned around in curiosity. Arrone was, in fact, sitting upright, rubbing his knees as he sat with his legs stretched in front of him. A thick silence rang out after he spoke, but there was still a buzzing presence in the air that told him Chaos was still listening.

None of the others stirred. Atlas didn't even see their chests rise and fall or the slight twitching of their cheeks as they slept. It was eerie. Like he was staring at a crop of dead bodies. He immediately chased the image from his mind.

He needed to think seriously about this. Why didn't Chaos freeze his manager?

"I'm going to take your silence as a 'go ahead'," Arrone continued.

It's not a 'go ahead'. I'm only talking to the Rude One this time.

The sound of leather boots and metal studs on stretched skin drummed again. As if appearing out of thin air, Cerberus stepped into view, a tall shadow lengthening out over the cell and out the nose. Behind him walked his chaos mother. She sent him a friendly smile. He didn't smile back as a biped Cerberus stopped in front of Arrone's cell.

"How about we go somewhere nicer," his mother cooed. "It's quite humid in here."

Nose hair screeched and crunched like steel bars when the giant beast stretched them open. It drowned out whatever his manager shouted.

Atlas' stomach dropped. Cerberus snatched Arrone up, and he could do nothing but feel the hair rise on his skin and his muscles tense while he watched all three of them get swallowed by the darkness leading deep into the nose.

Now it's nice and quiet, Chaos said. His voice thundered somewhere above still, and the porous skin beneath Atlas vibrated faintly with each word.

He clenched his pants fabric in fists, trying to hold himself together. His jeans were damp still and felt warm to the touch. There was nothing he could do here. He could ask questions all he wanted, he could shake all of his teammates and yell and try to stir them from their freeze-frame, he could continue peering into the dark tunnel where his manager went, but he'd still wouldn't have answers, no one would awake, and he'd never get released until Cerberus returned and ripped their cell bars apart. If anything crushed his will more than the nightmares that kept him awake no matter how hard he tried to sleep through them, it was this.

He was never getting out.

Now, now, Chaos said, You still have an option.

A heavy, square object dropped from nowhere, landing in front of him, pages flipping open to reveal blank memory slots. Atlas' photobook.

His hands shook as he clenched his jeans tighter. He wasn't doing that bull again. He told Chaos as much, too.

Chaos laughed. But you have no choice. There's no other way for you to get out of here.

Atlas clenched his teeth. "I'll figure something out."

Ah, yes, trying to convince yourself now, aren't you? Well, I'll leave you to it, then. Let me know if you figure it out, because I've been here for ten thousand years and I've never found one.

As quick as he arrived, he vanished. The static in the air disappeared and it was immediately followed by the soft breathing of the other captives.

Atlas placed his head in his hands. Chaos was right. He was just trying to convince himself. But as he sat there, for what was probably hours, he figured it was worth trying. Afterall, his life had already been filled with misfortunes, and he was more than ready to leave his chaos memories behind. Either he'd be stuck inside a nose for eternity, or he'd make use of his time.

His stomach growled and twinged, as if reminding him that he didn't actually have eternity.

He closed his eyes.

Was his dehydration and hunger an hourglass, now? Was that all he had left at stake?

Atlas climbed to his feet, cradling his ribs. He slowly walked over to the person who could help him the most right then, the person who probably had the least time left out of the bunch, judging by the look of her injuries and the ghostly tint to her skin.

He gave Ashe a gentle shake on her shoulder.

"Wake up."