"Atlas?"

The voice that spoke wasn't Arrone's.

But it was familiar. Not the heart-wrenching familiar that he no doubt knew the voice would do to him. No, it wasn't his mother's voice; but even still, his gut knotted.

Atlas turned to see his best friend from high school. The one he never bothered to contact again the day he dipped out on their first rent payment and left Atlas alone in his first week of university. Atlas remembered that the man had left for his drug-addict girlfriend, and he hadn't seen him since.

August stood only a foot away.

He flinched back at the closeness, but when their auras stopped touching, his old friend vanished from sight.

And like a flip was switched, his photobook began to burn in his arms once more. It heated red-hot in his arms until he half-threw, half-dropped it on the ground in between them. The thing had its own aura, it seemed, as it bridged the lights between him and his friend as it started shuddering, its pages flipping to page 6.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" August exclaimed. He carefully stepped over the binder without a second glance when a photo of August's acne-ridden face appeared on the page. It was a picture of their graduation, a navy colored graduation cap slanted atop his wild blond hair. "What was that for? I haven't seen you in years, man, and you're out here throwing things at me."

He sounded exactly the same.

"Go away!" He wasn't sure who he was talking to: the illusion standing in front of him or the possessed photobook.

Atlas couldn't get himself to ignore them, though. His wariness remained deep in his tense muscles. All he could do was stumble back, away from both of them. August's skinny frame vanished once more when their lights stopped connecting, and Atlas was once more plunged into a world of ink.

"What's up with you?"

Not seeing August only made it worse, now that Atlas knew he was there. The blank emptiness around him no longer felt void of life; it felt filled with it, brimming with it. Anything could be just outside of his touch, and that thought horrified him.

If fear hadn't fully set in before, it did then.

His heart pounded hard in his chest when August didn't reappear for a long moment. All he heard was a quiet tch and then nothing. Even if his friend was pursuing his backwards steps, the sand below muffled every sound of his feet hitting the ground.

And then he couldn't take that thought anymore.

He gasped, stopping in place. "What the Hell is this?" he begged. "Where am I? Where's my manager? Actually what am I supposed to do right now?" He squeezed his arms so tightly around himself. "I swear to God tell me before I go insane."

"What are you babbling about?" August asked. "Look, how about we go back to my grandpa's house. I'll show you around. It's been a long time since you've been through his arboretum – he has a bunch of new sculptures now that are pretty sick looking."

His grandpa's house?

Suddenly the strange landscape made sense: the sand and grass; the scent of flowers and evergreens; the massive plate of plastic that only extended as tall as Atlas was.

He remembered the sand garden vividly, now. On summer break, August always invited him, and his crazy grandfather would show them around. It was never well taken care of, and the sculptures were always rusting more and more with each visit.

Something about the memories seemed to calm Atlas' rising histeria down. He swallowed. At least he knew what to expect in the darkness now, to an extent.

Would the grandpa be any better?

His mind strayed on the thought. It seemed coincidental that he was being brought to yet another of the voice's NPCs, if they even could be called that. Would the grandpa be able to tell him more than his friend could?

"Okay," he said finally. It wasn't a reluctant response. It should have been, but he had no guidance, no answers. He barely even knew what questions to ask, but he needed to ask them, and he needed someone to take him seriously, and if anyone could, it was August's crazy grandpa who took everything too seriously.

"Here." August appeared once more, handing the photobook to him. "You'll need this."

~

When Atlas was a child, he both loved and feared the garden. It always had an underlying scent of alcohol and oil. Maybe he had imagined it back then, but then again August's grandpa wasn't exactly the cleanest or most respectful man.

He remembered one of the sculptures. It sat amongst flowering rhododendrons, the air sickeningly sweet around them, and it always buzzed with bumble bees. August always called him a coward for avoiding it.

The thin, twisting metal would catch the light and cast a stark shadow beneath. Atlas knew it was supposed to be an interpretation of Cerberus, the three-headed beast guarding the Underworld. But not the standard interpretation; his friend's grandpa interpreted its emotions, what it would feel like to do that job every day for eternity.

Not standing with three broad heads, it was simply a statue of mangled scrap metal that rusted in the spring rains every year.

But the atmosphere around it was always haunting, and would follow Atlas for days, even after he left. All he could say now as an adult, was that August's crazy grandfather had done a fantastic job at evoking those emotions with a pile of junk.

When he followed August through the garden, half-listening to his friend's fictional stories, he saw only small glimpses of what was around him. Side by side, the light aura only cast about four or five feet long, and if he zoned out too much, it'd shrink until he caught up to his friend.

"Can you see beyond the—" Atlas searched for the words, interrupting August "—light?"

"What?"

He should've expected much. "Like, you can't see beyond your fingertips when you stretch your arms forward."

"That's because we're inside the Eye. Duh. No one can see without it."

Atlas was slowly beginning to brace himself against his friend's comments. It was obvious this wasn't just a distraction on the voice's part – this humanoid being beside him knew what was going on. As real as the scents and sounds were, he was fake, and everything below his feet was fake.

Yet he couldn't shake the reminiscing feeling that slowly seeped into him. His mind kept wanting to believe it.

It was too convincing.

He could feel the warmth of his friend when he walked too close, he could feel that longing feeling of companionship, as well as the urge to call August out about what happened in college.

"How are you supposed to show me sculptures, then?" he asked. He wanted to get more information, but his past attempt left him wondering if this August wasn't allowed to say much, as if he was an A.I. created by the chaotic voice that played only by his rules.

"You'll see."

Atlas narrowed his eyes. "Okay?"

And, well, he did see. When they approached, as soon as they got close enough to touch, a statue would light up. The closer they got to the mini-mansion in the middle of the garden, the more of them lit up like motion-detectors.

It was entrancing and terrifying. But thankfully, he never once saw the one he remembered the most.

Atlas smelled the mansion long before it appeared in his light. It smelled strongly like Jonathan's favorite whiskey mixed with the indistinguishable scent of weed. He wrinkled his nose. At least the sandalwood scent seemed to have faded down in the Eye. He preferred anything over that.

"I see your grandpa hasn't changed," Atlas said. It took him several moments to realize the problem with his statement. Of course he hasn't changed. Atlas hadn't seen him - the world wouldn't be able to use a memory of what he was like now.

August laughed. "I'm not sure about that. He's stuck in his own world up there."

Both literally and figuratively, Atlas assumed.

August opened the front door, and beside him he flicked on the lights.

The mansion lit up a golden yellow. And just like that, Atlas' anxiety melted away. He could see, normally. Large crystal chandeliers hung high from the ceiling, leaving not an inch of shadow on the ground. It was blinding.

He held a hand over his eyes as he let them adjust.

There wasn't a single physical sign that the house was inhabited by a drunk man. No randomly discarded beer cans or liquor bottles. Not even a single crumb of dust or dull scrape marred the hickory wood flooring in the foyer. At least, not until Atlas walked onto it with his sand-clogged snow boots.

But yet the floor may as well have been soaking in it for a hundred years.

"Hey grandpa!" August yelled. "Guess who I found!"

Crash!

Atlas nearly jumped off the floor when the sound of a hundred glasses shattered above his head followed by a string of colorful curses. The chandeliers jingled with the impact.

"Damn it, August!" The grandpa's voice rose above everything else, loud enough to make the whole mansion rumble.

"What'd? You knock the stupid thing over again?" he shouted back. "That's not my fault!"

As if to say, no, it is!, a distinct sound of glass thrown onto the ground pierced through the ceiling above them.

One thing Atlas remembered was that his grandfather never hurt August. As crazy and upsetting as he was, he never went so far to be violent. Already, he had doubts about this one being as identical as his friend was to his memories.

Another glass came rocketing down the stairs when he threw yet another one, his voice lost when it, too, shattered upon impact with the hickory flooring.

"He's so obnoxious," August muttered. "Sorry about his temper tantrum."

He tried not to let his unease show too much. "He seems different."

"He's certainly not how you remember him."

Was that another hint that August knew more than he was telling? Atlas peered at him, but before he could say more loud stomping footsteps sounded from above, closing in on the stairsteps, and then in less than thirty seconds, the grandpa finally stepped into view.

August may as well have poured ice water down his back with how his muscles reacted to the sight of him.

He was more insanity than man. He was slightly as he remembered, pale and covered in sunspots, but there was black ash streaking down his arms like claw marks, scabs lining the skin beneath it, and his eyes were charcoal black—

Atlas took a deep breath and looked at a spot on his chest.

Maybe asking the grandpa wasn't a good idea, either. This one... this one was truly insane.

The grandpa lifted a finger. "Don't slam and yell!" His voice was rough and deep.

"It's not my fault you're a scaredy cat and knocked your crap over!"

"O-okay," Atlas placated, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's okay. Having cracks in the glass you're using will only add character, right?"

The grandpa seemed to think on that for a moment before he gave a firm nod. "Character. You're right!"

Atlas nearly sighed in relief when they stopped yelling across the house at each other. He refrained from looking behind him to make sure the door was still there, that it didn't disappear like the oil slick had, and instead reigned in his motives and used them to focus himself.

"It's good to see you, Grandpa," he lied as pleasantly as possible, lifting a hand in greeting.

This time, he would learn from his mistakes. He wouldn't immediately make this new enemy angry. Maybe, this time he could make him an ally, like Arrone had been trying to do with the chaotic voice who started this mess above... ground? Could he even call it that?

Besides, he needed to figure this world out. He needed to find Arrone, and get the hell out of there before he went as insane as his friend's grandfather.

The man cackled. "Is it? Is it really good? You left my grandson behind. You trespass on my property. Don't act friendly." The grandfather stalked forward with a noticeable limp in his right leg.

"It's not like he had much of a choice!"

Atlas realized he was backing up when his back hit the door behind him. The knob pressed into his low back, cool through the shirt fabric. This was a bad idea. This person would not help him.

He was on his own, again.

"Doesn't matter here. You have no privilege here; you have no choice here!"

August threw up his hands. "You're so unreasonable!"

He was not staying. He took a deep breath, reaching for the knob. It was cool to his touch when he turned it.

The click was uncannily loud, and both of them snapped to look at him.

"Dude, where are you going? You can't leave, you just got here."

"I think I made a mistake coming here," Atlas admitted, his mouth paper dry.

"I'm not finished with you, boy."

Atlas took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." He slid through the open door and let the darkness of the outside consume him once more.

What was he supposed to do now?

He sprinted in the direction August had brought him from, watching each statue light up as he passed, one by one, illuminating the darkness just a little further as they grew in size and presence.

August shouted something into the ink behind him, but he didn't care anymore about what the guy had to say.

His chest ached.

Somehow, he had grown hopeful on their walk. Far more hopeful than he should have. But all he had discovered was hostility. He wasn't any closer to finding Arrone, or getting out of there. All he had now were potentially more enemies in a space where nothing existed until it did.

His feet started sinking into sand with every step, his ragged breathing sounding more like held-back frustrated sobs now. Finally, he slowed to a stop, holding himself upright with his palms pressed into his knees.

Why was this happening? Really?

He didn't mean to yell. Or kick at the sand. He threw the damned binder on the ground.

Screw this place!

Atlas fell into a cross-legged seat, pressing his face into his hands.

If he had looked up then, he would have seen the photobook flipping to page 6 once more, the memory of his most-feared statue burning onto the page.