I was back to square one. I sigh.

“Is something wrong?”

Says the jailer.

“…No.”

Says the victim.

He said it himself, that he can’ t lie to me forever, so, i must paciently wait for the time he tells me the truth, right? Maybe if i have another dream like the last one…

But nothing happened. Still, i couldn’t let him be after humiliating me. Even after i tormented him for days, he denied the fact that he started the fire, and he just patiently waited for me to come back on my own – but i could feel it, he was a liar. It was a retired arsonist’s feeling, something the common folk can’t comprehend – as someone who burned a house once, i could tell. All you needed was the purpose and the means to start a fire.

I sigh once again.

Atlas leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, the very picture of patience. “You’re sighing loud enough to wake the forest,” he said. 

“It’s called breathing,” I shot back. “People do it when they’re alive. You should try it sometimes.”

His mouth twitched, the faintest curve of amusement. “That is not how normal people breathe”

“…normal” I echoed. “Right. That’s what I think when I picture a man who keeps an amnesiac woman locked in a house with a suspiciously well-stocked fireplace.”

Atlas raised an eyebrow. 

“How do you get firewood? With what money?” I said. 

He gave an exaggerated sigh of his own and stepped fully into the room. “You know,” he said, “We live in the middle of the forest, Aisa. Wood is everywere. For free. If you spent half as much time resting as you do overthinking everything i do, you’d have remembered everything by now.”

“Oh, so now my memory works on a time-based resting period? What if I can get rid of my boredom from waiting, by being annoying?”

 “How annoying are you willing to be?”

“Endlessly.”

“That tracks.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Careful. I’ve burned a house before.”

That got his attention—or at least a raised eyebrow. “Ah yes, the great fire of the century… caused my a burning sock.”

I said, wagging a finger at him, “but a retired arsonist never forgets the feeling- I might strike back once again! Also… you are just like me, an arsonist of your own.

Atlas clasped his hands behind his back like a professor indulging a particularly dramatic student. “Do tell, Investigator Aisa. What’s my motive?”

“Obviously to lure me back,” I said. “Classic. First you torch the inn and capture me, then you leave a vegetable encyclopedia to taunt my escape. It’s textbook psychological warfare.”

He blinked. “Vegetable… warfare?”

“Don’t play innocent. Only a true villain would weaponize the bibble of vegetables.”

His laugh—low and unhurried—rolled through the room like distant thunder. “You’ve been tormenting me for days with this theory, and it’s still terrible.”

“Terribly accurate,” I corrected. “Admit it. You set that fire.”

Atlas crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite me. “And what if I said I didn’t?”

“Then I’d say you’re lying. And you are bad at it.”

He chuckled, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “You know, for someone accusing me of arson, you seem remarkably comfortable sharing a roof with me.”

“Maybe its because we are kindred spirits.”

Atlas shook his head, smiling faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re suspicious,” I said.

“I’m merely enduring your relentless interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” I gasped in mock outrage. “This is friendly conversation.”

That earned another laugh, short but genuine. It startled me every time he did it—how human he sounded when he wasn’t busy being mysterious.

I leaned back against the pillows, suddenly aware of the warmth creeping up my neck. “So, why did you leave that book out?”

Atlas gave a small shrug. “Because it was yours.”

“That’s not an answer,” I shot back.

“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And yet, you still need me.”

I opened my mouth for a retort and promptly forgot every clever word I’d ever known. He sat there, calm and maddening, and I hated how right he was.

“I was doing fine on my own-“

“You almost burned alive”

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the faint pop of cooling embers in the fireplace. Finally, I said, “You know this isn’t over, right? I’m going to keep tormenting you until you confess.”

Atlas leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “I would expect nothing less from a retired arsonist.”

“Damn right,” I said, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. “You have no idea how patient I can be.”

“Oh, I have some idea.” His eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “You’re remarkably stubborn for someone who claims to be a victim.”

“Victims can be stubborn,” I said primly. “It’s called survival. Look it up.”

He chuckled again, low and warm. “Careful, Aisa. If you keep making me laugh, I might start enjoying these interrogations.”

“Good,” I said, smirking. “That means you’ll eventually slip up and tell me everything.”

Atlas rose from the chair with his usual unhurried grace. “We’ll see.” He moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at me. “Are you hungry?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a trap question?”

He arched a brow. “Only if you think sandwiches are dangerous.”

“Depends on who made them,” I said. “I’ve seen you butter bread with the precision of a man sharpening a blade.”

Atlas chuckled under his breath. “That’s called competence.”

“It’s called suspicious,” I countered. “Nobody slices tomatoes that perfectly unless they’re hiding a criminal past.”

“Or,” he said, leaning lightly against the doorframe, “unless they care about presentation.”

“That’s exactly what an arsonist would say. Making a memorable presentation of their victims”

He crouched slightly so we were eye level, his silver eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and amusement. “ Arsonist?”

“Well, you still haven’t confessed.”

Atlas straightened, feigning a dramatic sigh. “I can see that dinner will require… negotiation.”

“Dinner?” I echoed. “I thought we were still debating your guilt.”

“Even interrogators need to eat,” he said. “What do you want? Bread? Soup? “

“Do you have anything that isn’t secretly part of a psychological experiment?”

He rubbed his chin, pretending to think. “The apples might be safe. Unless you believe in symbolic fruits.”

“Oh, I definitely believe in symbolic fruit,” I said.

He grinned, slow and deliberate. “Then maybe bread is best. Hard to make bread ominous.”

“Ha!” I pointed at him triumphantly. “That’s exactly what you want me to think!”

Atlas laughed so hard he actually had to cover his mouth. “You have an extraordinary imagination.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

He leaned against the wall, shaking his head in quiet amusement. “You’re impossible.” He stepped closer again, the warmth of his presence making the air feel smaller. 

For a moment, the banter thinned into something heavier. I felt the weight of his eyes, and forced myself to break the tension.

“So,” I said brightly, “what’s for dinner?”

Atlas smiled, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “I made a lamb stew with potatoes.”

“Admit it,” I said as we reached the kitchen. “You enjoy this.”

Atlas opened a cupboard and retrieved a loaf of bread. “Enjoy what?”

“Me tormenting you.”

He sliced the bread with that same unnervingly precise motion, each piece perfectly even. “Perhaps,” he said, without looking up.

I snagged a piece of bread before he could add butter and took a triumphant bite.Atlas shook his head, eyes warm with quiet amusement. And just like that, the kitchen filled with the comfortable clatter of plates and the low hum of laughter.