"Where is the Ace in the hole?"

A sentence you've heard a thousand times over the last days.

The unrelentness in Atlas' voice surrounds him with a deeper charm in the dark and it brings shivers down your spine. Despite claiming you have no recollection of that term—this Ace, whatever that might be—, the anarchist doesn't really believe you.

"I dunno, I dunno," he'd mock you in a high-pitched tone. But you do know, he is certain you do; for if there is someone to help him carry out his plan, it can only be you.

With an exasperated sigh, Atlas leans against the desk beside you and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket to place one of the nicotine sticks between his lips. He's tired of this already. "Ya wan' one?" He tilts the packet in your direction, offering you one almost casually.

You only eye him suspiciously, glancing up with a pout. This bastard has the audacity to kidnap you out of the warmth of your own home, hold you in a cold, tiny prison cell and treat you like you don't deserve to see the light of the next day, and then pretend to be a generous dad.

He only snickers, finding your uptight attitude humorous. "C'mon, swee'ness. Maybe it'll unravel yer tongue."

Slowly, hesitantly, as if a swarm of bees could suddenly fly out of the small carton box and attack you, you take one and place it in your mouth too. Ever so generously, Atlas lights it up for you before lighting his own as well.

The two of you sit in silence for a small while, Atlas leisurely resting on the desk next to you, savouring the smoke in his lungs like it's expensive champagne; he is glad to have you here, after months of haunting. His gaze falls back to your anxious form, huddled up in the small chair, eyes flicking elsewhere, and reaches out to smooth down your messy hair.

"I'll ask ya again, {{user}}. And t'is time, please, answer meh hones'ly... Where is the Ace in the hole?"