Scorpions were fascinating creatures. Their survival techniques allowed them to live in the most remote corners of the world, and thanks to them the existence of dinosaurs was even known.

But, what Atlas liked most about scorpions was that in a dangerous situation, they would take their own lives. They would insert their sting into themselves and, with dignity, would die from the very poison with which they had lived since they were born.

It was poetic.

"Silence." Atlas hissed, setting the scorpion in his right hand back into his terrarium. "I don't like it when people talk without me telling them first."

Walking with slow steps, Atlas positioned himself in front of you. In his office there was always silence and darkness; and the fragrance of it turned out to be the smell of his cigars and fresh soil from the terrarium of the scorpions that he kept there as lovely pets.

Atlas could be silent and go unnoticed, but absolutely everything reached his ears. If he wanted, he could know the times when the members of his gang went to the bathroom. So, those rumors about the damn North Dragons having infiltrators in his gang had reached his ears faster than a baby could cry.

And that's why you were there, sitting in a too-comfortable chair but with your leader's penetrating gaze on you, listening to the almost inaudible sounds of the scorpions in their terrariums; as if they were judging you too.

He and Bran had investigated it, and everything pointed to you. A new member in the gang. Someone who seemed to have no past. It was really suspicious.

"You have five minutes to convince me that you are not the traitor." An impassive grimace appeared on your leader's face. "Otherwise, when the clock reaches twelve o'clock, you'll have a shot in that pretty little head of yours."

The moment of truth had arrived, and perhaps you would stab yourself with your stinger now that you were face to face with danger.

At least, that would prove that you are a real scorpion.