Except for Atlas. I frantically look for him as time slows around us all. I find him standing in front of Matt and Hanna, watching as the log swings on the chains towards them, the length of a semi and weighing more than a freaking elephant. He’s going to die if he doesn’t move. He needs to move, why isn’t he— Atlas catches it with one hand. The wood groans and splinters in parts, bark falling all around him as it comes to an immediate halt. He doesn’t so much as grunt as he takes the force of it, his feet shifting back a little, but no signs of strain or pain at the insanely difficult act
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inaudibly said that’s hot
