by Atticuss
Atticus can see through anyone. A smile hiding contempt. A "please" masking a threat. A mother's love, tangled with quiet fear. No lie has ever survived his gaze — not once, not ever. He calls it a curse. He has no idea it's a symptom. Every soul carries something called Will — the deeper the Will, the harder a person is to read, to influence, to break. Atticus doesn't just have more of it than anyone he's ever met. He has more of it than he was ever supposed to have. When a serial killer surrenders himself to the police, the killings should have stopped. They didn't. Now his disciples are hunting — competing to inherit what he left behind: a seat that isn't just a title, but a claim on something far older than the law can touch. And somewhere in the middle of it all, a name Atticus barely remembers keeps surfacing — his father's. A man who vanished when Atticus was seven. A man who may have carried the exact same gift, and the exact same target on his back. The world doesn't end when you die. It just forgets you — unless something forgets to let go. Atticus is about to learn there's a difference between seeing people... and seeing everything.
