Before I met him, I figured that anyone with the audacity to name himself “Atlas” must be terribly pretentious, terribly tortured, or both.

The blood pools in my palm like spilled wine, warm and thick, dripping between my fingers onto the subway floor where it mingles with twenty years of New York grime.

Atlas’ mother pushed the jar towards him and said, “I made fish pickle for you. You used to love them when you were younger. Taste it and tell me if it still tastes the same.”

Some responsibilities come with the blueprint of life, whether you like it or not. Like being the firstborn. Whenever his parents were away, Atul was expected to watch his siblings.

The front-page image of the cover story on the CEO was a shock to them—it was Aditya, their estranged son. The parents gawked at each other without uttering a word.