Atlas Stone is fucking insane.

At least that's what the world thinks.

He chuckles lowly, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The golden-haired officer, who sits opposite him, taps her own fingers against the table, peering at him expectantly.

"You killed him," she mutters.

Atlas bites his lip harshly.

"You fucking killed him," she repeats.

He wants to say no.

He wants to burn this place down, and walk on its ashes, screaming 'fuck you' to the government, with both middle fingers up.

Unfortunately, his fucking genetic code won't let him. So, he flicks the lighter on, and touches it to the cigarette, ignoring the woman, as she pointedly stares at the 'do not smoke' sign above his head.

"Officer," he drawls tauntingly, "I didn't do shit, and even if I did, you can't fucking prove it."

She blinks. Once, twice, before slamming her palms against the table.

"Listen, asshole," she hisses, "I don't give a fuck what the others say."

She pauses, as he raises an eyebrow in mock curiosity and flicks the dark ashes of his cigarette onto the table top.

"I don't give a fuck what the others say, I know you did it."

He throws his head back and laughs, watching the woman's features crumple in confusion.

"You. Have. No. Fucking. Proof." Atlas whispers, punctuating each word with a derailed grin, and tip of the head.

"Trust me," he adds softly,"If you did, I'd fucking kill you myself."

Tucking her trembling hands under her thighs, she shifts uncomfortably against her chair, pressing her lips tightly together.

So fucking beautiful, Atlas thinks.

She swallows harshly, silent for a moment, as though attempting to calm herself, before she glares up at him,  eyes a piercing shade of blue.

His breath fucking catches.

"You're insane," she mumbles in a tremulous voice.

No, he wants to scream.

He's really not.

Not that she'd believe him.

Nobody ever fucking believed him.

It's not like anyone knows he was programmed to do bad shit.

So instead of arguing, he tilts his head to the side, cigarette clamped between his teeth.

"I wouldn't say that,"  he mumbles around the cigarette, before reaching towards her, and coiling a wispy golden tendril of hair around his finger.

He winks. "I'm just creative."

"Fuck you," she spits.

Atlas glances at her, one side of his mouth pulling up slightly.

"I'd love to, darling," he drawls, "But this is a murder investigation."

He pauses, pursing his lips, and blowing a lungful of smoke into her face.

"Besides," he adds, ignoring her as she coughs, "I'm a murder suspect, right? Pretty sure there are rules against that."

Her lip twitches, and her fingers pale, as she clenches them into fists.

"I swear to God, I'll fucking kill you."

Atlas grins, gently tapping her nose.

"You do that, Officer." He laughs bitterly. "You wouldn't be the first to try, and trust me, you won't be the fucking last."

She glares at him once more, before pushing back from the table and stalking away, slamming the heavy door behind her.

He watches for a few seconds, before reaching into his boot, and pulling out his laminated ticket out of this hell hole.

"Fucking perfect," Atlas mutters, pressing his fingers against the plastic clearance card he'd swiped from the woman five minutes into the interrogation.

Crushing the stub of the cigarette into the table, he glances down at the small picture of her beaming face, before reading the large blocky letters that spell out her name.

"Thank you, Officer Maya Harrington," he whispers lazily, curling his tongue around the syllables, tasting her name, before collapsing back into the metal chair, and kicking his legs up onto the table.

He'd be out in no time.