Atlas wasn't the man that you thought he'd be.
By the sound of his voice and the attitude that it gave off, you expected to be greeted by a proper Irishman that shook your hand and flashed you a smile that was mostly teeth before saying any sort of hello. And when he would say hello, his voice would be crisp and clear, not having that low quality sound of the service radio always strapped to your hip. That voice sends shivers up your spine already, and just the thought of hearing that thick accent and charming tone in person made your chest ache.
Instead of getting what you expected, an Irish gentleman, you got a brute.
He pushed you against the wall before even greeting you, your pistol tumbling to the ground and pathetic, helpless noises escaping your lips as he covered your mouth with his broad, calloused hand. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he pulled on your hair with his other hand; watching as you groped at his arms, attempting to throw him off. But it was no use, for he was stronger than you and he had the upper hand in this situation. The shock rushing through your veins didn't help the situation that much, either.
After he had forced you against the wall and hit your head on the tile behind you, leaving your head spinning and vision blurred at the edges, he simply stared at you. His bright blue eyes narrowed and a smirk was plastered on his lips, his eyebrows darker than the blonde of his hair (though not overly so) arching up in interest.
"Nice to finally meet ya, Jack."