Chapter Sixteen: Cracks in the Glass
Reality didn't reset after the collapse of the siege engine.
It shivered.
Waves rippled across the multiverse—soft at first. Like background static in existence's song. But soon, entire timelines paused. Branches withered before forming. Abstract realms turned their gaze to the epicenter:
Earth. Gotham. Him.
Kane.
What he had done—what he had become—was not supposed to happen. The Mire was unwritten territory. No fixed outcomes. No survivors. He didn't just survive it.
He rewrote a being that had consumed entire realities.
That couldn't go unnoticed.
---
Across the bleed of existence, subtle shifts began.
A broken Bizarro Earth corrected its decay loop.
A dead universe blinked once—and vanished again.
Time hiccupped in a quiet alley of the Fourth World.
And far above—or maybe far within—they gathered.
The Endless.
They didn't often meet.
But when they did, the cosmos held its breath.
---
They convened in a place that wasn't a place. No stars. No matter. Just the presence of seven vast truths.
Death was already waiting, her feet in an impossible river that flowed with both beginnings and ends.
Destiny arrived silently, his book already open to the page.
Desire came next, coiled in want, their eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Despair followed, wordless, dragging her ring against the stone wall that wasn't there but hurt anyway.
Delirium shimmered into view, colors leaking from her hair, giggling at a joke no one else had heard.
Dream stepped from shadow and sleep, calm but cautious.
And last, Destruction—red-haired, kind-eyed—appeared with stained hands and a sigh.
They looked at each other.
Then they spoke—without mouths, without sound, but every word echoed through every soul with a spark of truth.
"He shouldn't exist."
---
Back on Earth, Kane didn't sleep.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he couldn't.
Sleep had stopped obeying him.
When he closed his eyes, he didn't dream.
He saw everything.
The structure of story. The current of time. The turning wheel of infinite earths. He didn't just witness it.
He was inside it.
And it was beginning to fracture.
---
He sat alone in the attic, sketching symbols that hurt to look at.
His hands moved on their own sometimes. Wrote truths in ancient tongues he hadn't learned but somehow knew.
Nelson noticed. So did Raven.
But they didn't say anything yet.
Not until the mirror cracked.
He'd been staring at himself again—white hair, gold-glow eyes, more energy than skin.
But this time his reflection blinked first.
And it smiled.
Kane stumbled back, breath ragged.
The mirror showed him, but not quite. His reflection leaned forward, whispering something he couldn't hear. The words wrinkled reality as they passed.
He smashed it.
But the reflection still lingered in the shards.
---
In the realm of the Endless, the conversation grew heavier.
Destiny spoke first. "He is not written in my book."
Desire sneered. "Then he's a flaw. A crack in the porcelain. Or maybe… a new story."
Death looked thoughtful. "He isn't dying. Not yet. But something is… ending around him."
Dream frowned. "He affects dreams. Not just enters them. He rewrites the dreamscape. Unconsciously."
Despair muttered softly. "He tastes like a billion broken futures."
Delirium danced around the gathering. "He's not wrong. But he's not right. He's not a puzzle. He's a… paradox petal!"
Destruction nodded slowly. "Power that doesn't want to destroy—but doesn't know how to not. That's dangerous."
They considered.
Then Destiny turned a page.
And paused.
Even his page was… smudged.
---
Kane came downstairs the next morning, eyes sunken, hands twitching.
Zatanna handed him coffee. "You look like death."
He didn't answer.
Raven studied him from across the room. "You didn't sleep."
"No."
"Nightmare?"
"No," Kane said. "Something worse. I think I dreamed of myself. From the outside. As if I'm not… fully here anymore."
They exchanged glances.
Then he whispered, "I think I'm becoming something I don't understand."
---
Elsewhere, the Endless reached an unspoken conclusion.
He was not theirs to control.
But he could tip the scales of everything.
So they would watch.
And wait.
And if needed—one of them would return.
Not Death.
Not Desire.
Something… darker.
A presence that hadn't moved in a very long time.
Something even the Endless only whispered about:
The Nameless One.
Just in case.
---