Then the sky changed.
Everything was green.
Alive.
Soft grass pressed against his back like a bed made by someone who tried. The air smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet.
He sat up.
His hoodie was gone. So was the blood.
"Huh," he said, brushing grass from his arms. "Not bad. I could nap here forever."
A shimmer pulsed in the air. A shape made of light — tall, faceless, glowing like a candle that had forgotten to flicker.
"You have died," the figure said.
He smiled gently. "Yeah. I figured. Thank you, though. It's nice to have someone confirm it."
Maybe now I can stop pretending I wanted to be alive.
"You have been chosen."
"Wow," he said. "That's a first."
...Or maybe not. I forget things. Important ones. Like how it felt to be loved. Or hungry. Or wanted.
"I am the God of Life and Creation," the being said. "You will be my apostle. You will help restore what has been broken."
"Sure," he replied, still smiling. "Happy to help."
I don't really mind what happens next. People always decide things for me anyway.
"There are worldlines," the god continued, "stories shaped by chosen souls. They keep balance, feed peace, protect against what lies beneath."
He tilted his head, listening patiently.
"The creatures from the Void — the Maw — are fed with fables. Stories. But when the wrong souls awaken in the wrong lines... the tales unravel."
"Oh," he said softly. "I see. That sounds... really painful."
Like a body turning inside out slowly. Like a dream with no edges. Like screaming underwater.
"You are not a chosen soul. Not awakened. You will not be the main character. You will never be known."
"That's okay," he said. "I never liked the spotlight."
Too bright. Too loud. Too easy to see the cracks.
"You will assist from the shadows. You will take different forms. Different names. Different lives. But your role is always the same: keep the story alive."
He nodded. "So... I'm the glue?"
The god said nothing.
He laughed lightly. "Got it. I'm good at being invisible."
I wonder how long it takes before the glue forgets it's not part of the paper.
"You will be called Nihil," the god said. "For now."
"Nice. Sounds fancy."
He smiled again — gentle, like a tired teacher. "Is it okay if I keep the name? Even when I'm someone else?"
"If you wish."
The god reached out, not physically, but something moved.
The air opened.
He felt it. A tug. A shift.
"The first world awaits."
He stood, brushing his knees like he'd just finished resting after a long walk.
"Alrighty," he said. "Let's go fix someone else's mess."
I'm really good at cleaning up blood.
And then he stepped forward.
With a smile on his lips, and something quietly broken behind his eyes.