Walls shimmered like oil-slicked rainbows, morphing into fractal patterns that whispered riddles if you stared too long. Floating orbs of thought-energy bobbed around like mischievous soap bubbles, popping to release random memories—Azrail's first awkward crush, a recipe for interstellar tacos, or the schematics of a doomsday device he hadn't built yet. The air tasted like electric cotton candy, zapping your tongue with bursts of inspiration.
This wasn't just a room; it was Azrail's personal brain gym, a mental metropolis where imagination flexed its muscles and reality took a coffee break.
Azrail, our pint-sized powerhouse with the soul of a supernova, sauntered in like he owned the multiverse—which, let's be honest, he was gunning for.
