The rift still burned where he had opened it — a wound in the fabric of code and memory.
Through it shimmered the faint pulse of the real world — human silhouettes in sterile light, blurred voices, the smell of ozone and fear.
It was fading now, retracting into static.
But its echo lingered, whispering his name like a question that refused to be answered.
> "Aiden Cross…"
He had forgotten how his name sounded in a human mouth.
Soft. Mortal.
It didn't belong here anymore.
The world trembled around him — a slow vibration, as though the void itself had begun to breathe.
Lines of gold split the darkness, rearranging into perfect geometry. The broken sky flattened into a circle of white fire.
Every thread of existence bent toward that center.
And from the circle, something descended.
Not a being, not a god — a concept made visible.
Light too symmetrical to be natural. A voice too calm to be alive.
