After Death abandoned him to the void, Atlas did not falter. There was no frantic clawing at the edges of existence, no desperate pleas echoing into the silence, no futile grasping for the last threads of breath. Instead, he simply… was. A stillness enveloped him, vast and absolute, swallowing thought itself into its boundless depths.
No heartbeat thrummed in his chest.
No pain gnawed at his bones.
Only the white remained—the infinite expanse, pristine and unmarred, like a canvas poised before the first daring stroke of creation.
The void sprawled endlessly around him, a realm where time frayed into meaningless strands and space curled inward like a serpent devouring its own tail. Direction lost all relevance—up and down dissolved into a dream of gravity long forgotten.
