Some doors are heavy not because they are locked —but because they do not wish to be opened.
The fog folds in on itself as I step across the threshold, and the air grows still.
Despair's domain.
An endless gray expanse stretches in every direction, filled with countless mirrors drifting lazily in the mist. Each mirror shows a mortal somewhere in the multiverse — slumped in quiet rooms, drowning in thoughts they will never speak aloud. Hopelessness. Self-loathing. Quiet suffering. Here, despair is not a scream — it is the slow erosion of the soul.
From the haze, she emerges.
Her frame is massive, pale flesh folding in heavy rolls, each inch covered in intricate red tattoos that spiral and knot into strange, ancient patterns. The designs wrap her arms, belly, and thighs like a ritual map of suffering, their meaning long forgotten but their presence undeniable.
On her right hand, she wears a tarnished silver ring. From it juts a small, cruel fish hook, the barb pointing upward, resting there unnervingly but not piercing her flesh.
Her eyes lift toward me, and in them is a weight — not wonder or excitement, but a sorrowful admiration, as if she is aware of the futility of ever truly reaching me.
"Brother," she murmurs, her voice soft and hollow, almost swallowed by the mist. "You came."
I resist the urge to sigh. Reverence irritates me. "I did," I reply evenly.
She drifts closer, bare feet soundless in the fog, gaze fixed on me. There is no light in her expression, only a shadow of longing wrapped in the inevitability of despair.
"You never visit," she says, voice low, almost mournful.
"I don't visit anyone often," I reply. "Don't think too much of it."
She inclines her head slightly, a faint, almost painful smile touching her lips. "I am… glad you're here," she says. There is no joy in the words, only the quiet surrender of one who has long accepted that happiness is beyond her reach.
Of course she doesn't know I stood in Destruction's domain first. That she was never my first choice. That ignorance makes her easier to manage — and, somehow, more frustrating.
"I thought we might talk," I say, my voice casual. "The heavens are… shifting."
Her eyes, heavy with melancholy, follow mine. "I've felt it. Something is coming."
"Exactly," I murmur, letting my gaze drift over the endless mirrors. "And watching it happen might be more interesting than ignoring it."
She tilts her head, the tattoos along her shoulders flexing faintly. "Then I'll watch with you, brother. Whatever comes." Her voice is soft, weighted, carrying the exhaustion of countless eons watching hopelessness bloom and fade.
I pause a moment, then speak with calm authority."Make a large mirror," I say, "and some chairs. We'll need a proper view."
She nods slowly, the faint weight of her melancholy still present, and moves to obey, the fog parting slightly as she sets to work.