The void was the kind of place that made my skin crawl and my stomach knot. Pitch-black waters stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by sharp islands of stone that jutted up like broken teeth. There was no sun, no sky—just a ceiling of shifting shadows and a hum that dug into my bones like nails scratching glass. And of course, standing right in the middle of it all, waiting for me like a smug goth kid at an open mic night, was him.
The man in black. Pale as a corpse, eyes burning like a storm about to crack open. He didn't walk. He didn't breathe. He didn't even blink. He just existed, like a bad idea you couldn't drink away.
"So…" I cleared my throat, trying not to sound like I was seconds away from peeing myself. "Uh, are you the Grim Reaper? Because I have to admit, you're not what I pictured. I was expecting more… cloak. Maybe a scythe. Less Hot Topic manager."
The man tilted his head, his lips curving into something that could almost pass for a smile—if smiles made your blood pressure spike.
"No," he said. His voice was soft, but it carried like it owned the void. "I am the Outsider."
"Cool, cool. Outsider. Sounds mysterious. Very brandable. So what's your deal? Demon? Fallen angel? Ghost of a tax auditor?"
He didn't answer directly. He just stepped closer, and I swear I felt the void shiver around him.
"I am not here to harvest you, nor to haunt you. I am not a reaper, nor a savior. I am the witness. The mark on the margins. The eye that peers where gods dare not." His smile sharpened. "And you… are amusing."
I blinked. "…Amusing? What am I, a clown audition tape? Because listen, if this is punishment for watching too much hentai, then buddy, you might want to check on Japan first before bothering me."
The Outsider chuckled. It wasn't warm. It wasn't human. It was like hearing bones clatter in a coffin. "Crude. But amusing nonetheless."
"Yeah, well, I try," I muttered, scratching the back of my neck. "So let me guess: you're here to offer me a deal? Sell my soul? Put a curse on my bloodline? Maybe turn me into a magical girl? Because if I get stuck in a skirt, I'm suing."
"Not a deal," the Outsider said, circling me slowly. "A gift. You see, this world of yours… Metropolis, Gotham, Central City… it spins on the same tired axis of gods and mortals, heroes and villains. Repetition. Stagnation. But chaos… chaos is delightful." His eyes glimmered, twin shards of stormlight. "You will entertain me."
My gut twisted. "…Entertain you. By juggling? Because I can't even juggle relationships." (Shit that hurt.)
"By surviving," the Outsider whispered, and the void seemed to lean closer, as if it wanted to eavesdrop. "By clawing against fate. By spitting in destiny's eye and choking down consequence. Heroes will rise, villains will plot, and you will dance in their shadows."
I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a squeak. "Great, so I'm your personal Betflix subscription. Any chance I get dental with this gig?"
The Outsider raised his hand, and a mark began to glow across his palm. A strange shape, jagged and fluid all at once, like it was rewriting itself with every heartbeat. He reached forward, and I felt my body lock up, like gravity had just decided to triple down on me.
"Those who bear my mark," he said, "do not walk as mortals do. They bend, they twist, they slip between moments like whispers between screams. You will see the world as no hero or villain can."
His hand pressed against mine, and the mark seared into my skin. I screamed—not because of the pain, though it felt like acid being poured through my veins—but because of what came with it. Visions. Cities drowning in fire. Shadows splitting open like wounds. A thousand eyes watching from cracks in reality. And me, standing in the middle of it all, laughing like a lunatic.
When it was over, I dropped to my knees, clutching my hand. The mark still glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
"What… what the hell was that?" I gasped.
"A window," the Outsider said simply. "And a reminder. You are not chosen because you are righteous, or brave, or worthy. You are chosen because you are interesting."
"Wow. Thanks. Glad I'm not special, just the cosmic equivalent of a funny cat video."
His smile widened. "Do not mistake my words for mockery. Even the smallest ripple can break an empire. Even the most foolish jest can be the last sound a tyrant hears."
"Yeah, well, I'll keep that in mind next time I'm telling knock-knock jokes." I rubbed my marked hand, wincing at the residual burn. "So what now? You just drop me back on Earth and watch me screw up my taxes until Superman saves the day?"
The Outsider leaned in close, his voice curling like smoke into my ear. "Now… you walk the path that cannot be walked. Heroes will mistrust you. Villains will covet you. And the world will whisper your name with the same breath it curses. That is how you will entertain me."
"…Cool. Love that. Totally not ominous at all. Just so we're clear, if Batman finds out about this, he's going to put a tracking device up my ass, and then neither of us is going to have a good time."
The Outsider stepped back, fading into the void like he was melting into the walls themselves. "Then be clever. Be subtle. Be dishonored. And remember—"
The void around me began to crack, light bleeding through like the world was about to swallow me whole.
"—even in disgrace, you are still mine."
And then the floor gave out, and I was falling, screaming, spiraling back into the world of the living with a glowing mark on my hand and the sinking realization that I had just become the punchline to a joke only a cosmic creep in black would find funny.
The sentence looped in my skull on replay: even in disgrace, you are still mine.
My first coherent thought after the adrenaline and existential vertigo: did that guy just proposition me? Because holy hell, if cosmic eldritch entities had a dating app, I did not swipe right.
"Shit," I said aloud, because every excellent life decision starts with a whisper of panic. "Was the guy into me? Fuck, I'm not gay."
I stared at the mark in my right hand until the edges of it seemed to squirm. It glowed with a patient, hungry light, like a cat waiting for you to drop something expensive. Oh shit.
The glow spread, flooding my vision until my eyelids weren't enough to shut it out. And then—darkness again. Not void this time, but something stranger. A dream. A vision. Whatever the hell happens when cosmic creeps tattoo their brand into your soul.
I wasn't alone.
A man moved across rooftops with terrifying grace, clad in black leather and steel, a mask shaped like a skull obscuring his face. He vanished, reappearing in bursts of smoke and shadow, striking from nowhere with a blade that flashed like quicksilver. Each movement carried purpose, precision—the kind of lethal dance that made Batman look like an amateur gymnast. Blink, Bend Time, Dark Vision—powers that I somehow recognized as though I'd used them before.
And then there was her.
A woman, sharp-eyed and defiant, flipping through the air with a whip that lashed out and latched onto ledges. She swung herself from building to building like some unholy mix of Catwoman and Robin, shadows bending around her as though the night itself lent her cover. Her strikes weren't just physical—they pulsed with Outsider's power. Far Reach, Shadow Walk, Domino—I saw them all in her hands. When she moved, the mark burned hotter in my hand, like it recognized her.
Corvo Attano. Emily Kaldwin. The names weren't told to me—they just existed in my head, slotted into place as if I'd always known them. The first bearers of the mark before me. My predecessors in this cosmic freakshow.
They fought in silence, blades and shadows weaving a tapestry of murder and rebellion. The skull-masked man blinked from roof to alley in an instant, plunging his sword into enemies who never even saw him coming. He froze time itself, repositioned, then unleashed hell in a heartbeat. The whip-wielding woman struck like a phantom, her blade lashing around throats, pulling herself into the fray, then vanishing again into shadow. Each strike was art. Each kill a signature.
And me—I was just watching, an unwanted third wheel at an assassination date night.
My stomach twisted. I wanted to laugh. To puke. To scream. Was this my future? Was I supposed to turn into the bastard child of Assassin's Creed and Cirque du Soleil?
The dream ended abruptly. Both assassins turned their masked faces toward me—though I knew they couldn't see. Their eyes burned like the Outsider's, hollow and endless. And then the world cracked again.
I woke up.
Sweat glued my shirt to my skin. My lungs fought for breath like I'd been drowning. And there, lying beside me on the cold floor, were things that shouldn't exist.
A blade, sleek and cruel. A mask shaped like bone and storm. A whip coiled tight, gleaming hungrily in the light.
I blinked at them. Then at my marked hand. Then back at them.
"…Well," I croaked, "that's not terrifying at all."