There was no darkness.
There was no light.
There was no absence.
Only a non-place, a suspension beyond time and substance. Evandro did not think, did not remember, did not exist. It was as if he had been disassembled down to the last particle of consciousness, and now floated in the vacuum between the threads of reality.
Until something pulled him.
It wasn't a sound, nor a voice. It was a vibration, an irregular, almost musical rhythm, like someone tapping their fingers impatiently on a metal table. And then, words formed out of nothing, directly into what remained of his perception:
"Hello, hello… testing, testing. Hmm, yes. Got it. What a weak signal, huh? You almost became static for good."
The voice was male, casual, full of a sadistic curiosity. It sounded young and ancient at the same time. Evandro tried to react, but there was no body to move, no vocal cords to use. Only a residual will, the echo of the instinct for survival and control.
"Ah, hold on, I'll give you a bit of… this. Form. Just the basics, so the conversation can flow."
Suddenly, Evandro was there. Not in a body, but in an idea of a body. An outline of himself, pale and translucent, floating in an infinite, featureless white space. Before him, a figure materialized — a man of common appearance, in jeans and a black T-shirt, sitting in an office chair that spun slowly in the void. He had a broad, unassuming smile, but his eyes shone with an ancient and profoundly bored intelligence.
"There. Better? It's strange at first, but you get used to it. Or you don't, because usually it doesn't last long." The man gave a little laugh. "But you… you're special."
Evandro tried to speak. His "voice" came out as a projected thought, weak and hesitant. "Where… is this the afterlife? The final judgment?"
The figure laughed, a genuinely cheerful sound. "Final judgment? How dramatic. No, nothing like that. This here is the limbo of the disconnected. The collection point for souls with no fixed address. But I'm not the doorman, no." He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Evandro. "I'm a… curious one. A collector. A system."
"A system?"
"Multiversal Invasion System. Pompous name, I know. You can call me M.I.S., or just 'Mis' if you want to be informal. I see everything, you know? All realities, all timelines. And yours… damn, yours was quite a read."
The being—Mis—stretched his arms as if waking from a nap. "Surgeon. Meticulous brutality. Impeccable family facade. Degenerative disease leading to a pathetic death in a hospital bed… What a waste." He made a disapproving sound with his tongue. "All that capacity. All that coldness. All that will to take things apart… spent in such a… boring little world. So predictable. Crime and punishment, love and loss, yadda yadda yadda. A tired soap opera."
Evandro felt—or imagined feeling—a chill. This being knew. Knew everything. The facade, for the first time in all his existence, was completely stripped away. The ancient instinct kicked in: Adapt. Deceive.
"I… made many mistakes," projected Evandro, trying to imbue his "voice" with a weary remorse. "I was a monster. I sought redemption in the end, with my family. I tried to be… good." The lie was perfect, constructed with the same skill with which he had performed decades of domestic life.
There was a silence. And then, Mis began to laugh. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but a spontaneous, colossal one that shook the white space around them.
"HA! GOOD! Very good! 'Tried to be good'! For the love of the stars, that's hilarious!" He wiped an imaginary tear. "You didn't try to be good for a single second. You tried to be convenient. You built a shelter. A disguise. And you did an excellent job. That's why I'm here."
The laughter ceased, replaced by sharpened interest. "Let me tell you a secret, Evandro. God—the mustachioed God sitting on a cloud throne you're trying to fool—doesn't exist. Or rather, the position is vacant. No joke. There are powerful creatures, demigods, pocket dimensions made by multiverse users, but the Great Creator? Hasn't shown up yet. Maybe He never will."
He spun in his chair. "What exists is… potential. And chaos. And an infinite, mostly tedious multiverse. That's where I come in. I am a parasitic system. A sympathetic virus. I merge with someone like you—someone with a special taste for destruction, for forced change—and help them… visit other worlds."
"Visit?"
"In-vade," corrected Mis, his smile widening until it was almost grotesque. "Like Venom, you know? Only instead of eating brains, we eat realities. You would be my host. My agent. I give you power, knowledge of the location, a chance to start over, with all your… skills… intact. And you enter that world and make an impact. It doesn't matter how. Become a dictator, a cultist summoning horrors, a hero sinking into ever darker methods… whatever you want. The goal is to change the course of history. Tear up the predictable script. The more damage you do, the deeper the scar you leave on that reality, the stronger we both become. And when that world can't take it anymore, or when we get bored… we jump to the next one."
Evandro processed the information. It wasn't heaven. It wasn't hell. It was a proposal. A continuation. The icy core within him, the one that had survived even dementia, awoke. It was a logic he understood perfectly: efficiency, power, survival through domination.
"And if I say no?" he asked, out of habit.
Mis shrugged, a human and disconcerting gesture. "You go back to the non-place. Dissolve for good. Become the insignificant cosmic dust you almost became. No torment, no reward. Just… end." His gaze pierced Evandro. "But you're not going to say no. I've seen your heart, Evandro. Or rather, the hole where it should be. You love the feeling of the scalpel cutting something that should be alive. Now imagine… the scalpel being your will, and the body being an entire world."
It was true. The attraction was visceral, primitive. It was the offer to transform his art of facade and violence into something cosmic.
"What's the cost?" Evandro asked, his projection already firmer, more like his doctor's voice.
"Besides your soul, which technically isn't yours anymore? Nothing you'll miss. A little bit of your autonomy. I'll be with you all the time. We'll be partners. Symbiotes. I give you the map, you hit the gas." Mis stood up from the chair, which disappeared. He extended a hand that wasn't exactly a hand, but a vortex of dark, shimmering energy. "So, what do you say, Doctor? Ready to do your true artwork on a slightly larger scale?"
Evandro looked at his own ghostly hand. He remembered the smell of the stew, the green velvet, the blood on the steel, the perfect smile. All of that had been a rehearsal. A draft.
Here, finally, was the definitive blank canvas.
He didn't smile. The gesture was unnecessary here. But a feeling of absolute fitness, the first and last truth of his existence, filled him.
He extended his translucent hand and touched the vortex.
Non-existence collapsed in a swirl of color and sound. The system laughed, a laugh of pure, sadistic anticipation, echoing in the nascent shared consciousness.