The last thing Atlas remembered was watching Avengers: Endgame in the theater. One blink, one heartbeat, and the familiar cinema was gone. Then came silence. Not the comforting kind, but the kind that stretches on forever—an endless void swallowing light and thought alike.
At first, Atlas told himself it was a dream. But dreams do not vibrate. They do not hum like a living circuit beneath one's consciousness.
Then a voice rippled through the emptiness.
"You died, child."
It was not loud. It did not echo. It simply existed everywhere at once—calm, cosmic, and heavy enough to bend meaning itself.
"You've lived your life with passion," the voice continued, "but it ended too soon."
Atlas turned—or thought he did—and the darkness shifted. A figure emerged, radiant and formless, neither man nor woman, clothed in light that shimmered like galaxies being born and dying in the same breath.
"W-who are you?" Atlas's voice came out small, fragile against eternity.
"I am called many things," the being said. "Creator. Architect. God. The name is unimportant. What matters is this—"
A pause. Space itself seemed to inhale.
"—your story is not finished."
Atlas blinked. "Not… finished?"
"Yes." Their tone softened. "You were never meant to die so soon. A clerical mistake, if you will—one of cosmic scale. You should have lived into your nineties as a brilliant biologist, not fallen in your twenties. So I will correct it. You shall have another beginning."
The void trembled. Stars ignited around them like embers swirling up from an unseen fire, forming constellations that spun toward infinity.
"Another beginning?" Atlas whispered. "Like… reincarnation?"
"Precisely," the light replied. "Into a universe you know well."
Images flickered within the being's glow: the arc reactor burning in Tony Stark's chest, Mjölnir splitting thunder, Thanos's gauntlet snapping through time.
Atlas's heart stopped. "That's… the Marvel Cinematic Universe."
"Indeed," said the god, amused. "A fragile, growing cosmos of destiny and chaos. You shall be reborn there."
They leaned closer—infinite, gentle, terrifying. "But before you awaken, you may choose two wishes. Choose wisely."
Two wishes. Two chances to define everything. Atlas swallowed hard.
"My first wish… I want to be like Ego or like a Cultivating when they create their own inner worlds or realms —a cosmic being—but in human form. I want my soul consciousness to hold a world within it, bound to my soul."
The god's light flickered, curious. "A universe contained. Continue."
"My second wish," Atlas said, his words trembling with excitement and fear, "is for a system—a divine interface that is connected to my inner world and gives missions, grants power, and lets me grow. One that connects to other worlds, so I can evolve."
The god smiled, galaxies curling like petals around their form. "Imagination worthy of a Creator. Very well. Your new life shall begin where your heart always longed to be."
Then the void shattered. Light exploded outward—the Big Bang in reverse—and existence folded around Atlas like pages closing on an old book.
"Go now, child."