It was dark.
Not the gentle darkness of nightfall, but the absolute void left behind after annihilation.
Planets drifted in shattered fragments. Galaxies lay scattered like broken glass across the endless black. Whatever faint light remained flickered weakly, as though hope itself refused to surrender.
On one of the ruined planets, beneath a mountain of jagged stone, a young man lay crushed and dying.
He could not move. He could barely breathe.
Yet he was still alive.
He had never imagined his life would end like this.
His dark green hair was matted with crimson—his own blood, most likely. He stared up at the sky, where an atmosphere no longer existed to soften the stars. His entire life flashed before him in vivid, merciless fragments.
He remembered childhood afternoons spent sneaking into golden fields with his friends. The sharp rebukes of his father. The tired, gentle smile of his caring mother. The endless fights with his little sister. The soft face of his lovely wife and the bright laughter of his son.
They were all safe now, somewhere in Lumenia—the only place that had not been destroyed, at least according to the last intelligence he had received.
A weak smile crept across his bloodied lips, hiding a lifetime of regret. He was proud he had fought in this war and contributed, even if only a little. He felt a quiet happiness knowing his family and the coming generation could live in peace. But beneath it lay the deeper ache of not being able to return as he had promised.
With the last of his strength, he dragged his right hand free from beneath the boulder and raised it toward the sky, dark green sparks coming out of his arm, fingers straining as if he could seize the stars themselves. In a voice no louder than a whisper—audible only to him—he spoke his final words.
"Long live… Lumenia."
His eyes lost all luster. His hand slowly fell back to the ground.
The life of a loving father, a caring brother, a grateful son, and a cheerful husband ended there.
He was, in truth, one of the lucky ones. Many others had died so suddenly they never realized it; their bodies now floated silently through the ruined universe. Others had suffered long, gruesome deaths, their blood painting entire planets. The war had been merciless.
At the center of the universe, the surviving figures gathered in small, wary clusters, floating around a colossal horizontal golden sphere. Three immense golden ropes stretched outward from it, vanishing into the distance where even sight failed.
Every living being stared at it, weapons still trembling in their hands. Golden specks poured from its surface like glittering snow, raining down in a surreal celebration none of them felt.
Gradually, the golden specks settled. The mists inside the sphere calmed. Then the sphere itself, along with its three ropes, faded away like a dying dream. Only then did the tension in the air begin to ease.
From the southeast group, a tall young man with gleaming Egyptian-blue hair and sky-blue eyes raised his right arm. His voice rang out, calm yet commanding.
"Now that 'He' is dead, shall we consider this war over?" He let the silence stretch a moment before adding, "If any of you wish to continue, I will oblige. Choose wisely."
The southeast group did not so much stand as occur — the way light occurs, or a held breath. Their wings alone were a spectrum unto themselves: some feathered in deep violets that seemed to drink the dark rather than reflect it, others translucent as stained glass, letting the faint starlight bleed through in fractured colors across the ground beneath them.
Even torn and matted with blood, the wings caught what little light remained and turned it into something reverent, almost angelic.
Their skin held no wounds the way mortal skin held wounds — cuts sat on them like cracks in porcelain, damage that only seemed to prove how fine the material was to begin with. Where blood had dried against pale skin, it looked less like injury and more like something painted on deliberately, an artist's single stroke of red across white.
It was the kind of beauty that made violence look like blasphemy.
A black-winged angel turned to the blue-eyed man. Her wings — the color of a night with no stars in it — folded slowly behind her, the motion unhurried even now, even here.
"We have suffered far too many casualties," she said. "We have no desire to fight any longer."
To the northeast, a group waited amid the wreckage of their machines, hulking mechas scorched black, armor plating peeled back like burnt skin, advanced weaponry still smoking from the last exchange.
A man with black hair and light-purple eyes climbed out of the most damaged of them, dropping the last few feet to the ground rather than waiting for it to lower him. Purple lightning crackled across his skin in place of blood, and black cubes orbited his shoulders in a slow, restless rotation, like something pacing.
"I also have no wish to continue this war," he said. "It seems we are all in agreement—"
He stopped mid-sentence. The other two groups froze as well. Their eyes widened in unison.
The golden sphere had reformed.
Terror swept across every face.
Inside the sphere, the golden specks swirled faster, coalescing into three distinct flames—each burning a different color.
The leftmost flame was pale blue, shimmering with white motes. The central flame burned bright gold, flecked with white particles. The rightmost flame flickered light purple, violet sparks dancing along its edges.
From the first group, a beautiful woman with long dark-purple hair and matching eyes raised her hand, fingers poised to flick the flames into oblivion. A crazed smile curved her lips.
The blue-eyed man signaled her to stop. She looked visibly annoyed, but before either could speak, the pale-blue flame surged upward. It formed a protective wall that sealed off the southwest, cutting the universe in two. The golden flame followed, creating a barrier around the north and south. The light-purple flame completed the division, sealing the northeast. In an instant, the three factions were separated into their own isolated regions.
A strange calm washed over them. Their bodies felt stronger. Wounds began to close rapidly. Pain faded. Even their exhaustion lifted—except for the deepest injuries, which remained.
Confused but unwilling to question the miracle, the leader of the third group ordered one of his men to test the barrier. The soldier crossed the purple wall into the blue region. The moment he did, a crushing pressure slammed onto his back. His healing faltered. He raised his weapon and fired a purple energy bolt; the shot was noticeably weaker. Realizing the danger, he retreated at once. The instant he returned to his own region, the oppressive weight vanished, and relief flooded him.
The black-winged angel let out a low, amused laugh. "It seems 'He' left us one final gift—to stop us from fighting until the next time."
From above, fresh golden specks began to fall, drifting down across planets, galaxies, every living being still left to catch them. Most were absorbed on contact. A few drifted past everything, untouched, left stranded in the void.
The three groups sent envoys to negotiate the return of their fallen. Whatever else stood between them, this much they agreed on without discussion.
All other diplomatic matters were left to the envoys.
The blue-haired man finally exhaled in relief, already turning his thoughts toward Lumenia. Only then did he notice one of his own was missing.
"Where is Eric?" he whispered, an edge of unease slipping into his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago.
He found him at the very edge of the blue wall — still, unmoving, apart from everyone else already drifting back toward the ships. While the others celebrated survival, Eric hovered alone at the border of it, staring down into the place where the golden sphere had once floated, as though the void down there had noticed him first.
Pink hair fell loose around a face lit faintly by his own rose-pink eyes, the only color in a stretch of black and grey wreckage. Nothing about him moved. Even his tool belt, his gloves, the worn seams of his suit — all of it hung still, as the aftermath had simply forgotten to reach him yet.
He slipped his left hand into his pocket and drew out a single unabsorbed golden speck, turning it slowly between two fingers. It looked no different from ordinary glitter. Yet something about it felt wrong in a way he couldn't name — wrong the way a held breath is wrong, the way a word feels wrong just before you realize you've mispronounced it your whole life.
He heaved a deep sigh, and let it fall.
He watched it drop until the darkness took the light from it completely, and did not look away even after there was nothing left to watch.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned.
The blue-haired man stood there, smiling — though something behind the smile didn't quite reach as far as usual. "Hey, Eric. No time to stare into the void. Let's head back to Lumenia. You still have plenty of plans to make."
Eric brushed the hand away gently, matching the smile with one of his own — softer, but no less practiced.
"You're right, Sashiro. We should go."
He paused. One last look into the dark — but above him, this time.
The abyss above him was dark in a way that felt total — not the ordinary dark of a night sky, but something that swallowed light rather than simply lacking it. The golden dust drifting upward disappeared into it without a trace, its radiance gone the moment it crossed the threshold, as though the darkness up there had no interest in being illuminated.
He looked past it anyway. His eyes found what they were looking for: a translucent wall, black-blue, and behind it the faint glimmer of white strings catching light from somewhere he couldn't identify.
He looked at them for a long moment. Something in his expression settled — not quite a smile, but close, the particular stillness of a person who has just made a decision they intend to keep.
"I'll be back."
His voice was quiet. Almost plain. But there was something underneath it that made the words feel less like a promise to the wall and more like a warning to whatever lay behind it.
He held the stillness a moment longer, then let it go, tucking it away somewhere he could find again, and turned back toward the others.
"What will you do once we return?" Eric asked Sashiro, who was waiting for him.
Sashiro rested his left hand on his chin, thinking for a moment.
"I'll help Adrian rebuild Lumenia. Get married. Have children. Build a family. Grow old. And die quietly after hiding my inheritances."
Eric's smile widened, warm and sincere — though it took him half a second longer to answer than it should have.
"I hope to do the same."
…
In a rented apartment in the Khamovniki District of Moscow, Russia, the night was cold and rainy.
In room 003 on the ground floor of Lux Apartments, a couple slept through it undisturbed.
The bedroom door and window were shut tight. Eric Heisenberg lay on his back, eyes closed, when a sudden vision flashed behind his eyelids: the Eiffel Tower, sharp and unmistakable.
His eyes opened.
The room was so quiet he could hear every raindrop tapping against the glass. Distant cars and motorcycles passed occasionally, their headlights sweeping faint patterns across the ceiling.
He sat up. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. On the dressing table, makeup and skincare products lay scattered in cheerful disarray. He stared at them for a long moment, then whispered to himself in a dazed voice:
"So Paris is our next destination."
He glanced to his left. His wife, Ruby Whiteheart, slept with her back to him. Her Kelly-green hair spilled across the pillow. Her thick black lashes rested against skin as pale as snow, her features gone soft in sleep, unguarded in a way they never were awake.
Beautiful.
Eric looked away.
He eased the blanket back, careful of every fold, and let his feet find the cold floor first — the chill of it grounding, almost pleasant against skin still warm from sleep. Beside him, Ruby didn't stir. Her breathing stayed slow and even, the small, private rhythm of someone who trusted the room around her completely.
To his right stood a small table with drawers, where they kept their identification cards, cash, and the quiet debris of a shared life — scissors, pens, spare paper, a tangle of hair ties Ruby always meant to sort and never did.
He slid the top drawer open by degrees, easing it along its track so it wouldn't catch and rattle, and drew out a single band for his hair. He eased the drawer shut with the same care, one hand cupped beneath it to soften the final inch.
He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, simply looking at her.
His own pink hair fell loose across his face in the dark, short bangs draping over the right side, hiding that eye entirely.
The left eye — visible, uncovered — held a faint pink glow of its own, dim but constant, like a coal that had learned to burn quietly rather than go out. It used to startle people, that light. Strangers on the street. Ruby, the first time, though she'd hidden it well. Now it was simply a part of him, the way a scar becomes part of a hand, no longer noticed by the person who carries it, only by those who see it for the first time.
He gathered his hair back with slow, unhurried movements, working the band into place, and rose from the bed at last.
The floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, weight settling and lifting without a sound. Outside, the rain kept its own rhythm against the glass.
Soft, unbroken, indifferent to the hour. He reached the door, turned the handle with both hands to keep the latch from clicking, and slipped into the hallway.
The air there was a few degrees colder, carrying the faint mineral smell that always seemed to settle into old apartment buildings after rain. He turned left, moving toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, his shadow trailing long and thin across the wall in the dim light bleeding through the window at the far end.
Before entering, he paused at the window beside the door. Rain traced slow paths down the glass. Parked cars lined the street, but not a single soul walked outside. Occasional headlights swept past. His own reflection stared back at him from the wet pane.
He turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
The bathroom was cold enough that a normal person would have shivered. However, Eric barely registered it. He crossed to the sink, set both hands on the cool porcelain edge, and looked directly into the mirror.
All of his features should have been visible to him by now. Be it his pink hair or his glowing left eye, faint and constant. The bang draped over the right side of his face, hiding what lay beneath. All of it reflected at him exactly as it should.
He turned on the tap and let the water run over his hands, watching it without really seeing it — the small, mindless ritual of someone who needed a moment before doing something else. He splashed his face. The cold of it should have woken him fully. Instead it seemed to settle somewhere deeper, and his breath came a little faster than the water alone could explain.
He looked up.
With his right hand, slowly, he brushed the bang aside.
The eye beneath was rose pink, brighter than its twin, and for a moment he simply held his own gaze in the glass, two mismatched eyes staring back, glowing faint and steady in the dark.
Then he looked closer, and there was nothing there.
There was no darkness. Not shadow. Nothing — the particular, wrong nothing of a mirror choosing not to answer. His hair was there. His skin, his jaw, the damp line of water still tracking down his throat, all of it present, all of it accounted for. Only his eyes were missing, as though the glass had looked at him and simply declined.
Cold sweat rose on his forehead. He didn't step back.
He closed his eyes.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of the tap still running, water circling the drain, the rain against the small frosted window above the sink.
When he opened them again, something in the room had already changed — not the light, not the temperature, nothing he could have named, only the sense that whoever now stood at the sink was not quite the man who had walked in.
Both eyes glowed rose pink now, matched, steady, the faint hum of pink he'd carried on one side alone now doubled and calm.
A smile spread slowly across his face, gentle at first glance, and wrong the longer it stayed there. He looked into the mirror, into the place where his own eyes should have been and weren't.
'Eric' slowly chuckled as he touched his right cheek and looked at himself in the mirror; his reflection was as clear as the moon in the sky.
'Eric' closed his eyes and slowly said, "The memories are coming back."
'Eric' slowly turned to the bathroom window and looked out.
His gaze moved past the glass, past the clouds, past the curve of the atmosphere and the dark beyond it, through the solar system and outward still, past the scatter of galaxies until there was nothing left to pass through — and there, at the edge of everything, the blue-black wall appeared again. The white strings behind it caught whatever light existed out there, faint and cold.
The smile that came to his face was slow and a little frightening.
"Just you wait." His voice was quiet, almost tender, brows drawing together slightly. "I'll be there soon."
Then something moved on the other side of the wall.
A long white string drifted into view, and wrapped around it, covering its length in their thousands, were eyes. Each one had a golden pupil. They turned downward toward him, with the unhurried certainty of things that have been watching for a long time and are not concerned about being seen.
There was coldness in them, and beneath the coldness, something harder to name, contempt, maybe, or anger grown old enough to stop announcing itself.
Then 'Eric's' gaze met theirs.
And among all those golden eyes, something new opened — slowly, like a flower coming apart petal by petal — a white eye, his, blooming across the string, beginning to reach for it.
A moment passed.
Eric blinked. His left eye shifted, the color returning to the same soft cherry blossom pink as his hair, and he looked around the bathroom with a small, genuine confusion, as though he'd surfaced from a dream he could already feel slipping away.