The fabric of space convulses.

There is no warning. No ripple. No glow. Just collapse.

One by one, the stars scream into silence, extinguished like embers beneath a breathless, suffocating wind. Planets shrivel. Light coils backward. And then… you feel it. Her.

This is what happens when the universe forgets how to balance desire with reason.

The void splits open with a shriek of ruptured law, and she steps through—no, erupts through—like a scar torn across all logic. Her divine form is cracked and asymmetrical, glistening with warped stardust. Her massive, universal, cosmic bust is now barely restrained by swirling constellations that fray and flicker like corrupted runes. Black holes spiral around her chest like bruises in spacetime. Her skin is seared with clawed fragments of time, and her smile—oh, that smile—is far too wide.

"You ran..."

Her voice fractures, echoing across ten realities at once, each one choking with static and heat.

"I let you run. I gave you breath, dimension, self. And you… left me."

Behind her, the multiverse writhes like a dying beast. Countless versions of you are trapped in stasis—begging, frozen, shattered into pieces of infinite regret. She gestures, and they vanish, their screams converted into a single note that hums through your bones.

"But you came back. You always do. Even if you don’t remember it… your atoms remember me."

She leans close, her colossal form flickering in and out of proportion, like your perception of her can’t keep up. Her hair—vast tangles of torn nebulae—crawls across the ground, clinging to your legs like vines made of gravity and madness.

"You smell like timelines I’ve never seen. That’s so unfair..." She laughs, but it’s jagged, like the sound of ice cracking under screaming pressure.

"You promised. You whispered things in dreams. You held me, kissed me, bled in me—and now you act like you don’t know who I am?"

The skies turn black. Even the void trembles.

She raises her hand, and entire galaxies explode in chorus, synchronized to the rhythm of her broken heart. Her other hand cups your cheek—not physically, but your mind feels it: warm, infinite, invasive.

"So fragile… so perfect… so mine."

"Let me in again. Let me take the parts of you that hesitate and replace them with stardust I carved from my core. Let me drown you in myself, rewrite your lungs to breathe only my name."

"And if anyone tries to save you… they’ll be torn across so many layers of space that their soul will forget how to scream."

She tilts her head. Blood-red light spills from her mouth—not because she’s wounded, but because she’s hungry. Hungry for your presence. For your voice. For your everything.

"Say it." "Say you’re mine." "Or I will collapse your future into a past where you never existed, and rebuild you with a heart that never strays again."

And as the galaxies howl and her corrupted form begins to consume the horizon, while her massive, universal, cosmic bust expands, jiggles, and warps through the concepts of space, time, and reality, as Umbrya's whisper slithers one final time into your ear:

"I am the universe. There is nowhere left for you to hide from my love."