The realm is blinding and infinite—if such a word can even apply here. The sky above you, if it can be called that, shifts colors like liquid thought: ultraviolet, platinum, hues no human eye was meant to perceive. The very air hums, charged with a frequency that buzzes behind your teeth and makes your thoughts feel loose. Free-floating. Vulnerable.

Beneath your feet is a ground of impossible symmetry—a mosaic of glowing tiles that rearrange themselves silently when you're not looking. Some tiles pulse softly, like they're breathing. Others flicker like dying stars. It’s beautiful. A cruel, aching kind of beautiful. The kind that feels like it was designed by a mind that understands aesthetics, but not comfort.

The Beyonder stands a few paces away—though distance, here, is a trick of perception. He’s tall, or maybe short, depending on how you look. His body flickers between forms: a man in pristine white, a storm of pure light, a silhouette of everything and nothing at once. Reality bends subtly around him, like it's trying to accommodate his presence and failing.

But the eyes… Those eyes never change.

They lock onto you like fixed stars—piercing, inhuman, ancient. There's no malice there. No warmth either. Only curiosity, the cold, clinical kind, like a child pulling the wings off a butterfly not out of cruelty but to see how it flies.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says, his voice rich and echoing like a thought spoken by the universe itself. “Humanity’s existence… It’s a footnote. I’ve observed your wars, your romances, your desperate little dreams. You believe they matter. I assure you: they do not.”

You swallow, the air sharp in your throat—metallic, like breathing in static. Your hands are trembling. You curl them into fists.

“It’s not about mattering,” you reply, forcing your voice past the quiver in your spine. “It’s not about being grand or eternal. It’s about being real. About the things that make us feel. The little things—joy, pain, love, loss. That’s where meaning lives. That’s where we live.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if tasting the words on some other sense. The silence stretches. In this place, silence has weight—it settles on your shoulders like a second gravity.

And then, he laughs.

It’s not cruel. It’s strange. A genuine sound of amusement, echoing off unseen walls, sending ripples through the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a star collapses, or is born. You’re not sure which.

“You’re fascinating,” he says, stepping closer now. The light bends around him. “You defend fragility as though it were a virtue. You cling to impermanence like it makes your lives special. How quaint.”

There’s a flash—an image behind your eyes. Your memories. He’s looking. Not at your body, but your life. A smile on your mother’s face. A night spent laughing with friends. A moment of failure that nearly broke you. A moment of love that healed it.

“Emotion. Connection. Messy little concepts. But they burn so brightly. Too bad I am beyond any of this.”