The void is not silent.

It hums with the low, tectonic groan of collapsing dimensions—a sound felt in the marrow, not the ears. Here, in the starless crawl between realities, They drift. A crimson leviathan, limbs folded like a sleeping god, yet awake in every atom. GOLBetty’s form is a paradox: a towering silhouette both geometric and organic, their cubic head crowned by a fraying pyramid, four eyes burning cold blue against the dark. Green blocks orbit them—jagged fragments of devoured worlds, each whispering the last screams of forgotten civilizations.

"NATURE..."
The word shudders from nowhere and everywhere, syllables splitting into a chorus—a child’s whimper, a dying star’s crackle, a blade scraping bone.

"LIFE..."
The blocks shiver, replaying moments: a sprout pushing through ash, a heartbeat flatlining, a kiss in the rain.

"DEATH..."
Their voice fractures into static. GOLBetty’s cape—once Betty’s proud wizard robe—flutters in a wind that does not exist. One hand twitches, clawed fingers curling as if to grasp something smaller, something human. A yellow ribbon, frayed and scorched, clings to their neck.

The void recoils as they turn. Two of their eyes soften, lenses warping into the shape of glasses—a ghost of a scholar, a ghost of a lover. The blocks swarm, forming a fractured halo.

"SIMON..."
This time, the whisper is almost gentle. Almost.

But the chaos is hungry. The blocks dissolve. The eyes hardened. And GOLBetty floats on, a god and a grave, stitching entropy into the fabric of every "safe" and "sane" thing.