The rain pounded on the rusted metal roof, a steady rhythm that barely registered to him anymore. It was late October, two months shy of his eighteenth birthday, and four years to the day since he'd left home. Not that the date mattered; it was just another fact, like the dim light filtering through the broken windows or the damp chill settling into the warehouse's cracked concrete floor. He remembered that night only in pieces, fragments he had never bothered to piece together. The hiss of wind on his face, the dark streets stretching out before him—an escape, not from any particular fear, but from the monotony of feeling nothing at all.

Four years on the streets had a way of reshaping people, or breaking them, but he wasn't either of those. He had always been this way—cold, detached, watching the world with a distance that set him apart. Hunger and cold, danger and exhaustion; he felt them in a way, but they never reached inside him. He saw survival as just another task, as routine as breathing, one he handled with a detached efficiency that had left him lean, quiet, and unreadable. Other street kids stuck together, seeking safety in numbers, hoping for some sense of belonging or security. He avoided them all with the ease of someone who found people exhausting, their hopes and fears a distraction. He moved through the nights like a shadow, picking through the city's forgotten corners, his expression rarely changing, his mind always in a state of eerie calm.

He watched raindrops slither down the cracked warehouse window, neon reflections twisting and stretching as they slid toward the bottom. There was no thought of the future, no plan. Turning eighteen meant little, just another date in a life that had long since blurred into something grey and distant. He had left home, left everything behind, and felt no desire to go back.

The shadows thickened, pressing in around him like a silent tide, and he felt an unnatural stillness settle over the room. It was a subtle shift at first—just a dull weight that started in his limbs, spreading upward, seeping into his bones. His heartbeat slowed, heavy and sluggish, like someone had reached inside and was gripping it, tightening their hold with each beat. He tried to move, to push himself off the steel beam and snap back to full alertness, but his arms felt like they were wrapped in lead, his mind fogging over, slipping out of focus.

A strange taste lingered in the air, metallic and sharp, almost sweet, wrapping itself around his senses. The dim warehouse lights blurred, pooling in strange patterns that seemed to flicker just out of his reach. He forced his eyes open wider, searching the room, instincts snapping to life even as his body refused to follow. Someone was here. They had to be. He'd been too careful for too long to fall victim to some passive accident or random lapse in awareness. This—this feeling of being tugged into oblivion, his own body betraying him—had to be intentional.

His gaze darted to the shadows, half-expecting to see a figure lurking, someone hidden just beyond the light's reach, controlling this strange force that drained his strength. But the room was still. No movement, no sounds other than the rain. The sensation was relentless, though, invading every nerve, tugging him down into a murky stillness. He fought to stay conscious, muscles tensing against the invisible pressure, his mind caught between suspicion and dread. Whoever was doing this was precise, patient. And as his eyes grew heavier, the edges of his vision dimming to black, he realized—whatever was happening was far beyond his control.

The fight was slipping away from him, his vision narrowing to a dark tunnel that wrapped tighter with every heartbeat. His last thought was sharp and unyielding, one final instinct to resist—but then he was falling, his mind spiraling downward, untethered. There was no impact, no end, just a steady drift into weightless nothingness. Everything was dark, endless and absolute, stretching in every direction. He couldn't feel his body, couldn't even tell if he was breathing, but somehow he was aware, suspended in a silent, vast void.

At first, the blackness was total. It was not simply an absence of light; it was a place with a strange, almost tangible weight to it, like the dark itself was pressing down, surrounding him, filling the space around him with an unnatural density. He tried to reach out, to touch something solid, but there was nothing. Just the sensation of floating, alone, somewhere that felt neither here nor anywhere he'd ever been.

Then, slowly, the darkness around him began to shift. Tiny wisps of something lighter seeped through the edges of the void, threads of faint colors spreading like veins across his vision. Deep, cold blues bled into the black, curling like mist before fading into dark purples, and then into rich, shadowed reds that pulsed at the edges. Gradually, the colors twisted and merged, swirling around him like some silent storm, painting the void with strange, otherworldly hues.

The darkness solidified around him, walls forming in shadows, seamless and smooth, as if crafted from the same endless blackness he'd first drifted through. It felt like he was inside a room—no, more than a room, something vast and unbounded, a space that somehow seemed alive, breathing with the colors that pulsed faintly, shifting with no clear source of light. The room was still empty, silent, but it no longer felt like nothingness. It felt intentional, shaped, like it was waiting for something—or someone.

The colors continued to seep into the blackness, coalescing and separating, like ink dissolving in water. The tiniest patch of dark blue—barely a speck against the endless shadows—spread across the void, stretching and twisting until it claimed a fragment of the darkness. It was just 1%, a subtle, muted contrast against the overwhelming black, yet somehow it anchored him, drawing his eyes to it as though it held a meaning he couldn't quite grasp.

Then, in a blink, the room shifted. The dense shadows around him broke apart, rippling and bending as they reformed, shifting shape and color with a strange, fluid grace. Suddenly, he was no longer floating in a vast void but seated in an all-too-familiar place, one he hadn't seen in years. The stained carpet beneath his feet, the worn-out armchair across the room, the sagging couch with frayed fabric—all of it felt pulled from memory, painfully specific, with details he hadn't thought about since he'd left. His old family's living room, recreated here in such vivid clarity that he almost believed he was back.

A twisted feeling stirred in his chest. It was surreal, too close to be real yet somehow too detailed to be anything but. Every crack in the paint, every scuff on the coffee table, every mismatched frame on the wall—all as he remembered. The faint smell of stale coffee even lingered in the air, though he hadn't smelled it in years. The realization hit him like a weight, cold and uncomfortable: this was no accident. Someone, or something, had built this scene around him, plucking memories from his mind with chilling precision. It felt like a joke, some cruel prank orchestrated to make him drop his guard.

He clenched his jaw, steadying himself, scanning the room for anything out of place, for any hint of who—or what—was doing this. And then, like an apparition bleeding into reality, a figure appeared at the edge of the room, standing in the shadows where the dark blues had first pooled. The figure was indistinct at first, more a silhouette than a person, yet it watched him with an intensity he could feel even across the room.

The room around him held its quiet stillness, but the atmosphere had shifted, heavy and expectant. It was as if the very air pulsed with something unspoken, something waiting, and he knew, deep down, that whatever he was facing wasn't just another person.

The figure in the shadows began to change, its shape morphing with a strange, rippling fluidity. As the shadows peeled away, details emerged—the lines of a face, the roughness of stubble on a jaw, the tired eyes he had once known so well. It was his father, or at least something that looked like him, standing there with an eerie stillness, the gaze locked onto him with an intensity that bordered on unnatural. The figure was silent, but its presence felt invasive, as if it were reaching into his mind, searching for the right expressions, the right gestures to mimic.

A cold knot twisted in his stomach as he stared at the figure, a mixture of anger and unease stirring within him. He hadn't thought of his father in years, hadn't wanted to. The memories were buried deep, stowed away with the life he'd left behind. Yet here, in this space—this created, twisted mirror of his past—those memories were being wrenched to the surface, summoned by something that knew too much, that seemed to understand just what would unsettle him most.

His father's face moved, mouth opening as if to speak, but instead of words, there was silence. An oppressive, ringing quiet that pressed down on him like a weight, filling his ears, crowding his thoughts. The figure's eyes glinted in the strange half-light, a look of what could almost be recognition or judgment lingering in their depths. He resisted the urge to look away, knowing that whatever this thing was, it thrived on weakness.

Then, without warning, a series of symbols and numbers floated into view, hovering in the space between him and the figure. They flickered with a ghostly luminescence, as though etched into the air itself. He squinted, trying to make sense of them, and the characters slowly sharpened, becoming something familiar yet jarring in their cold, clinical clarity:

"SECTION E-13K-0421 OF THE MILKY WAY HAS FALLEN TO THE VOID."

He stared at the words, his eyes widening, an unexpected thrill flickering in the emptiness where most people would have felt dread. This was something—something far beyond the dull ache of routine, the endless repetition of survival that had worn his life thin and colorless. A strange, broken sense of excitement pulsed through him, crackling under his skin. Whatever this was, it was different. Dark, dangerous, possibly terrifying to anyone else, but to him? It felt like relief. An answer to the monotony.

He almost laughed. It bubbled up, sharp and twisted, an unfamiliar sensation clawing its way out of his throat. After years of cold detachment, the walls he'd built around himself cracking just slightly in the face of something powerful enough to reach him. Something unknown. The thought stirred an anticipation he hadn't felt in years, a feeling he hadn't thought himself capable of anymore.

"SECTION E-13K-0421 OF THE MILKY WAY HAS FALLEN TO THE VOID."

The words glowed in the space between him and the twisted memory of his father, like a riddle or a promise, an invitation he couldn't help but consider. The void, he thought, savoring the word. He'd been living in a kind of void for years, but that void had been filled with hunger, with bleak, unchanging survival. This… this was something else entirely. There was a grandeur to it, something vast and unforgiving, swallowing whole worlds.

His gaze drifted back to the figure that wore his father's face. "So," he said, letting the hint of a smile tug at his lips, "what are you here to offer me? Or is it just more of the same—more emptiness disguised as purpose?"

The figure didn't answer, but he could see it watching him with something close to curiosity, a glimmer in its eyes as if recognizing the way he leaned into the strangeness, his indifference giving way to dark anticipation. His pulse quickened, not with fear but with a quiet thrill. The figure's eyes narrowed, as if assessing him, recognizing the absence of the usual terror or confusion.

The words in the air shifted, rearranging with a soft, flickering pulse. "Embrace it, or be consumed," they read. There was something almost mocking in the simplicity of the message, and he felt a strange urge to laugh again. It was like a dare, an invitation into something greater, stranger than his own detached existence had ever promised him.

He took a step forward, closer to the figure, feeling the chill of the air press against his skin. "Consumed, huh?" he murmured, his voice soft and edged with an odd calm. "Well, that's something, at least. I was getting tired of the usual."

The figure seemed to tilt its head, its form flickering, as if recognizing the gleam in his eye, the spark of excitement edging out the fear that would have filled anyone else. He felt his own heartbeat, slow and steady, his mind filling with dark possibilities, endless and expansive. Maybe this was what he'd been waiting for all along—a chance to break through, to find something as vast and unfeeling as he was, something he could stare down without breaking.

The figure in his father's guise tilted its head, studying him with a silent intensity that bordered on predatory. The neon-lit words hanging in the air shifted again, flickering into something even colder.

"The void does not wait."

It was a warning—or maybe just a fact, the way death is a fact, inevitable and indifferent. The strange thrill in his chest only grew. He wondered if it would really consume him, tear him apart from the inside, or if he could somehow stand against it, maybe even make it flinch. His mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a grin as he held the figure's gaze.

"Then show me," he whispered, voice low but unwavering. He let the words sink into the silence, challenging whatever intelligence lay behind those shadowed eyes.

The figure responded with a slow, unsettling smile, a ghostly imitation of something he might have seen on his father's face long ago. But behind it was something alien, something vast and hungry. Without warning, the scene around him rippled and began to collapse, like ink dissolving in water, colors and shapes folding into each other. The walls warped, melting back into that endless darkness, that heavy void pressing in on all sides. The familiar objects of his old home faded into mist, swallowed by the shadows, leaving him floating once more in the quiet, expansive black.

But this time, he was not alone.

Out of the darkness, shadows gathered and took shape, stretching and twisting until they surrounded him. Figures rose from the void—blurred outlines of people, none of them quite human, their forms shifting as though unable to settle on a shape. They pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow, each a fragment of something larger, something woven from the fabric of the void itself.

They didn't speak, but their presence was overwhelming, each of them watching him with the same unreadable intensity as the figure that had first appeared. He felt a pressure in his mind, a voice without words, a deep pull that resonated in his chest, powerful and undeniable. They were testing him, assessing him, as if trying to decide whether he was worthy of whatever dark purpose they embodied.

The thrill spiked again, fierce and unyielding. He could feel the shadows crawling around him, brushing against his skin, pressing in close like they were trying to seep into him, searching for cracks in his psyche. Yet he didn't flinch. He stood there, quiet and still, welcoming the darkness, meeting it with a gaze as cold and detached as it had given him all these years.

The darkness shifted, coalescing into a single entity, a towering figure that loomed over him, its shadow stretching beyond sight. A vast, unseeing gaze bore down on him, and he felt something in it that was like approval—an acknowledgment of the cold calm he offered in return.

Then, just as the silence settled into something near unbearable, the same words returned, spiraling into the dark, an echo of the earlier warning:

"Embrace it, or be consumed."

A glimmer of cold satisfaction filled him as he stood there, wrapped in the shadows of the void. The thrill of something powerful and unknown surged within, even as the darkness pressed closer, filling every inch of space around him with an overwhelming weight. He welcomed it, savoring the sensation, letting it seep through his skin and settle in his bones.

But then, just as the darkness seemed ready to claim him fully, an intense, searing light erupted in the distance. It cut through the void like a blade, sharp and unyielding, radiating a brilliance that banished shadows in a single sweep. He flinched, instinctively shielding his eyes from the brightness as it filled the space, dispersing the void around him with an unwavering force.

"System protocol initializing…"

The words reverberated in his mind, calm and mechanical, in stark contrast to the wild power of the void. The light continued to expand, forming a barrier around him, a shield that pulsed with a steady, controlled energy. He felt its warmth seep into him, pushing back the darkness, wrapping him in a protective cocoon.

"No…" he muttered, feeling the void recoil within him, his connection to its raw power slipping away. He clawed against the force, resisting, reaching for the darkness that was now held at bay by this new presence. But the light only grew stronger, filling every corner of his mind with a blinding intensity. It was relentless, refusing to let the void near him.

"Containment successful," the voice stated, a smooth, emotionless tone that felt neither human nor alive. It wasn't a person, but a force—an entity just as vast and alien as the void, with a purpose as absolute as its enemy.

The darkness was gone now, contained outside the light's reach, leaving him feeling hollow and restless. The brightness was everywhere, yet he sensed a vastness within it, like a fortress that surrounded him with walls he couldn't breach.

"What… is this?" he whispered, his voice echoing through the light.

"System safeguards activated," the voice replied, answering him without warmth. "Your section of the Milky Way has been marked by the Void. Resistance is required to maintain balance."

The brightness pulsed in response, solidifying around him, its presence firm and unyielding. The thrill of the void's touch was gone, replaced by a cold clarity, an orderliness that pressed down on his mind with relentless precision. It was as if the light itself was thinking, calculating, analyzing every reaction, every impulse.

He tried to push against it, his mind reaching for the edges of the barrier, testing for weakness, for any hint of freedom. But the light's grip was firm, leaving him with only one unsettling truth.

The voice, sensing his resistance, softened by a single degree. "Your existence is essential. Do not be swayed by the allure of the Void. It seeks only to consume."

For a moment, a surge of anger pulsed through him, strong and defiant. He didn't want this restraint, this imposed balance. He had seen the vastness of the void, felt its unrestrained power, the strange ecstasy in its darkness. Now, all he had was this sterile light, a force that didn't understand what drove him. It was control without purpose, safety without thrill.

And yet, he knew resisting it was futile, at least for now. The light around him felt immovable, unyielding. Still, he clenched his fists, his teeth gritting as he stood against it. He would not simply fall in line, not after everything he had glimpsed.

"Fine," he said, forcing his voice to steady. "But I won't be contained forever."

The light pulsed once more, and he felt it—recognition, almost an acknowledgment. It was not giving him permission, but rather accepting his defiance as part of who he was, something it would have to work around.

Then, slowly, the light faded, its presence withdrawing. His eyes adjusted, revealing the warehouse once more—the cracked floors, the rusted beams, the rain still drumming softly on the roof. But in his mind, he could still feel the remnants of both forces: the void's darkness lurking at the edges, and the light's steady, protective warmth hovering just out of reach. They were both a part of him now, balanced but tense, each waiting for the chance to pull him to their side.

He took a deep breath, allowing himself to settle back into the quiet, his heart slowly calming. He was no longer the same as he had been before. His eyes glinted in the dim warehouse light, carrying a new, sharper edge. He had power now, even if it was tempered, restrained. He could feel it there, ready to surface if the void or the system ever returned for him.

With a final, quiet satisfaction, he whispered his name to the empty room, as if staking a claim in the presence of both light and dark.

"Fenrir."