Daniel didn't remember standing up.
One moment he was on the ground, rain soaking his clothes, lungs dragging in air like he'd been drowning.
The next, he was walking.
His legs moved on their own, carrying him down the sidewalk while his mind lagged behind, still kneeling beneath a broken sky.
It wasn't real.
That thought repeated over and over, desperate, fragile.
Stress. Hallucination. A dream while standing.
But his chest felt too warm.
Not outside.
Inside.
Like someone had placed a small sun behind his ribs.
He reached his apartment building and climbed the stairs slowly. Every step echoed louder than it should have. The hallway lights hummed like distant machinery.
His door.
His key.
His shaking hand missed the lock twice before sliding in.
Click.
Inside.
The familiar scent of old books and detergent wrapped around him. His couch. His small table. His unfinished cup of tea from earlier.
Normal.
Too normal.
Daniel locked the door and leaned back against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor.
"…Okay," he whispered. "Think."
Silence answered.
He pressed his palm against his chest again.
That warmth pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
With each pulse, the air around him felt… heavier. Thicker. Like invisible pressure pushing outward.
"Stop," he muttered. "Just stop."
The pulsing didn't stop.
It responded.
The overhead light flickered.
Daniel froze.
"I didn't mean—"
The bulb shattered.
Glass burst outward in slow motion, pieces hanging in the air — not falling, just suspended like the rain had been earlier.
His breath hitched.
"No no no no—"
The glass dropped all at once, clattering across the floor.
Darkness swallowed the room except for the faint city glow through the window.
Daniel stared at his hands.
"I didn't touch anything…"
His voice trembled.
"I didn't do anything."
But deep down, a terrifying thought surfaced.
Yes you did.
He stood slowly and walked to the bathroom. Each step felt like approaching a stranger.
The mirror waited above the sink.
He looked.
Same messy hair. Same tired eyes.
But something was different.
Faint light pulsed beneath his skin at the center of his chest, visible through his shirt like a heartbeat made of stars.
Daniel lifted his shirt.
A symbol glowed over his heart.
Circular. Layered. Lines crossing like cosmic geometry. It shifted slightly, as if alive, rearranging itself in ways his mind couldn't follow.
He staggered back.
"This can't be happening…"
The air rippled.
The tiles on the wall bent inward like soft rubber.
Daniel gasped and grabbed the sink.
"STOP!"
Everything snapped back.
The walls straightened.
The symbol dimmed.
Only his breathing remained, sharp and uneven.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes — not from pain, but from the weight of it.
"I just wanted… my life to matter," he whispered.
A whisper answered.
Not loud.
Not from outside.
From the warmth in his chest.
And now it does.
Daniel's eyes widened.
"I'm losing my mind…"
No. You are awakening.
The voice wasn't cold. It wasn't kind either. It was vast. Old. Like gravity speaking.
He slid down the wall, shaking.
"What… are you?"
The Genesis Core.
The symbol pulsed brighter.
The power to begin existence.
Daniel laughed weakly, almost hysterically. "Yeah. Sure. I create universes now. Makes sense."
Silence.
Then—
The space in front of him folded.
Not exploded.
Folded. Like invisible paper bending inward.
A small tear opened in the air — no bigger than a coin.
Through it, he saw… sky.
But not Earth's sky.
Two suns hung over endless violet clouds.
Wind blew through the tear, carrying a scent he had never known.
Daniel's laughter died in his throat.
The tear closed.
Gone.
He stared at empty air.
His heart pounded.
"I didn't imagine that," he said.
No. You created it.
His stomach dropped.
"That was… a world?"
A fragment. Unstable. Born from stray thought.
Daniel's voice came out small.
"I can't even control my own life… and you're telling me I can make realities?"
A pause.
Then the words that changed everything:
Every creator begins in fear.
Outside his window, thunder rolled across the sky.
But there were no clouds.