Grant gasped awake—only there was no breath, no bed beneath him, no ceiling overhead.
He floated in a blinding endless white, so bright it seemed to press against his skin, yet it cast no shadow. His own body looked unreal, edges shimmering as though drawn in weak pencil lines.
"Hello?" His voice carried outward, but instead of fading, it rippled, echoing endlessly until it sounded like a hundred versions of himself were calling back.
From the horizonless blank, a shape bled into being—a silhouette, vaguely human. Its outline flickered with jagged interruptions, static-red glitches breaking it apart and stitching it back together.
The figure stood motionless at first, faceless and silent. Then it twitched, a jarring stutter like a broken recording, each jerk of its form leaving red static hanging in the air before dissolving.
Grant swallowed hard, instinct telling him to step back, but there was nowhere to step. Only void.
"…Who are you?"
The silhouette's head tilted. A sound crackled through the void—like distorted whispers over broken speakers.
Grant's chest tightened. He turned and bolted, sprinting into the white. His footsteps slapped against nothing—no floor, no sound but his breath—yet after ten, twenty, a hundred steps, he skidded to a stop.
The shadow waited for him.
Grant's eyes widened. He spun and ran the other way, faster, pushing his legs until they burned. The void bent around him like glass, seamless, endless—until he stumbled forward and nearly crashed into the silhouette again.
"No—no, that's impossible…" His voice cracked, the echoes mocking him.
The shadow didn't move. Its static shimmer pulsed faintly red, as if amused.
"You can't escape," it said calmly, voice layered and broken, like a dozen distorted versions of itself speaking in sync. "This is your mind."
Grant's throat went dry. "…a dream?"
The silhouette tilted its head. "No. A coma."
The void seemed to press in closer, heavier, as the words landed.
The shadow leaned forward, its outline crackling jagged across Grant's vision.
"And you've been here… for four years already."
The shadow raised one hand. Static hissed in the air, and from the whiteness bloomed a flat, glowing surface—like a window torn into the void.
Images bled across it: the dim corridor of the Ampers' safehouse, the faint glow of Voltair's armor, the storm-forged gauntlet pulsing with blue light.
Grant's breath hitched. He saw himself—small, hesitant—reaching out. Fingers hovering. Touching.
The blast of light. The seizure. His body collapsing.
"…that's me," Grant whispered, voice shaking.
The shadow didn't look at the screen. Its flickering outline stayed fixed on him.
"A memory," it said. "Not gone. Not broken. Locked inside you… waiting."
The replay froze mid-frame—Grant's hand brushing the gauntlet, lightning bursting out like veins of fire.
Grant staggered back, eyes wide, as though he could feel the shock all over again. Grant's voice trembled as it broke the silence. "Why me? Why am I here?"
The void swallowed his words and spat them back at him, endless echoes rippling outward. His fists curled at his sides, small against the blinding nothingness.
The shadow didn't move at first. Its flickering outline—half man, half static—stood steady, as though rooted to the core of this strange prison. When it finally spoke, its voice was calm, low, and resonant, vibrating through Grant's chest more than his ears.
"Because there's a reason you survived," the shadow said. "There's a reason you're still breathing when so many others are dust. You're not ordinary, Grant. You're the one."
Grant let out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow, the sound of someone choking on memories that still burned. "The one," he spat, anger cutting through his fear. "The one without a mom. The one who watched his dad die. The one who's meant to be alone, always—"
"Not alone."
The shadow's interruption cut clean through him, firm and absolute. Its head tilted slightly. "You're never alone. Someone visits you. Every day."
Images flickered across the void—so faint they seemed like phantoms, barely visible. A girl, her face half-formed in the glow, sitting beside a hospital bed. Her hand on his, whispering things he couldn't hear. The static made her image blur, but the feeling was clear: devotion, unbroken.
"She sits by you," the shadow continued, its voice quieter now, almost reverent. "She talks to you. Reads to you. Holds your hand. While the world moves on without you… she stayed."
Grant's breath hitched. His throat worked, but the words caught there. A warmth stirred in his chest, fragile and confusing. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or scream.
But suspicion cut through the ache. His brow furrowed, and his eyes snapped back to the figure. "How do you know this?" His voice rose, edged with desperation. "Who are you?"
The shadow stirred for the first time, taking a single step forward. The static thickened, its outline sharpening, molding. Shoulders formed, then arms. Its height matched his own. Its face—though blurred—began to echo his features.
The realization slammed into him before the shadow even spoke.
"Because, Grant…" Its voice was his own now, distorted by static but unmistakable. "…I am you."
The light around them pulsed red, sudden and violent, cracks of crimson lightning tearing through the void. The screen of memory behind them shattered into sparks.
"Or rather…" the figure leaned in, and Grant saw his own twisted reflection staring back, eyes glowing like burning embers, mouth curved in a cruel half-smile.
"…what you will become."
The void trembled. Red lightning tore jagged veins across the whiteness, surging through Grant's feet, his chest, his mind. His knees buckled as the sound of his own scream tangled with the static.