Now Bruce found himself adrift in a dark void — an expanse of absolute nothingness. No shape, no sound, no trace of life existed around him.
The air, if it could even be called that, was thick, saturated with a strange, otherworldly scent.
Here, time did not flow. It simply wasn't.
'So this is what happens after one dies?' he wondered inwardly, realizing he couldn't even move his lips to speak.
When he was young, his parents had taught him that once a person dies, their soul either ascends to heaven or descends to hell, the destination determined by the choices made in life.
Eternal life in a paradise beyond comprehension awaited those who lived in accordance with God's righteous standards. But for those who defied Him and chose to follow their own desires, there was only eternal torment, a burning lake without end.
'I don't see any burning lake around here, so I doubt I've landed in hell… but this looks nothing like the paradise they tried to sell me on Earth', he whispered inwardly, his lips still sealed tight, as if bound by an invisible force that forbade him from speaking aloud.
Nevertheless, his beliefs had been quite different when he was alive. He had built them not on scripture, but on the ideas of philosophers like Albert Camus, who rejected both suicide and religious hope.
To Camus, the only meaningful response to life's absurdity was to revolt against it: to embrace the meaningless, to live with passion, and to find joy in human experience and solidarity, even knowing that existence had no ultimate purpose.
Bruce had never lived the life he truly wanted. His every decision had been shaped, even dictated by others. Now, regret gnawed at him. He had possessed the intelligence and strength to become anything, to create his own values and meaning, just as his favorite thinkers had taught… yet he hadn't. And now, all of that was far behind him.
What mattered was understanding where he was or what this place was. Was this a realm beyond life? Or simply the silent moment between life and death?
He recalled the teachings he'd once read about the concept of the eternal soul found in ancient texts and religions across the world.
'Maybe I'm being resurrected', he thought briefly, clinging to the idea if only to keep his sanity unable to bear the oppressive stillness or the absence of meaning in this void any longer.
And just as he stood at the brink of despair, the air around him turned bitterly cold like the inside of a frozen chamber. A violent wind began to howl, so strong that it pinned Bruce in place, stripping him of any freedom to move.
Then, suddenly, the wind ceased.
A deep, resonant voice emerged from the darkness, echoing across the void.
"Welcome, Bruce. You are officially dead," the voice declared.
Bruce turned his head left and right, desperate to locate the source, but there was nothing, only endless blackness.
The voice spoke again, calm yet vast.
"You are standing before Az, a god of creation. This place… is the space between your resurrection and your eternal death."
"Resurrection? Eternal death?" The words hit him like a hammer to the skull.
He grabbed his head, brow tightening, eyes narrowing as a fierce migraine split through his mind forcing him to pause, gasping in confusion, trying to comprehend the meaning behind the words of this so-called 'god of creation.'
Resurrection seemed like the better option, and beside it, eternal death next to it, sounded like the worst fate imaginable.
'But into whose body would I be resurrected?' he wondered. 'Would I become a woman? A child? Or worse… an animal?'
The thought drained all appeal from the idea of resurrection; what once sounded like salvation now carried a chilling uncertainty.
Then the god's voice cracked through the air again, deep and rumbling.
"Oh? You still can't speak?" it asked.
Bruce responded with a helpless shrug, trying to convey his confusion.
In that instant, his mouth loosened as if unseen chains had been released and air finally rushed through his lungs.
He could speak again.
To quickly test if he could actually speak, he began pronouncing random letters: "A, B, C, D…" and real sound came out. Relief washed over him, and a faint smile lit up his face.
Now that he could talk, he clenched his hands into fists, swung one toward the void, and shouted,
"You can't keep me captive here and start talking about death and resurrection! I'm not stupid. I know there's no life after death! Damn it, if I can talk right now, even though I'm supposedly dead, then this must be a dream. I'm alive, just dreaming!"
The voice answered, booming through the darkness with a hint of mockery.
"You think you survived a shot to the head from an L115A3, an AWM rifle, the bullet 8.59 millimeters in diameter? Your head exploded, Bruce. You died instantly."
The voice chuckled darkly.
"The Secret Service just couldn't let the world know you died on the spot, it would have thrown the country into chaos. So they put on their little show, rushing you to the hospital, pretending to 'save' you. They even deployed the air military."
A deep, mocking laugh echoed through the void, ridiculing Bruce for ever believing there was the slightest chance he had survived that bullet.
After that, silence fell deep and absolute. Bruce's muttering faded into the void, unanswered. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the voice returned, calm and resonant.
"After someone dies, I along with many other gods of creation hold a conversation with them. I've been assigned to you, Bruce."
It paused briefly, as if choosing its words carefully.
"We talk about life, and the meaning behind it, before you decide your fate, whether to be resurrected into any body you desire, your original one or another entirely, or to choose eternal death, without any chance of ever being brought back."
Another pause, longer this time.
"As I said before, I am Az, a god of creation. There are many like me, countless, beyond comprehension. But as you've surely guessed, for gods of creation to exist, there must also be their opposites. Opposites are necessary for existence and for understanding."
The voice grew more solemn, almost philosophical.
"In a relative system, a thing can only be defined through its contrast. If there were only 'up,' the word 'up' would have no meaning. To define positive, there must exist negative. To understand light, there must be darkness. And so, our existence as gods of creation would be meaningless… if there were no gods of destruction."
"Gods of destruction?" Bruce repeated, then added, a touch of impatience softening into politeness, "Can we go back to the part where you were talking about resurrection?"
"I'm simply trying to help you feel more… familiar with this environment," the god replied, his tone firm yet oddly patient.
Bruce repeated the god's words slowly, as if trying to piece together their meaning.
"So, if I understand correctly… when someone dies, their soul ends up in this dark void to determine whether they die for good or are resurrected?"
The voice returned, calm but slightly amused.
"I see I left something out."
A pause followed, "Yes," Az continued, "but only for those whose lives were dictated by others. Those who die filled with regret, regret for never becoming who they wanted to be, and instead living as who others wanted them to be."
The god's tone deepened, echoing through the emptiness.
"Now tell me, Bruce… do you regret your life back on Earth?"