CHAPTER 1: BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
Darkness. Not the darkness of closed eyes, but the darkness of nothing—a void so complete that even the concept of sight feels like a lie. Rayen floats in this absence, suspended between being and unbeing, while fragments of his ending replay in slow motion.
The screech of metal against asphalt. His Honda Civic spinning toward the guardrail like a coin tossed by some cosmic gambler. The steering wheel locked beneath his white-knuckled grip. Three seconds to impact. Two. One.
Strange, how calm he'd felt in those final moments. No panic, no regret—just a distant curiosity: So this is it? Twenty-four years reduced to twisted steel and shattered glass on Highway 95. His last coherent thought hadn't been of family or dreams unfulfilled, but of the anime episode he'd never finish watching. Gojo versus Sukuna. He'd never know who won.
The memories blur now, unimportant in this place where physics doesn't apply and time feels negotiable. What matters is the impossible space he's awakened into, where the concept of up and down seems quaint, and—
"You have been chosen."
The voice doesn't reach his ears because he has no ears. It bypasses sound entirely, embedding itself directly into whatever passes for his consciousness in this void. Not heard, but felt. Like being struck by lightning made of meaning.
Rayen tries to speak, to ask what's happening, but discovers he has no mouth. No body. He's pure awareness floating in conceptual space, and the panic that should come with this realization is... absent. As if the void itself is suppressing his ability to feel anything beyond mild interest.
The Entity manifests.
It doesn't appear so much as become. One moment there's nothing, the next there's a presence so vast that trying to comprehend it feels like staring at the concept of infinity and having it stare back. Rayen's perception fractures attempting to process what he's experiencing. Not a being—being is too small a word. An absolute. A fact of existence that makes gravity look like a suggestion.
"Rayen Castellanos," the Entity speaks, and hearing his name in this place sends tremors through his non-corporeal form. "Twenty-four years of unremarkable mortality. A bachelor's degree in computer science you never used. A fast-food job you hated. A Netflix queue longer than most people's lifespans. Addicted to fiction because reality disappointed you."
The words should sting, but they don't. They're simply true, delivered without judgment or malice. The Entity's attention feels alien—not cruel, but utterly divorced from human concepts like kindness or mercy.
"Yes," Rayen manages to project, his response more thought than speech. "That's me. Dead and forgettable."
Laughter echoes through the void—if laughter is the right word for the sound of galaxies chuckling. "Dead, yes. Forgettable? That remains to be seen. You have been selected for an experiment in narrative disruption."
The space around them shifts, colors bleeding through the darkness like aurora dancing on cosmic winds. Rayen finds himself able to form something resembling a voice: "Experiment?"
"I am offering you a deal," the Entity continues, its presence pressing against the edges of Rayen's awareness. "Three wishes. Any powers from the fictional universes you consumed so voraciously. Then transmigration to a world where gods bleed and corporations crown monsters."
The words trigger recognition—a phrase he's heard before, in movie trailers and think pieces about superhero satire. The Boys. His stomach would drop if he had a stomach.
"Why me?"
"Because you are nobody special." The Entity's amusement radiates through the void. "The truly remarkable reshape destiny through their very existence. You? You are a perfect variable. Knowledgeable enough to understand the narrative, unremarkable enough that your insertion won't immediately break the universe's fundamental structure."
Three wishes. Rayen's mind races through possibilities while the Entity waits with the patience of geological time. He thinks of power scales, of abilities that could turn him into a god among mortals. But something about the Entity's phrasing—narrative disruption—suggests this isn't about optimization.
It's about story.
The powers he chooses instinctively aren't the strongest, but the most narratively rich. The most thematically resonant with the world he's being hurled into.
"Erasure," he says, the words forming in the space between thought and reality. "From My Hero Academia. Aizawa's power to nullify anyone's abilities just by looking at them."
The Entity hums approvingly. "Control over the godlike. Remove their wings, make them crawl with mortals. Fascinating."
"Heaven's Door. From JoJo's Bizarre Adventure. Rohan Kishibe's ability to turn people into books—to read their memories and write new commands into their souls."
"Knowledge and violation combined," the Entity muses. "The power to know everything about someone and reshape them at will. You understand the ethical abyss you're selecting?"
Rayen does understand. Heaven's Door isn't just powerful—it's corrupting by its very nature. The ability to read people's deepest secrets, to rewrite their personalities like editing a document. The temptation to use it would be constant, the justifications endless.
"And third—The Infinity. From Jujutsu Kaisen. Satoru Gojo's spatial barrier that makes you physically untouchable."
"Ah." The Entity's voice carries notes of dark amusement. "Control, knowledge, and isolation. Let's see which one devours you first."
The void begins to fracture, reality cracking like an eggshell. Rayen feels himself being pulled somewhere, but the Entity's voice follows him:
"You will find your other half deep in the CEO of Vought, Edgar Banker."
"What does that mean?" Rayen tries to ask, but his voice is already dissolving. CEO? A person? A place? But the void is collapsing, swallowing his questions.
"Oh, and one more thing," the Entity's tone turns playfully malicious. "You cannot speak what you know. The narrative forbids it. Try to warn them about what's coming, and your words will become gibberish. The universe itself will gag you to preserve the story's integrity."
Rayen wants to protest, to argue, but he's falling now—through colors that don't exist, past concepts that have no names. The Entity's laughter follows him down:
"Good luck, little eraser. Try not to lose yourself in the first week."
The fall ends.
Rayen's eyes snap open to blinding sunlight, the smell of hot asphalt, and the blaring horn of a taxi swerving around him. He's standing in the middle of a New York street, wearing clothes he doesn't recognize—dark jeans, a black jacket that fits perfectly—in a body that feels subtly wrong. Stronger. Younger. His reflection in the taxi's window shows a face he doesn't quite recognize: sharper features, eyes that look perpetually tired, dark hair instead of his original brown.
Pedestrians shout at him. Car horns blare. The city moves around him with indifferent velocity while he stands frozen, processing the impossible.
Above him, looming over the street like a cathedral to commercialized heroism, a billboard displays seven figures in colorful costumes. In the center, a man in blue and red floats with arms crossed, his smile perfect and predatory. The slogan blazes beneath them:
WE'LL KEEP YOU SAFE
Homelander's eyes seem to stare directly at Rayen, and he feels his new heart hammering against his ribs.
Oh. Oh no.
He's in hell.
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