It was dark. Dark and cold.

The figure couldn't see where he was if he was anywhere. He tried to move around, yet he couldn't somehow. Toward the darkness, he shouted, but nothing. All his senses were robbed as his mind only slowly and painfully succumbed to this eternal silence.

He slowly reassured himself and took a mental breath. While he struggled, he felt something – a blockage or an obstruction, but it felt like it was within him. However, he didn't panic at all.

Some part of the man realized this strange predicament for what it was – a direct threat to his life – but that base, primal need to defend wasn't there. It was replaced with a different feeling. One that he hadn't had for a long time.

He was calm, way too quiet than expected or should be. He felt like he was at peace. Home, he thought to himself. Finally, he stopped fighting and gave in, letting the thing run its course.

Nothing happened at all.

Confused, but he didn't care much either. He then tried and remembered what had happened before.

He was in a war — the final curtain, the grand scene of his play. Big or small, he had absolutely no idea, but one thing was for sure: he did feel as if it went forever and very personal for some reason.

An image of a woman – someone he recognized. Someone he had a particular, no, extreme affinity for. 'What the hell?' he asked himself. A ball of mixed feelings. Admiration, desire, fear, and hatred too. Yet deep down, that mess was a deep-seated want for things to go how he wanted for once: a long talk. Rival to another?

Then, a sudden shock, as if something had surprised the man, followed by voices – the voice of those he trusted. Or... he still. What had happened wasn't their fault. He remembered them saying his name and running to try and catch you, to help you, but it was too late. And he pushed them back. He did not know what led to that, but one thing was for sure: a sense of relief. He didn't force them to their death, right? They said the name 'Boss .' That was him. He was Boss.

But... what was he? What was Boss?

The man instinctively tried to flex his fingers in the darkness again but couldn't. It was not that something was chaining him down, but he didn't have fingers to turn. His body was amorphous, lacking clearly defined outlines, structures, and limits. He wasn't aren't in a dark void – he was the void.

Not yet, anyway. Other images flashed by. Lots of things were cut off or blurred like a scratch cassette. It was his origin, his lineage. He was a...Magician? Mechanic? Living weapon? So many faces, from ordinary people to incomprehensible abominations. All were him. It made no sense to him, yet the memories it was real, too real. The man could wield the world's ambient magic between his fingers while possessing the radical, otherworldly knowledge of machine and flesh. Remaking himself would be the most straightforward task he had ever performed, for he had done it before.

Despite his hazy, muddied memories and probably no form, his wits have never felt sharper. He felt high in tune with the unknown space around him. It almost feels like you could do anything. They were his tools, ready at his proposal to alter reality to be whatever he wanted.

He then focused on his memories, putting his focus into what he once was and reconstructing himself, piece by piece, atom to atom, in his mind's eye. Fingers, toes, arms, and legs. He did not need a detailed one, just simple enough to feel. Soon, his body was complete. He stood up and laid his eyes upon the endless black sea. Recalling his sensation, the man took a breath and closed his eyes, focusing on one sentence.

'Let there be light.'

Upon opening his eyes, the once-boundless black void transformed into a blinding expanse of white, a mere shift in color but a stark change nonetheless. Confusion set in briefly before a new sensation emerged – the presence of a figure right before him. How he failed to notice it earlier remained a mystery.

Similar to the man, the figure lacked distinct features, manifesting as a pitch-black mass with only limbs and a Cheshire-cat-like smile. In stark contrast, this figure's entirety was white, with a faintly ghastly black outline. Yet, despite the peculiarity, an odd sense of familiarity enveloped the man, akin to encountering an old friend.

"Bro finally passed the tutorial. Rude to keep a friend waiting, ya know that?" The figure spoke with a blend of voices, ranging from children to men and women.

"Uh...do I know you?" The man kept a wary distance.

"Well, you can say that I am the one who guides you through the thing you experience just now."

"Wait, so that was your memories?"

"Nope, yours truly."

Baffled and seeking answers, the man tried to make sense of the situation. "Uhm..."

"I know these events kinda discombobulate your brain, though a long talk is needed to understand. How about a walk? Does that fancy you?"

"Sure..." Though guarded, the man complied, recognizing this stranger as his sole source of answers. They strolled through the white void, the figure initiating the conversation.

"So..."

"You may be wondering who I am. Well, I am you for the time being, but worse." The figure pointed to his head. "Here lies your old life, the horrors you've been through. Many of them should not be seen or told at all."

"My past…?" The man's uncertainty hung in the air, awaiting an explanation from this enigmatic version of himself."Memories of the past." They corrected him. "Now you probably wondering why do I have your memos and not you? That question will be answered, no caps…after you making a choice of course."

"Pretty sure I will need my memory back if you want me to decide on something."

The figure shook their head, dismissing his sarcasm. When they turned back, their once-creepy smile had vanished.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"No," the figure said, the sudden aggression in their tone making the man stumble backward. A heavy sigh followed. "Look, if I return your memory as you want, there would be no choice. Instead, you'd ask for the final rest."

Silence lingered between them, recalling the figure's earlier mention of his past horrors.

'…your old life, the horrors you've been through…'

"Oh."

"Yes, oh," the figure's smile returned. "I do admire your indomitable willpower though, enduring the worst reality has to offer for so long. Impressive."

"So…."

"About the choice-"

A seismic tremor disrupted their conversation, causing them both to lose their footing for a moment.

"Ok, things escalated quicker than I anticipated. Uh—you know what, forget it." The figure forcefully gripped his shoulder.

"Wait, what are you-"

As their hand made contact, a flood of memories rushed back, causing the man to collapse. Understanding dawned; part of him wished to discard these echoes of the past.

Yet, the man smiled softly, reciprocating the gesture. Upon his touch, the figure transformed instantly into a crow and perched on his arm.

"Kinda ironic for you, being protective of me."

The man's tone shifted drastically as he addressed the crow, shedding his earlier confusion and innocence for a more mature yet tired voice.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you still keep us?"

The man extended his hand, conjuring myriad traces of energy that coalesced in the center of his palm.

Before him lay a leather-bound tome crafted from what appeared to be the flayed skin of otherworldly abominations, bearing grotesque imprints of forbidden knowledge. Its front cover sported a Cheshire smile, lip-less and unnaturally wide, revealing teeth that gleamed with an eerie luminescence. The smile, an unsettling mockery of joy, seemed to crack and splinter at the edges, exuding an aura of malevolence that seeped into the soul. Whispers of unknown horrors emanated from the cursed pages, as if trapped spirits yearned to break free and unleash chaos upon reality.

"This's a pretty fucked up book, don't ya think?"

"I know it's bad, but never imagined this kind of bad."

As the man opened the book, an unnatural stillness thickened the air, and the surroundings transformed, consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread. Yellowed pages unveiled tales that transcended conceivable horror, each word dripping with the acrid taste of terror, descending into a nightmarish abyss.

"This is my heart." He turned the pages slowly. "The past and my journey," the man chuckled lightly. "A reminder of things that would never return."

The endless white void dissolved, revealing a ruined city—a once vibrant tapestry of life now abandoned, a testament to time's passage. Skeletal structures reached skyward, their vibrancy faded, whispering tales of forgotten stories to desolate winds. Echoes of laughter and footsteps haunted the empty air, a haunting remnant of a vibrant past now consumed by decay.

Despite the absence of life, memories lingered—buildings stood hollow, their windows shattered, doors creaking mournfully in the breeze. Time's tendrils snaked through cracks, a reminder of creation and decay. A playground's rusted swings swayed gently, carrying the weight of untold memories. Forgotten bicycles lay entwined with neglect.

In a once-thriving marketplace, empty stalls told silent stories of silenced dreams. A pervasive sadness blanketed the abandoned city, mourning humanity's transient existence and places left behind.

Flipping another page, the scene shifted—a desolate farm on the city's outskirts. The man recognized this place, his former home. Weathered structures spoke of a family's toil and hope, a porch swing frozen in time, mourning the absence of laughter.

"Nightmares are necessary for any being," the man murmured, leaning against the old front door. "They stand as a testament of trial for one's dreams and hopes."

As he presented the book in front of him, it dissolved into dark ethereal waves , enveloping the man like a protective cocoon.

"I'm no longer afraid of my nightmares anymore. They'll protect me. They'll make me truly alive."

Breaking free, a demonic presence materialized—a tall, sinewy humanoid with bleach-white skin, prominent goat-like horns, and eyes hidden behind a simple black blindfold. Despite the blindfold, his movements exuded ease, a sinister Cheshire smile etched on his lip-less face, along with rows of shark-liked teeth.

Clad in a classic black suit, a red tie, and a white trench coat with hoods, he exuded timeless sophistication. The fabric billowed like shadows, echoing the eldritch forces surrounding him. His essence blended refinement and infernal power—a paradoxical fusion of dark elegance and mysterious allure.

Emblazoned on the back of his coat was an emblem—a serpent devouring its tail, intricate Celtic knots weaving across its scales. Two knots, from start to end, rimmed in obsidian black with a gold outer edge. Within the serpent's coils lay a giant white butterfly, its wings formed by ethereal patterns resembling a crown, delicate and otherworldly. Behind this composition lay a swirling void, obscure and ominous, ghostly tendrils writhing within its depths.

"Huh, your style hasn't diminished," remarked the crow, acknowledging the man's presence.

"Oh, bitte, style points are always a priority," came the response with a hint of playful pride.

They said nothing briefly, just looking at the gloomy sky before them.

"You sure you want to endure this? You have no reason to, you know?" The bird now stood before the man.

"Mm," the man nodded.

"A few questions, before you open that door," the crow said, its demeanor serious.

"Do you mind if I do something first?" the man asked.

"Sure, time’s kinda irrelevant to us now."

With a snap of his fingers, two giant beer mugs appeared in their hands.

The man offered one to the crow, saying, "Willst du?"

The crow accepted the mug, and though the sight of a crow drinking from it seemed peculiar, the man shrugged it off. He'd seen too much, experienced too many surprises.

"Good, ja?" the man said.

"I prefer heavy shit," the crow replied, eliciting a laugh from the man. He realized he'd underestimated their compatibility.

"Anyway, your curiosities, if you will," the man said, ready for the crow's questions.

"What keeps you going? What's your reason for living?" the crow inquired.

"That's heavy, not gonna lie," the man sighed. "Life has thrown some pretty dark stuff my way, but I guess there's always a glimmer of light, even in the darkest corners."

"Pretty's an underrated word for your case," the crow mused.

"Ja, das ist wahr," the man agreed. "But It's not about ignoring the bad; it's about choosing not to let it define me."

"If given the chance, I would walk this path again, experience the whole rollercoaster again and again. For me, that was my most interesting life," the man asserted.

"Why though?" The crow was curious.

"One's existence should live an interesting life and inevitably dies an interesting death, so you can proudly proclaim in your final moments: Thank God, I didn't waste it all on a boring-ass life," the man concluded, dismissing societal expectations with a laugh and a bold declaration.

"Life is unfair, and so is the web of karmas and fates. A bundle of chaos, cruel and fickle mistresses. Once you meet your end, that's it, nothing. So why not take and do whatever you please in this life, since eventually it ends. Life can and will take anything and everything away from you. Except one thing."

"Your stories, so better make them interesting since we all board the same train toward the same destination anyway. Look at my case; I did die, but not just as a mere footnote. Schlampe, ich hinterlasse einen verdammten Krater auf der Schöpfung selbst.”

"Another is probably to show that Schlampe that I win against her in her own game." The man smiled to himself as he put the mug down.

The crow was momentarily lost in his thought, then gave a nod of understanding. "Anyway, second question."

"Shoot it then."

"Why do you keep sticking your dicks in crazy?"

“I can fix them,” the man replied, his conviction evident.

"Seriously dude. Don't stick your dick in crazy," the crow warned with a worried tone.

"Der Zug ist abgefahren, Crowley. Der Zug ist abgefahren. Can't turn back. Plus, I love Schlampe to have a little bit of malevolence in them," the man teased, nudging his hand at the now-so-called Crowley.

"You obdurate Germs and your goddamn train—Hold up, Crowley?" The bird was surprised at their new name.

"Ja, or I assume you have a different name?"

"Could you be more fucking original?"

"Crowley or Coffee. Friss oder stirb."

The crow said nothing more, but the man could feel the piercing gaze of the little birdy.

“Mnemon.”

“Mnemon?”

“Mnemon.”

The man could only smile while his companion perched on his arm. Slowly standing up, he opened the door.

"Auf geht's. A new chapter awaits."