The darkness had no dimensions. It was not a space, but an absence. A stage where I, Elian Vance, now stood as the architect of my own collapse.
Around me, Malachi’s aggressive, purple-hued logic slowly lost its form. It was like an oil painting left out in a torrential downpour. The colors bled, blending into a puddle of meaningless grey. Malachi screamed, a sound that now resembled a cassette tape played in reverse. He tried to reach for me, but his hands passed through empty air, for I was no longer an "object" within his system. I had become a concept.
"You cannot do this! I am the future! I am the perfect symphony!" Malachi’s voice boomed, but the pitch shattered into static.
"You are no symphony," I whispered from every direction, my voice echoing like thunder behind the clouds. "
