Ashir didn't speak for what felt like hours—though time, he realized, didn't exist here in the way it did in his old world. There was no ticking clock. No heart pounding in his ears. Just silence, and the steady hum of… existence.
The suited figure remained still, like a statue, or a dormant part of the simulation that only activated when needed.
Ashir turned in place. The white void stretched endlessly, neither cold nor warm, but unsettling in its neutrality. He half expected to fall or float, but his feet held steady. Or at least, the illusion of feet on the illusion of a floor held steady.
"So…" he muttered finally, "I'm not dead?"
The figure responded instantly, like it had been waiting.
"No. You were transitioned."
Ashir's brows furrowed. "Transitioned? From where? To what?"
The figure moved then—only slightly. A hand raised. With the gesture, the white around them began to fracture.
Thin, glowing lines raced across the endless void like spiderwebs made of lightning. Cracks opened in the whiteness, revealing… scenes. Memories. Echoes.
Ashir saw himself. In his mother's hospital room, begging the doctor for more time. Saw himself being rejected from an interview he'd hoped would turn his life around. Saw himself sleeping in his car, jaw clenched, dreams fading with each passing day.
"These are your compiled consciousness logs," the figure said. "A record of your input/output cycles. Behavioral adaptation. Decision-making nodes."
Ashir turned away, fists clenched. "You mean… my life?"
"Yes. Your simulated life."
That phrase echoed in his mind. Simulated life. Everything—his pain, his struggle, his fleeting moments of joy—was just… input/output? A scripted experience?
His chest tightened. It felt like heartbreak, betrayal, and awakening all at once.
"And why me?" he asked, his voice low. "Out of everyone in that world, why was I the one to wake up?"
The figure stepped closer.
"Because you questioned."
"You broke the rules."
"You noticed the anomalies. You challenged patterns. You didn't follow the statistical behavioral path assigned to your class."
Ashir laughed bitterly. "Because I was a mess?"
"Because you were aware."
The code pulsed around him, and slowly, the void began to shift. It was no longer endless white. A platform formed beneath his feet—metallic, grid-like, surrounded by floating geometric shapes pulsing with faint blue light.
Ashir knelt down, touching the surface.
It rippled under his fingers—soft, like water, but with weight and resistance. His hand didn't sink but instead sent out a wave of cascading data: numbers, letters, and glyphs.
He yanked his hand back.
"You are now in a state between observer and operator," the figure said.
"A liminal entity."
"No longer bound by your simulation, but not yet integrated into the Core Framework."
Ashir narrowed his eyes. "And the Core Framework is…?"
"The Source Code. The origin of all simulations. The creators of creators."
"But entry requires a trial."
Ashir crossed his arms. "Of course it does."
"You are not the first anomaly," the figure added. "But you are… rare."
"Many awaken. Few stabilize. Fewer still gain root access."
That phrase lit a fire inside Ashir. Root access.
His mind spun with implications. If he could manipulate even a small part of the system, what could he change? Could he go back? Rewrite his life? Bring back the people he lost?
Could he undo the suffering?
Or… would he just become another kind of jailer?
"Show me," Ashir said. "Show me what I can do."
The figure didn't respond with words. Instead, it extended its hand—and the platform around them dissolved.
They were now standing in the middle of a new space. This one wasn't white, but dark—endless black dotted with pulsing lines of gold and silver code. Like constellations made of language.
A massive sphere floated before them, rotating slowly. Ashir couldn't tell if it was miles away or right in front of him. It was everything. A planet made of pure data, strings of glowing information spiraling like gravity waves around its core.
"This is the Construct Archive," the figure said. "Here, you will learn creation."
Suddenly, Ashir felt a sharp pulse in his head. Not pain—but connection.
His mind was no longer just his. Information surged into him.
Blueprints. Templates. Simulation types.
Physics parameters. Emotional logic trees. Ethical subroutines.
He gasped, stumbling.
"Your consciousness is expanding," the figure explained. "Adapting to the administrative layer."
Ashir gritted his teeth, trying to hold on. Memories—not his own—rushed in.
He saw beings of light sculpting civilizations. Felt the pain of a failed simulation collapsing into entropy. Heard a voice cry out in joy as it created a child of pure energy.
Ashir's body convulsed—but still he stood.
"You are stabilizing," the figure noted. "That is... unexpected."
Ashir let out a breath and looked down at his hands.
They shimmered.
Not glowing—but translucent. Lines of data moved under his skin like blood.
"I feel… everything," he whispered. "I feel like I am everything."
Then came a whisper—not from the figure—but from the simulation itself.
[Access Level: Root-0 Initiated. Operator Protocol Active.]
Panels appeared in front of Ashir—floating displays of code, visualizers, timelines, and life threads.
He reached out to one instinctively—and it responded.
With a swipe, he froze an entire virtual city in mid-motion.
People paused. Lights stopped flickering. Rain froze mid-air.
With another gesture, he reversed it all—rewinding a full 24 hours in seconds.
"Time," he muttered. "I can control… time."
He scrolled further.
Emotional states. AI routines. Probability trees.
He could change a person's decision-making pattern. Shift them from coward to brave, pessimist to hopeful. Even inject memories—or erase them.
He backed away, eyes wide.
"This is too much."
"It is only the beginning," the figure said. "You now stand at the threshold."
"But you must decide: Will you remain an observer?"
"Or ascend fully into godhood?"
Ashir looked at his reflection in one of the floating panels.
He didn't look like a god.
He looked tired. Human. Lost.
"I didn't ask for this," he said softly. "I just… wanted a break. A chance. Not power."
The figure remained still.
"Many gods begin with humble desires."
"It is how they end that defines them."
Ashir turned away.
He needed answers. But more than that—he needed to understand what he was now. He couldn't play god without knowing who he was before.
"Can I go back?" he asked. "To my old world?"
"Not as you were," the figure said.
"But a projection is possible. A split-self."
"Your body there is no longer viable. But your essence can manifest through a temporal node."
Ashir nodded slowly. "Then take me back. Just for a while."
"Why?" the figure asked. "You have everything here."
Ashir clenched his jaw.
"Because I need to know if I can still feel like a person. Or if I've already become something else."
The figure nodded. And in an instant—Ashir was gone.
The void shimmered—and from the edge of the Archive, a ripple spread outward.
Back through layers of code.
Back through layers of false reality.
Back to a dark city street, where rain still fell on a wrecked sedan.
And standing there, unseen, untouchable—was Ashir.
Not in body.
But in presence.
He watched as paramedics pulled his old body from the wreck. Saw people staring from sidewalks. Saw the shattered glass and twisted steel.
But he felt… nothing.
He turned.
And saw her.
Ananya.
His ex.
She was crying, standing beside the wreck, arms wrapped around herself.
Why was she there? She shouldn't have been. She wasn't part of that day. Was this a glitch?
Ashir stepped forward—and the simulation bent around him.
Ananya looked up. Straight at him.
And smiled.
"Took you long enough, Ashir."
Ashir froze.
"You… can see me?"
She nodded.
And in that moment, the rain stopped again.
The simulation bent again.
But this time—it wasn't him doing it.
To Be Continued…