**VOID**
Dwayne Merikh always imagined death would be dramatic—some grand finale worthy of a hero, or at least something spectacularly meaningful. Instead, it was quick, mundane, and deeply absurd.
He drifted in a space that was neither dark nor light, neither cold nor warm—a liminal expanse beyond sensation. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, a reminder that he wasn't exactly alive anymore. Only thoughts without a body, memories drifting untethered.
'I can't believe it ended like this,' Dwayne reflected bitterly.
He was twenty-two and in his final year at Metrovale Academy. The quiet kid in class—smart but not exceptional enough to stand out, comfortable but never popular. A handful of close friends, friendships forged through late-night gaming sessions, debates over comic storylines, and whispered conversations in lecture halls about new films and books.
His parents were hardworking, modest, endlessly supportive. His father, an engineer, nudged him toward practicality; his mother, a librarian, secretly nourished his imaginative flights. His sister, older by five years and ambitious enough for both of them, teased him for living inside fictional worlds instead of engaging with the real one.
Dwayne loved them all, though he rarely showed it. The family was solid, comforting in its normalcy. No grand tragedies, no epic dramas—just a steady, peaceful existence occasionally punctuated by sibling squabbles and minor disappointments.
Yet beneath that surface calm, he felt a quiet yearning for significance. Perhaps that's why fictional universes pulled him so strongly—places where ordinary became extraordinary.
Marvel became his sanctuary. Not only the flashy heroes but the intricacies beneath the bright panels—the lore, the hidden depths, the tangled timelines. As a moderator on Marvel Fandom, he found purpose. It was a small corner of influence, but it was his.
Over countless nights, coffee cooling beside his laptop, Dwayne dissected story arcs, pieced together scattered timelines, and debated continuity errors with strangers he would never meet. It wasn't mere escape; it felt like stewardship, where every thread of story mattered.
Everything culminated that night. A rare surge of determination hit when he stumbled upon an inconsistency deeper than any before. At first it seemed minor, a narrative hiccup. But the deeper he dug, the more complex—and unsettling—it became. This wasn't sloppy writing; it felt deliberate.
He spent days piecing it together, working feverishly between classes and stolen hours of sleep. Obsession intensified until he barely ate, eyes bloodshot from screens and scribbled notes. Friends joked about interventions, but he brushed them off. He was too close to stop.
Finally, exhausted yet exhilarated, Dwayne finished his work. The timeline was pristine, coherent—perfect. With a satisfied smile, he clicked **Publish**, savoring the rush of accomplishment.
A sharp, unnatural crack split the air, followed by a burst of white-hot pain. His laptop exploded, shards of metal and plastic tearing through skin and bone. No dramatic last words, no poignant farewell—just abrupt, senseless darkness.
'I died because of a laptop?' He would have laughed if he still had lungs. 'That's pathetic.'
Oddly, regret wasn't the strongest emotion. Peace settled around him. Ridiculous or not, he'd accomplished something important—at least to him. If his legacy was a perfectly organized fictional universe, so be it.
Time lost meaning. Memories became his anchor—family dinners, laughter-filled game nights, quiet afternoons at the library, his sister's teasing, his mother's encouragement, even his father's gentle pushes toward practicality.
'Funny how death brings clarity,' he mused.
Just as he began to surrender to the calm, something changed. A jolt of energy ripped through the emptiness, snapping him back to awareness.
'What the—'
---
**HALL**
The nothingness split open, a blinding, golden-white light tearing through it. Dwayne tried to shield himself, forgetting he had no form. An irresistible force dragged him forward.
Sensation slammed into him—cold marble under bare feet, fabric whispering against skin, the dizzying rush of having limbs again. He staggered and barely kept upright.
Blinking against the glare, he found himself in an immense hall. Towering marble columns reached toward distant shadows, the ceiling impossibly high, etched with subtle constellations. The air hummed with quiet, contained power.
"Where… am I?" he whispered, voice—foreign yet familiar—alive again.
Ahead stood a woman in soft golden robes that caught the light like sunrise on water. Her face was hidden with a cosmic mist. She lifted a hand—not demanding, merely offering.
A gentle, firm voice filled the hall, resonating from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Dwayne Merikh," it intoned, warm yet resolute. "You have done something extraordinary—far more than you yet grasp. Your life has ended, yes, but your journey is only beginning."
A heartbeat pounded in his ears. He swallowed. "Beginning? I just died in a dorm-room explosion. Pretty sure that's the textbook definition of _ending_."
The robed figure inclined her hooded head, almost amused. "Endings and beginnings are threads woven from the same yarn. One knot loosens, another tightens."
"Philosophy 101, great," Dwayne muttered, rubbing his temples. "Let's start simpler—who _are_ you? Some cosmic guidance counselor?"
A soft chuckle rippled through the hall. "Think of me as a curator. I tend the roots of stories, nurture their branches, and prune their rot."
"So, like… a gardener for plotlines?" he asked, half-skeptical, half-fascinated.
"If the metaphor helps," the curator replied. "You, Dwayne, tugged at seams others never notice. Few mortals meddle so boldly."
Dwayne shifted his weight. "Look, I'm just a guy who hates continuity errors. If I've crossed some cosmic line, just say it."
The curator extended her palm, as if sharing a secret rather than passing sentence. Above it hovered a spiral of starlight—fragile, hopeful, no bigger than a coin.
"Step forward, Dwayne," she urged, voice soft as bedside counsel. "Enter the stories you cared for—Marvel's Earth-616 itself—and live among them. Improve them from within, if you wish. Or, if you're weary, remain here and let stillness carry you someplace gentle. The choice is yours, and yours alone."
Dwayne drew a breath he hadn't realized he possessed. "So, option A: move into Marvel. Option B: eternal lights-out." A nervous laugh escaped.