Damian stepped onto the stage and immediately wished he hadn't.
Empty seats stretched before him like a graveyard of ambition. Rows upon rows of cracked leather and broken dreams, all illuminated by a spotlight that flickered like it was on life support.
One person had shown up tonight. The same one person who'd shown up for the past seven days.
He pulled down his top hat and adjusted his black tuxedo, then plastered on his show smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"
The spotlight gave up and died.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Undeterred—or maybe just too dead inside to care—Damian continued in the darkness. "Tonight, we will witness another miracle! Another wonder that will surely blow your minds! Another moment you will remember forever—"
The old woman in the first row mouthed along with every word.
She wore the same white duster dress she always did, clutched the same wooden cane, and sat in the exact same seat with the exact same posture. For a week now, she'd been his only audience member. His only fan. His only proof that he wasn't performing for ghosts.
Damian had started to suspect the universe had spawned her as a pity NPC.
"Magic is all about misdirection," he said, moving through the motions he'd performed a thousand times before. He reached into empty air like he was grabbing something from another dimension—and a deck of cards materialized in his palm. "Guiding the attention of the viewers until they can't see what's right in front of them. Until the only thing they see is what I want them to see."
He paused for comedic timing that would never land. "Without misdirection, there's no magic. No mind-blowing. Maybe some other kind of blowing, but definitely not minds."
The old woman's laugh echoed through the empty theater—ancient, crackling, far too loud for someone her size.
At least someone finds me funny, Damian thought as he shuffled the cards with practiced ease. His hands moved on autopilot, cards snapping and weaving between his fingers in patterns he could do blind and drunk.
"But what happens when you can't misdirect?" He held up the deck, studying it like it held the secrets of the universe. Which it didn't. It just held fifty-two pieces of laminated cardboard. "Do you create a distraction? No. The answer is simpler." He threw the cards skyward. "You make it obvious."
The cards hung in the air. Frozen. Unmoving.
Completely defying the laws of physics.
"They're like stars," he said, immediately regretting it.
God, I should've cut that line months ago. Too cringe. Way too cringe.
But it didn't matter. Nobody was here to judge him except the old woman, and she'd already heard this speech six times.
Damian gestured, and the floating cards spiraled back into his hand one by one.
The performance continued. Rabbit from the hat—check. Cards jumping between his palms—check. An escape trick involving chains he barely remembered buying—check. His voice grew more monotone with each trick, each word, each passing second. By the time he reached his final bow, he could barely hear himself anymore.
"Thank you for coming. I hope you have a wonderful night."
His gold eyes, stared back at him from the dusty stage mirror. They looked as empty as the theater.
Damian turned to leave.
Then the old woman started clapping.
He froze mid-step. She'd never clapped before. She always just... disappeared. By the time he closed the curtains, she'd be gone like she'd never existed at all.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she was still there, still clapping, still looking directly at him with those squinted eyes.
"Um." His throat felt dry. "Thank you."
Something warm flickered in his chest. Something he'd almost forgotten existed. Hope? Validation? He couldn't tell anymore.
"Come here, young man," the old woman said, waving him over.
Damian hesitated.
But curiosity—or maybe loneliness—won out. He descended from the stage and sat beside her in the first row, the seat creaking under his weight.
"Thank you for coming to my shows," Damian said, scratching his cheek. "Even though you're the only one who does."
"I'm old. I need entertainment." Her smile deepened, wrinkling her already-wrinkled face. "But I must say, out of all the magicians I've watched in my very, very long life, you are the most talented."
Heat crept into Damian's face. Compliments. Actual compliments. When was the last time he'd heard one of those? "I'm flattered. Really. But what you saw tonight?" He couldn't help himself. "Those were just party tricks. Basic stuff."
The old woman chuckled—a sound like dried leaves scraping against stone. "I know. That's precisely why your talent is being wasted here."
Damian's smile died.
He looked around the theater. Really looked at it. The peeling paint that revealed layers of previous colors beneath. The broken seats his parents had never gotten around to fixing. The stage where his father had taught him everything he knew.
His eyes stung.
"This place..." He forced the smile back onto his face, but it felt like wearing a mask. "This is where I grew up. It's what my parents left me after they..." He trailed off. Couldn't finish. Didn't need to. "My father taught me magic on that stage every single day. And at night, my mother and I would sit right here and watch him perform. The crowd would cheer and clap and lose their minds over his tricks."
The memory hurt. Good memories always did.
"He was the greatest magician I've ever seen," Damian continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even now, nobody's surpassed him. Not even close."
"You already have," the old woman said matter-of-factly.
Damian glanced at her but said nothing. What could he say? That she was wrong? That his father was a legend and he was just a failure operating a dying theater?
Instead, he changed the subject. "I'm sorry, I've been rambling. I didn't even ask your name."
"Forgive my manners. I'm..." The old woman paused, her expression going blank. "Hmm. Now that you mention it, what is my name?"
Oh no. Dementia.
Damian's heart sank. Great. His only fan couldn't even remember who she was.
"I can't quite recall," she said, entirely too calm about forgetting her own identity. "But you can call me God."
"God?" Damian couldn't help but laugh. It came out bitter. "Why would God waste time watching a failed magician's empty shows?"
"Because you don't deserve this world." Her tone shifted—suddenly serious, sharp as broken glass. "Your talent surpasses even your father's. You deserve a better stage. A better audience. A better everything."
Okay, so she's not just senile. She's completely insane.
Damian decided to just nod along. No point arguing with a crazy old woman who thought she was divine. "Right. Sure. God. Got it."
"I know you don't believe me," she said calmly.
Damian's eyes widened. Lucky guess. Had to be.
"Not a lucky guess."
What the—
The old woman's squinted eyes snapped open.
Pure white. No pupils. No irises. Just white.
Damian's throat went dry. "Are you... are you a mentalist? Cold reading? Is this some kind of advanced magic trick?"
That had to be it. His father had warned him about mentalists. They could read micro-expressions, body language, breathing patterns. It was all just advanced observation dressed up as mind-reading.
"I'm far from a mere mentalist," the old woman said, reaching into her dress.
"Far from that? What do you mean?" Despite everything, excitement crept into Damian's voice. "Like, a more advanced technique? Can you teach—"
Something cold pressed against his forehead.
Damian went very, very still.
Slowly, carefully, he reached up and touched the object. Steel. Cold steel.
His entire body shuddered.
He looked up and saw a silver Desert Eagle pressed flush against his skull. Then, even more slowly, he looked at the old woman.
Her expression was ice.
"Don't joke like this," he said, hating how his voice shook. "Is that even real?"
"You'll find out soon enough." She smiled—genuinely smiled, like she was about to reveal the finale of the world's greatest magic trick. "You're wasting your talent in this place, Damian. So let's see... how you perform in another world."
"Another wor—"
She pulled the trigger.
Everything went black.
No gunshot. No pain. No blood. Just darkness—absolute and complete—like someone had flipped the universe's light switch.
Then came weightlessness. Falling through nothing. Through the void between worlds.
And voices. Distant. Panicked. Familiar.
"Holy shit, this gun actually works! I thought it was a prop!"
"OMG, GRANNY! Here you are again! Wait—WHAT?! WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
"N-nothing!"
"NOTHING?! YOU JUST KILLED A MAN!"
"Okay, okay! Just—don't stand there! Help me hide the body!"
"FUCK! You're turning your grandson into an accomplice!"
And then, nothing.
Just the dark.
And the falling.
And the horrible realization that his last performance had been his worst one yet.