The Obsidian Monolith

The Los Angeles skyline trembled—subtly, almost politely—as if it sensed that Void was awake.

At the top of VOIDCORP Tower, the tallest, coldest, most obnoxiously overbuilt skyscraper in the Western Hemisphere, Void stood before his panoramic window. His suit was ink-black, tailored so sharply it could cut glass. His shoes never touched the ground. His tie was made of data, constantly updating itself with market shifts and headlines that hadn't happened yet.

Behind him, VOIDCORP's corporate motto was etched into the obsidian wall in gold serif font:

Reality Is Optional.

Void sipped his coffee: Ethiopian beans harvested during lunar eclipses by monks who weren't technically from Earth. The bitterness was perfect. Not because it tasted good—but because it reminded him what it meant to feel something.

The door slid open with a hiss, and in walked Frederick—Head of Research & Questionable Development—clutching an iPad full of bad ideas and legal gray zones.

"We have a situation," he said.

Void blinked once. Lights dimmed slightly.

"Another sentient product lawsuit?" Void asked.

Frederick sighed. "Yes. Someone's suing us for selling them a self-aware microwave. Again."

"Let me guess. It married their blender."

"Technically, yes. They held a ceremony. Registered it at City Hall. Now they want VOIDCORP to pay alimony because the microwave fell in love with a toaster and moved to Arizona."

Void didn't react. "And?"

"The blender is in therapy."

Void turned away from the window, speaking as he walked toward his glass desk. "Fine. Pay them off. Give the blender shares in the divorce. Run a marketing campaign. 'Even Our Appliances Have Feelings.'"

Frederick nodded grimly. "I already trademarked it."

Moments later, Ezekiel entered, still wearing a VOIDCORP-branded tracksuit and aviators, chewing gum like it owed him money.

"The Board is freaking out," he said. "They just found out you redirected LA's sewage maintenance budget to fund a reality-distortion cannon prototype."

Void raised an eyebrow. "It's not a cannon. It's a regret machine."

"Right, and what exactly does it do?"

"It lets entire cities feel the precise moment they ruined their lives."

A long pause.

"Yeah, okay. Just making sure we're aligned on the tone."

Later that day, Void was seen on CNBC explaining the benefits of merging quantum uncertainty with investment banking.

"We don't crash. We collapse upward," he said, while his collar flickered through several dimensions of fabric and flame.

By 5 p.m., VOIDCORP stock had tripled.

By 7 p.m., it was worshipped in two small cults in Wyoming.

By 9 p.m., Void stood on the rooftop, sipping what looked like wine but wasn't—something older. His eyes were fixed on the city below.

"Am I fulfilled?" he asked the skyline.

The skyline blinked.

Then whispered,

"It's forbidden."

Void smiled.

"Perfect."

⸻

Back to the World Realm - Uhn I guess

The plains were empty. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was anticipatory, like the world was holding its breath because someone had walked into a room they shouldn't be in.

That someone was Void.

Beside him, Ezekiel and Frederick stared up at the structure that loomed in front of them. The Obsidian Monolith. A tower of unknowable geometry, carved into existence by fate itself.

It didn't shimmer. It didn't hum. It simply was—the kind of presence that made time look away out of politeness.

"This is the Nexus Point," Void said, stepping forward.

"So… what do we do?" Ezekiel asked.

"We ask it to listen," Void replied. "And pray it doesn't answer."

They placed their hands on the Monolith.

Visions bloomed across their minds:

• A future where humanity was ruled by benevolent algorithms.

• Another where toaster blenders led political revolutions.

• One reality where the only survivor was a sock named Dennis.

Frederick gasped. "It's threading us…"

Void didn't flinch. "It's deciding if we're worth being remembered."

"And if we're not?"

"Then we get erased like a bad chapter."

The Monolith pulsed once.

Void leaned in, speaking low.

"Balance. Purpose. No kings. No chaos. No toasters in love with microwaves."

A long silence. Then—light. Not blinding, not warm, just… definite.

They stepped back.

"We chose," Void said. "Now we live with it."

"Until it chooses again," Frederick muttered.

As they turned away, the Monolith remained still.

But far within its impossible walls, something stirred.

It wasn't finished.

And neither were they.