FEAR

They looked past the spliff—at each other. Muhammed, slightly intrigued, allowed a faint smirk to form at the corners of his mouth. Yahweh met his gaze, unmoved. Her peaceful aura permeated the room like the sensation of taking a fresh breath of air—condensed into a visible miasma.

A vast circular chamber with soft ambient lighting and mist rising subtly from the ground. The air seems thick with energy, like the weight before a thunderstorm.

There was a silence between them unlike any other—not heavy enough to urge movement, nor light enough to demand conversation. It was a quiet connection, pure and unshaken. Muhammed didn't seek validation in her eyes, and she didn't look to confirm his choice. They simply remained—together, still.

the deep feeling of being seen without judgment.

"Haaaaaa…"

A breath broke the silence.

It belonged neither to Muhammed nor Yahweh.

Yahweh's eyes slid to the right corner behind Muhammed. Muhammed followed her gaze.

His pupils shrunk for a split second before returning to normal. He calmed himself quickly. The world was full of surprises, and he was learning not just to expect them—but to welcome them.

"I was wondering when we'd meet again," Muhammed said first. Discomfort, he knew, was a sign of growth. And when fear arose, he pushed harder.

"So… you think you know," the voice returned from the shadows, "and you act like it?"

The man sat comfortably in his signature dark chair. He uncrossed his legs and placed both feet on the floor. Shadows began creeping toward Muhammed, moving like liquid ink.

Muhammed didn't flinch. He knew better than to waver. Tests like this would only intensify on his journey, and this was merely another stepping stone. The hairs on his arms rose. Muscles twitched under his skin. The air thickened around him. His chest began to heave—but still, he stood tall, spine straight, peering into the darkness.

And even then, his smirk remained.

"Good job," the man said. Instantly, the shadows pulled back. Light returned to the room.

"Principal Electro," Yahweh said, her tone calm but cutting. "What do you want?"

"Principal?" Muhammed's mind churned at the title.

"Come now, Yahweh," Electro said with mock warmth. "Can't I check in on our new student?" His chair sank into the shadows behind him as he stood tall.

"You know what'll happen if I answer that," Yahweh replied, still composed—but sharper than before. She was different now. Sharpened. Edged.

Warm, golden hues of Yahweh's side of the room disrupted by icy, violet-blue shadows spreading from Electro.

"It wasn't a question," he said, turning his attention to Muhammed.

"I'm assuming you found answers to your questions," Electro said. His hands folded behind his back, his dark skin always seemed draped in shadows—no matter how much light was in the room.

The peaceful aura that once saturated the air twisted—shattered—around him. The energy shifted to something else entirely. Something that couldn't quite be named, but was unmistakably felt.

Muhammed was fascinated. It was like living inside one of his wildest fantasies. A realm of mystery, power, and magic. Just watching their energies clash was breathtaking.

He shook off the trance. "Yeah. For the most part, for now." He paused, glancing up at Electro's face—but still, all he could see was the glimmer reflecting off the man's jet-black irises.

"I haven't had to ask much," Muhammed admitted. "The information just… flows to me."

"Oh? So you've always been curious and knowing," Electro said naturally. It was exactly how Muhammed had always been.

"Yes! How did you know?" Muhammed asked.

"Because you always get what you have. And usually, those on this path are curious—and have always received an answer."

Muhammed smirked slightly. It was all playing out before his eyes—exactly as described.

Electro moved, reaching out to place a hand on Muhammed's shoulder. Muhammed realized they were nearly the same height—Electro, just a bit taller.

Suddenly, his ear buzzed.

Muhammed instinctively moved his shoulder away.

"Oh," Electro turned to Yahweh. "He's certainly sharp."

"That's enough," Yahweh said.

The air shifted.

The ends of her hair shimmered with a faint orange hue—barely noticeable, but unmistakably there. The peaceful aura in the room warped, twisted by a rising fury while gentle quake ran through her crystal-laced kimono

Muhammed had never seen emotion take physical form so fast. Her presence was shifting. Transforming.

"Is this… her system?" he wondered in thought , leaping back from the two of them.

Electro didn't react, but the shadows around him visibly receded—pushed back by the heat radiating from Yahweh.

"Fine," he said flatly, turning away. Hands behind his back, he walked toward the corner of the room. Suddenly, a stack of papers flew into the air—tumbling, flipping chaotically.

Muhammed couldn't see what had caused it. And even after they settled, nothing in the room appeared out of place.

Yahweh's eyes followed Electro as he vanished into the shadows.

His final words echoed softly:

"Happy training. Don't get lost within. It's the darkest place I've ever been."

Muhammed, still in the far leafy corner of the room, stared into the darkened space where Electro had disappeared.

Then, slowly, he turned to Yahweh. Her hair was already fading back into green at the tips. The peaceful aura returned, flowing back into the room like wind filling a sail.

He walked toward her slowly.

"What was that? What did he try to do to m—?"

He stopped in his tracks.

Right beside Yahweh's head, a hole smoldered in the wall. About the size of a finger. Smoke curled gently from the scorched edges. He wouldn't have noticed if not for the faint scent of burnt stone.

His impression of Electro, once neutral, was shifting.

But he wouldn't rush to judgment. He didn't know everything—yet.

"A test," Yahweh said. "Don't worry. It's history he hasn't let go."

"It seems like she hasn't let go either", Muhammed thought, keeping a blank expression.

But just then, a shiver crawled down his spine.

He instinctively raised his hand to his chest.

Suddenly—impact.

Something hit his palm hard. The chair screeched backward beneath him.

The back legs snapped.

His body reacted before he even had to think. One hand hit the ground, and he flipped—landing on his feet.

He looked at his hand to see what she'd thrown.

It was a long, metal cylinder. A lighter.

"Heavy". He thought perplexed

"That was a test of instinct too," she said with a small smile. The air was noticeably hotter now. "Light the spliff."

"Oh, right." He looked to the floor, expecting the spliff to be crushed.

"Huh…" he picked it up. It was perfectly intact—not even a crease.

"It's inscribed," Yahweh explained. "Only fire, or an energy opposite to peace, can destroy it."

Muhammed nodded, placing the spliff to his lips.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "Let's change the scenery."

He closed his eyes. Flicked the lighter. Pulled.

And when he opened them again, the room had transformed.

He now stood in a vast chamber draped in soft light adorned with floating, slow-moving tapestries of ancient symbols, stars, and galaxies. The floor felt like a massive bean bag—bouncy and plush, conforming to his steps.

Yahweh approached soundlessly. The floor didn't even shift beneath her feet, as if the world didn't register her presence.

"The floor responds to emotional weight". She said her voice light

"Take a seat," she said, sitting in a lotus position before him.

He mirrored her.

Closed his eyes.

Exhaled.

It hit him.

But gently.

Like being a leaf carried by wind.

The floor molded to his body, supporting him perfectly.

No smoke drifted from the spliff—unnaturally still.

"Three puff pass," Yahweh's voice now came from behind him.

He followed her voice, lifting the spliff to his lips. It still burned—but only when pulled

As subtle line art patterns rushed down his skin disappearing beneath his clothes

"Inhale. Feel the smoke fill your lungs… all your cells. Each pull peeling back another layer of your consciousness—deeper… and deeper. Take a short breath… wash it down."

He obeyed exactly.

His mind wandered.

Deeper… and deeper…

He was in a state like conscious sleep.

He no longer registered her words with the conscious mind—but something inside him still listened.

"Go deep.

See what you run from.

What you despise in others—see it in yourself.

See them lined up: your past selves.

See them clearly.

Let them find you.

Listen.

Don't run."

The space dissolved around Muhammed. He now stood floating in a vast black void where light zoomed past him. And as he went deeper, they slowed—taking the form of his past selves, slowly walking toward him.

Whispered phrases, moments of shame, joy, confusion—all layered like echoes through wind tunnels.

Each sound caused emotions he had suppressed to rise.

His mouth moved. "It's scary."

"Let it be. Fear doesn't mean you don't take that step—it just means you should press forward."

"You are not your fear. You are greater. See that greatness in the pain. Don't deny yourself any longer—listen to yourself."

His full attention turned inward. "I'm sorry," the words rang through his mind as if they should. He didn't know exactly why he apologized—yet somehow, he did.

Moments of burning curiosity fizzled out by the people he loved.

Moments of pain he masked, unaware of how the people he loved would react.

"Why, why, why…"

"I didn't ask to be born. Why did this life…"

"Maybe everyone would be happier if I wasn't here."

"Let me ride my bike and try to get lost…"

"I always come back. I should give up."

"They hate me."

"It's my fault."

"Why?"

"Wh—"

"Y—"

He cried quietly, but he didn't let the thoughts consume him. He let them pass—as if writing them down and letting them go.

Each thought allowed him to go deeper and deeper into a place he had long denied.

"I just wanna die. God, please kill me. Please…"

This time, a memory vivid—

Him on his knees, praying for death. He didn't want to hurt. He didn't know how to stop his mother's hurt, which she projected onto him.

The smile that once lifted him soon became a weight.

"Close your mouth. Don't leave your lips hanging."

Judgment by the people he thought accepted him for exactly who he was.

Bullied. Lied on. Not believed by the people he thought would protect him.

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

A tougher personality. A voice to speak up. An independence that didn't mind being alone. A pain shelled with silence and quiet agony. He saw it—the mask he wore for what it was. It was his fear… but also his protector. His best friend… but also his squanderer.

His light had dimmed to protect himself—but it also shined at the same time. He knew, but he hid behind others' opinions while following his own.

The embarrassment became a pass to hide, and he took it—for a time. Then he left it in some ways… and held on in others.

He truly saw himself—like scenes from a movie playing in a deep sequence of flashes, words, sentences, and emotions. Each tear a sign of freedom. His emotions permeated the air. His body still. His eyes like a storm.

"Three," Yahweh's voice rang out as Muhammed took his next pull—unconsciously.

As he pulled, he felt clearer. But there was still something that almost evaded him. He could sense it—but it was hard to pinpoint.

"Don't chase. Be okay with not knowing… and it will find you." Her voice was soft and directing.

He listened, taking a breath to wash the smoke down, as Yahweh took the spliff from him, placing a hand on his back.

"Feel throughout your body the physical sensation of your pain—and move your awareness there. See it for what it is. Melt into it."

He listened.

Then he felt it—a sting in his lower back—and he melted into it.

It was the part of him that wanted someone to ask if he was okay, just like he always asked others.

"Are you good?" his young voice rang out.

He responded, "I wasn't. But I am now. I thank you for your protection, and… I'm sorry for being unable to protect you."

There was no separation between them—it was like switching places with a reflection.

"Can we become one again? It's time we live how we really want to—unapologetically."

He raised his hand out, and his younger self molded into him, becoming one again.

He cried and cried—a weight lifting off his chest. The back pain completely dispersed.

"Now transmute that sadness into joy. Think of the life you would live as your highest self," her voice rang out before the sorrow took him over.

He used his great, spliff-induced imagination to envision that life—in first person. The silent accomplishment shared between him and himself. He knew he was never alone.

He knew he was in the same room with him. And he knew that his own thoughts were not the same as his Self. He was changing—biologically, spiritually, and mentally.

One thought rang throughout his being:

"I love life , I love life, I love life, I love life , I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life, I love life"

As he breathed, the air constantly matched all his favorite things—chicken and waffles, mac and cheese, ice cream cake, oxtail—as if urging him to feel love, joy, and bliss.

He truly felt amazing.

But that was interrupted by more demons.

By Fear.

"You don't deserve this," its voice boomed.

"You're worthless. You're meant to be nothing. Did you forget?"

He didn't respond. He merely watched. He could see past the lies, past the trap. These weren't his own thoughts—these were things projected onto him. Things he started to fear. But they were far from true. And he wouldn't let them drown him ever again.

He recognized his fear as a sort of mother. He could listen—but the choice would always be his. It looked exactly like him, obscured in shadows.

"It's okay. I thank you for protecting me—but I'm safe now. It's okay."

And with that, the raging voice came to a halt—momentarily.

"But you need me. I am your survival. Look closely. These people aren't your friends—they're playing games. Leading you around. And you follow!"

"I've kept you from burns and betrayals. From hardships and pain."

Its voice shook the space.

"No. You are a cage. Every time I move, you whisper caution—and I hesitate."

"Do you know how much I've given up? How much I let pass me?"

"Do you know what you've gained? A body protected from more scars. A heart intact. I am not your enemy—I am your armor!" said the darkness.

"Or my chains," Muhammed responded.

"That keep the beast from devouring you."

"Maybe there's truth in this. Maybe I am being led in a grand scheme." Muhammed nodded slightly.

"You're smarter than you look," Fear hissed.

"But that just makes you another piece," Muhammed looked directly at Fear.

Silence.

"You're the trap."

"A scoff." — Fear.

"I am going to DE-Devour YOU."

"NO. You won't," Muhammed said, steady.

"You want to test that?" Fear retorted, but a little quieter now.

"You only roar to stop me from moving forward—not to hunt me. But to hide your fear."

"I am fear! Impervious to terror—I create it! I'm the reason your heart races. The weight in your chest. The tremor in your bones."

"You don't see me. You suffer me!"

Muhammed stayed calm.

"I created you. Second grade. A bully tried to choke me—lied on me—and I wasn't believed. So I hid my pain. I thought it was the end. The teacher told me it would be okay—but my mind was already shaping you, breathing life into you. Creating meaning."

"You needed a protector," Fear said, a little quieter.

"And I never spoke up to an authority figure again. Stopped raising my hand."

"I associated speaking up with rejection. Embarrassment. I avoided situations. I silenced my own voice."

"You had that little boy second-guessing himself the rest of his life—overthinking every situation."

Fear replied, "Silence was preparation. Each unspoken word sharpened your mind. Every hesitation was a lesson."

"Imprisonment," Muhammed stated.

"I became obsessed with perfection—with scrutinizing every thought, every glance, every action."

His head tilted slightly.

"It became my cage. Even when I knew the answer… you held my tongue. I believed others' ideas were more valuable than mine. That was the lie you fed me."

"You faced no failure. No ridicule. No pain. Was I wrong?" Fear asked.

"Yes… No… Yes!" Muhammed shouted, now sure.

"You speak like it was a cage—it was a shield!" Fear proclaimed, godly.

"For you."

"You are still here because of me!" Fear declared.

"You did save me. At a cost. But you did." Muhammed nodded. "And for that, I'm thankful. I'm grateful."

He smiled slightly.

"I see it now. You were never my enemy."

"You were my guardian."

"And I will continue—" Fear began, but was cut off.

"But even guardians need to learn when to let go."

The air echoed. Fear trembled.

"Without me… what will you be?"

"Free. But I won't cast you aside. No—I'll continue to carry you. With gratitude. As a reminder of how far we've come."

Fear took a deep breath… and let it out—fading into the darkness, becoming one with Muhammed.

Muhammed slowly opened his eyes.

"Muhammed, you've done well," Yahweh's voice entered his ears, her silhouette glowing above him.

Muhammed looked up at her, then back down—feeling everything all at once and nothing at all. He was weightless.

He knew he was free.

The floor, once responsive to emotional weight, felt solid now—but still soft.

"I thought fear was a beast to conquer…" he whispered.

"It's not what I expected."