I found myself in an office where files were piled everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, stacked so high it felt as though the entire room was built out of paperwork. In the center sat a man behind a desk, flipping through sheets and assigning tasks to the endless line of people waiting their turn. There were three people ahead of me, and behind me… I couldn't even begin to count.
I tried to catch what the man at the desk was saying to each person, but his voice stayed strangely muffled, as if the words were being swallowed by the air itself.
Eventually, my turn came. I stepped up to his desk.
"Name?" the man asked, not bothering to look up.
"I… Eren Skywalker, sir," I said.
He typed something into his computer, eyes scanning whatever came up. After a moment, he gave a curt nod.
"Right. Your token number is 123653789. Take this. God will meet you shortly."
I froze. "God? Token? What do you mean—"
The man in the chair spoke. "You are dead. Please wait in the waiting room until you're called, sir."
I opened my mouth to ask him something—anything—but my legs suddenly moved on their own. Before I could resist, I was already walking toward a nearby waiting room.
A dozen questions spun in my head: Am I really dead? Where even is this place? But the moment I stepped inside the waiting room, something strange washed over me. It felt as if all my questions had been answered… even though none of them actually had.
Rows upon rows of cubicles stretched out before me, each with a glowing token number displayed on top. There were so many that I couldn't see where the rows began or ended. Whenever I tried to approach another cubicle, some sort of invisible energy kept me from getting too close. I couldn't see anyone else near mine, but I could move freely toward the one directly in front of me.
There it was—my cubicle, my token number floating above it. I stepped inside and sat down.
and started thinking, am I really dead? Is this supposed to be the afterlife? Because if it is… this is definitely not what I pictured. It feels less like heaven and more like a government office that lost a war with its filing cabinets.
And I'm about to meet God, apparently. Great. Just great.
I don't remember doing anything awful in my life. I was actually doing pretty well—just got my college acceptance letter, something I worked so hard for. Years of effort… And now it's all gone in an instant.
Still, I guess there's one upside.
There's no one left to cry for me. Not really. I didn't even have friends. With that, I started to think, what can I ask of God?
After turning things over in my mind—what I could even ask God, whether I was going to heaven or hell—I eventually lost track of time. Days, maybe more, slipped past. I couldn't tell. Being trapped in the cubicle without any way out slowly pushed me toward the edge of madness.
I had been sitting or sleeping here for… who knows how long. As I tried to calm myself and decide what to do, the token above me suddenly began to glow. A few moments later, a door began forming beside me, its outline shimmering before settling into a simple, ordinary-looking wooden door.
I figured that meant it was finally time to meet God.
So I opened it.
On the other side was an elegant room lined with rows of books. And standing there—waiting for me—was an old man.
I froze.
Wait a minute… that's—
He looked exactly like Stan Lee.
The old Stan Lee smiled and called out to me in a warm, grand, almost grandfatherly voice, inviting me to take a seat near his table.
Stan Lee greeted me with a warm smile. "Hello there."
I managed to smile back. "Hello… So, Stan Lee—are you God? The almighty creator?"
The old man chuckled softly. "Well, my boy, you can think of me as a god if you'd like. Call me whatever you wish." His smile didn't fade for even a second.
"So… I really am dead, sir?"
"It's simply part of the life cycle, my boy," he said gently.
I swallowed. "Then… can you send me back into my body?"
He leaned back, thoughtful. "I could send you back. But honestly, it would be quite a troublesome process. Instead, I have a far better offer. Rather than dragging you back to your old life, I can send you to any fictional universe you wish."
My eyes widened. What the heck? This was exactly like the fanfictions I used to read online. The kind I even tried writing once—though that one completely flopped. No one ever read it.
Dragging my thoughts back to the moment, I asked, "So… I can reincarnate into any universe?"
The old man nodded.
I didn't even hesitate. Who would choose to return to that boring, lonely life? This was so much better—an actual chance to enter a fictional world and live a life worth smiling about.
"So, my boy," he said, folding his hands, "what is your wish?"
I scratched my cheek, embarrassed. "I… want the main-character power I wrote about in my fanfiction—the one that flopped."
I offered him a sheepish grin. "Yes, sir. That one."
Ok, this wish is granted.
So, what is your last wish, my boy?"
I cleared my throat. "Sir… I want the ability to travel between omniverses. Like being able to go from the DC omniverse to the Marvel omniverse and choose exactly where I appear within each universe."
The old man nodded as if I'd asked for something perfectly ordinary. "All right."
"Now," he continued, folding his hands on the table, "we must choose where you will be reincarnated first—and in which universe."
Before I could ask how we were supposed to choose, a large gacha machine materialized beside the table with a soft hum.
"My boy," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "I'm going to start the machine. It will decide the first universe of your new life."
With a casual snap of his fingers, the machine whirred to life. Its lights blinked, its gears spun, and after a few tense moments, the display slowed… then stopped.
The result appeared in glowing letters:
Harry Potter Universe.
My boy, you will be reborn in the Harry Potter universe, and you must go along with that choice," the old man said kindly.
Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers. A warm light wrapped around me, and I felt my body beginning to fade, dissolving into shimmering particles.
"Oh—before I forget," he added casually, as if mentioning the weather, "you will take on the appearance of the character you created."
I stared at him, stunned. What?
He chuckled at my expression. "And don't worry. You'll regain the memories of our entire conversation once your mind has fully developed. When the time comes, you'll remember everything we discussed here."
The light grew brighter, swallowing the room, swallowing him, swallowing me.
Ireland, Galway village—inside an empty house on 07/09/1980, at 8:45 p.m.
A dimly lit single room sat in silence, its walls bare save for a flickering candle set on a worn wooden table. The air was heavy, shaped by shallow breaths and the weight of solitude.
A blonde woman knelt on a blanket spread across the floor, her hair damp with sweat. Pain twisted across her face, but determination held her steady. There was no midwife, no family, and no comforting hand to guide her. She was entirely alone—yet the loneliness only sharpened the strength she carried within. The room felt hollow, but her resolve filled it, turning emptiness into quiet resilience.
Then, a newborn's cry broke through the stillness.
Relief washed over her—not just because the agony had ended, but because life had finally answered her solitude. The candle's flame steadied, casting a warm glow across her exhausted, triumphant expression.
From the child's perspective, the world began with warmth, soft candlelight, and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Everything was unfamiliar and impossibly vast, but the woman's trembling arms shaped the first definition of safety.
The once-empty room now hummed with life. Shadows shrank back, and the silence softened into something gentle—alive. Where there had been emptiness, there was now connection. Where solitude had lingered, a bond had formed.
The single room, once a chamber of isolation, had become a sanctuary of hope.
Ireland, Galway—08/10/1981, 8:00 a.m.
INT. ONE-ROOM HOUSE – DAY
The room is small and crumbling, its cracked walls and dirt floor softened only by a thin blanket spread across the ground—a makeshift bed and playmat in one. Pale morning sunlight slips through the lone window, turning drifting dust motes into tiny, suspended stars. The shelves are bare, the space worn by hardship yet warmed by presence.
A BLONDE MOTHER, weary but smiling, sits cross-legged on the floor. Her patched clothing hangs loosely on her thin frame, but her eyes glow with quiet, unwavering love. In her hands, she holds a rag doll stitched together from mismatched scraps of cloth.
She shakes it playfully.
MOTHER
(laughing softly)
Come here, little one…
A ONE-YEAR-OLD CHILD crawls toward her, giggling—cheeks smudged with dirt, eyes sparkling with curiosity. He squeals as she tickles his sides, his laughter bouncing off the cracked walls and filling the room with life.
The mother scoops him into her arms and spins him gently. His laughter rings out again, bright and unrestrained, turning the once-quiet space into a melody of joy. The candle on the table flickers, then steadies—as if dancing along with him.
Despite the poverty surrounding them, love transforms the fragile room into a sanctuary.
Where there was silence, there is now song.
Where there was struggle, there is now a bond.
The mother presses a soft kiss to the child's forehead. He clutches the rag doll tightly, eyes wide with wonder.
Ireland, Galway village—Public Playground
Date: 15/05/1985—Time: 4:00 p.m.
The sun hangs low, casting a warm golden light over the uneven patch of ground where a handful of children run in wild circles. Their laughter rises above the soft hum of the village, echoing like music against the worn houses surrounding the playground.
At the center of it all, a five-year-old blond boy races with boundless energy. His clothes are faded, his knees are scuffed, but his smile is bright and unburdened. A stick in his hand becomes a sword, and he charges forward, leading the other children on a grand imaginary adventure.
Nearby, his mother sits on an old splintered bench. Her patched dress rustles softly in the breeze. Her hands—tired yet tender—rest in her lap as she watches her son play. Her eyes soften with each burst of his laughter.
For a moment, poverty melts away. The cracked walls of home, the empty shelves, the thin blanket on the floor—none of it matters here. All of it dissolves beneath the bright chorus of children's voices.
On the mother's face rests a blend of pride, relief, and quiet longing. She knows the world can be harsh and unforgiving. But in this small golden moment, her son is free—free to laugh, free to belong, and free to dream.
The boy turns and catches her gaze. He waves with a wide grin before diving back into the game, sword raised triumphantly.
His mother smiles, tears shimmering in her eyes—as if the playground itself has become a sanctuary of hope.
Date: 02/09/1991
Time: 7:45 p.m.
Location: The Scottish Highlands
LARGE OPEN GROUND—NIGHT
A vast stretch of open field lies beneath the cold, indifferent moon. The wind ripples through the tall grass, turning it into waves of silver shadow. Dark figures move steadily across the field—black-robed wizards advancing in formation, their wands held high, each tip glowing with a sinister, venomous light.
At the center of the field stands the blonde lady. Her arms are spread wide, forming a desperate shield around her eleven-year-old son clinging to her back. She carries no wand. No magic. Nothing but her body… and unbreakable will.
MOTHER
(whispering, firm despite her terror)
Stay behind me. Don't move.
The boy buries his face in her dress, trembling.
Ahead of them, the wizards raise their wands in unison. A sickly green glow gathers at each tip—the Death Curse forming, crackling like lightning that has chosen its victims.
Fear flickers across the mother's face… but it does not hold. Resolve settles deeper. She steps forward, placing herself fully between the child and the robed attackers, her stance unwavering even as death draws its breath.
The Death Curse tore through the air and struck the blonde woman square in the chest. The force hit her like a hammer. Her body went limp instantly, collapsing to the ground like a discarded rag doll.
Snickers rippled through the nearby dark wizards, their amusement echoing coldly across the field.
The boy watched his mother fall.
Something inside him broke.
He dropped to his knees, a choked sound escaping him—but before grief could fully form, a surge of blinding blue light erupted from his body. It burst outward in a violent wave, swallowing the grass, the sky, and every figure around him.
The dark wizards screamed and tried to flee, but the blue energy overtook them in an instant. They didn't burn… they didn't fall… They simply ceased, erased from existence—dimensioned out of reality by the sheer force of the blast.
The light consumed everything near him.
Including his mother's body.
with blast the memories ended with boom.