Unknown Place,
There was no light, no darkness—only the absence of both. A realm untouched by time, where space had never unfolded and moments never dared to begin. It was not quiet, for silence itself had no meaning here. Shapes could not form, nor could thought settle; reality unraveled before it could take shape. This place existed outside existence—a breathless void, suspended in the stillborn cradle of eternity, where even nothingness had been forgotten. In that all darkness there was a white humanoid figure .
What....?
Where.....?
Where am I...?
There was no light.
No dark either.
Just... nothing.
Not the emptiness of a room, nor the silence of a lonely night — this was the absence of existence itself. No up. No down. No before. No after. His body — if it still existed — floated in a place where gravity, thought, and time had no meaning.
He opened his mouth to scream, but sound had never been born here. He tried to move, but movement was a lie in a place where space had never been written.
This was not death.
Death at least had an end.
This was something after.
He had not died.
He had fallen into the somewhere or No-where.
"Whats happening ? Help!!!! HELP!!!! Where am I?????? Is this a Prank ? Please Someone ?" He screamed or he thought of this but no sound is made, he couldn't move, he couldn't feel anything,he can't see.
The realization struck like a crack in the void. I can't feel anything. No air. No weight. No heartbeat. No sound. The calm unravelled, replaced by a rising dread that had nowhere to go. He tried to scream, but his mouth didn't open—didn't exist. He thrashed, or thought he did, but the nothing around him didn't move, didn't care. He was trapped in stillness, screaming inside a body made of light, with no echo, no walls, no sky. Where am I? What is this? The questions looped, clawing at him. But the silence stayed—crushing, endless, unbreaking. And that was worse than any answer.
He didn't know how long he'd been trying to scream. Minutes? Days? Centuries? The concept slipped through him like water through open fingers—because there was no time here, only the illusion of it stitched together by his frantic thoughts,sometimes he feel he's been doing this for million of years yet sometimes it feels like just a moment is passed . He wasn't screaming. He couldn't. But the urge to scream had become everything. A single, endless impulse echoing inside a mind with no voice. No breath. Just a loop of panic, looping again. And again. And again. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. The plea didn't go anywhere, because there was nowhere for it to go. Only the crushing realization that this moment—this breathless, soundless, shapeless horror—might be all there would ever be. Forever.
"LET ME OUT!!!"
"Let me out!!!"
"Please... let me out!!!"
"Please... just let me out..."
"Please..."
"Just..."
"Out..."
"..."
Then... stillness. Not around him—there was never anything around—but within. The storm passed, or maybe it burned out. The urge to scream dulled, fading into a numb, drifting awareness. He had no mouth, no body, no voice—just thought. Endless, uninterrupted thought. And in the absence of pain, fear, or time, the mind began to wander. Who was I? A face almost formed—blurred, forgotten. Did I live? Did I matter? The questions didn't hurt. They didn't echo. They simply were, floating weightless in the void like dust in a sunbeam that would never come. With nothing else to cling to, he thought. And thought. And thought. Until thinking became the only proof he had that he still existed.
Even thought grew dull. At first, it had been something—something to grasp, to chase. Memories, questions, ideas... they came and went, faded and returned. But in the end, they circled back on themselves, repeating like a story told too many times. He grew tired of remembering, tired of wondering. No answers ever came, and no new thoughts were left to think. There was no change, no contrast, no interruption. Just the endless murmur of a mind trying to entertain itself in a void that could not offer a single distraction. Even imagination had limits. And eventually, even boredom lost its meaning.
With nothing else left, his mind turned outward—away from himself. He thought of the world he'd left behind, or maybe dreamed he had. Technology: how humans had shaped stone into tools, fire into engines, and circuits into minds that mimicked their own. Art: color, form, emotion—brushstrokes frozen in time, sounds that once stirred hearts. He thought of music, though he couldn't hear it. He thought of games, of movement, of competition—the joy of watching bodies in motion under rules and rhythm. Cultures, languages, cities… the vast, beautiful mess of civilization unraveled slowly in his thoughts. He remembered the wonder of it all—not with sound or image, but with knowing. And for a time, it almost felt like being alive again.
His thoughts no longer clung to memory. They began to drift further, beyond the borders of what had been real. He imagined machines that grew like trees, healing themselves with light. Cities suspended in the sky, powered by gravity turned inside out. A language made of emotions alone—spoken through color and sensation. He designed a clock that didn't measure time but choice. A ship that sailed through thoughts instead of space. Ideas poured in, strange and wild and beautiful, untethered by physics or reason. In this place with no limits, his mind became a forge. And in forging, for the first time, he felt something stir—purpose.
The ideas kept coming—faster, sharper, stranger. Some were beautiful. Some… weren't. One lingered longer than the rest: a neural cascade emitter, harmless in concept, devastating in effect. It could overload thought itself, unravel identity in seconds. He pondered its structure, its elegance, the soft precision of its cruelty. Not out of malice—just... interest. What would happen, he wondered idly, if a human were exposed to it? Would they scream? Collapse? Transcend?
He didn't smile. He had no face.
But something deep in his mind began to curl, ever so slightly, toward the edge.