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Synapse Of The Gods/ WikiLeaks, Chicago, IL (2025)

06/15/2025

She brushed his arm—gentle, sorrowful.
“Some battles aren’t won with courage. They’re lost with silence

02/01/2025

Quotes from Amr Story:
Emotion had to be given form. Pain had to be expressed. Otherwise, it consumed you.
In the We, there was no art. No music. No passion. Because nothing was ever missing.
And if nothing was missing, nothing could ever be created.
Amr smiled, placing a hand on the canvas.
Maybe suffering was not a curse. Maybe it was the birthplace of all things.

01/30/2025

Amr Episode 12
**The Second Universe**

Amr sat in his dark room, his fingers trembling on the edges of the bed. The air was thick with tension. The silence was deceiving—too quiet, too patient, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Then it began.
A whisper of electricity slithered up his spine, a hidden lightning spark igniting in his temporal lobe. The edges of his vision flickered, like a candle caught in the wind. He inhaled sharply. It was time.

The walls rippled, dissolving into cascading waterfalls of colorful geometric shapes. The ceiling stretched, then collapsed inward, twisting into an infinite tunnel. His body froze, his muscles locked, but his mind expanded, torn away from the fragile constraints of human form.

Reality shattered like broken glass.
And he fell—or perhaps ascended.

Amro landed—if landing was even the right word—onto a vast celestial bridge made of liquid light. The air, or whatever passed for air in this realm, pulsed with energy, each vibration resonating within his bones.

Before him stood the Governor of the Second Universe.
Unlike "Malik al-Zaman," the Governor of the First Universe, this being was tangible, more structured yet still beyond the limits of humanity. His frame was immense, his body composed of woven stardust, shaped into a human form, but his skin reflected galaxies, entire constellations shifting across his shape. His face had no eyes, no mouth—only an endless nebula swirling where features should be.

His voice did not echo. It cut through reality, sharp and immediate.
"You have arrived, Amro."

Amr, still disoriented from the collapse of his body and mind, struggled to find his footing on the shimmering bridge. "Who... who are you?"

"I am Malik al-Nujum—the Voyager. I traverse the cosmic fabric, guiding those who seek beyond the known."

Malik’s presence was overwhelming, his form shifting between solid and ethereal. Unlike the first governor, who mapped probabilities and timelines, Malik was an explorer, a traveler, a being who had seen the infinite corridors of existence.

Amro felt his pulse race. This was different.
"Why am I here?"
Malik tilted his head, the nebula within his face expanding. "Because you seek beyond what is given to you."

The space around them shifted, revealing a spiraling gateway—a rift stretching across the cosmos. A portal to another world.
"Your next trial," Malik said. "A world unbound by your physics, your biology, your emotions. If you seek an existence without suffering, you will find it there. But be warned—nothing remains unchanged without consequence."

Amro swallowed. A world beyond pain. Beyond human limits.
He took a step forward.
And the universe swallowed him whole.

Amro landed in silence.
Not the kind of silence he knew—the absence of sound—but something far deeper, as if sound itself had never existed here. He floated, or rather, he existed in the way light exists—without weight, without resistance.

Above him, the emerald sky pulsed, waves of soft color rolling like the surface of a living ocean. It wasn’t empty space; it breathed, an endless canopy shifting in harmony with the rhythm of something unseen.

Beneath him, the ground was neither solid nor liquid—it was something else, something in between. When he moved, the surface flowed with him, adapting, as if it recognized his presence and made space for his existence.

His body was no longer flesh and bone.
He looked down at himself—or what he had become.
He was elongated, fluid. He had no distinct edges, no sharp lines defining where he ended and the world began. His form responded to his thoughts, shifting like a cloud made of silver light. It should have terrified him.

It didn’t.
It felt… right.

Then he saw them.
They weren’t creatures. They weren’t beings in the way he understood life. They were… shapes, shifting endlessly—transparent, glowing, flickering between states of solid, liquid, and mist. They moved in perfect synchronicity, never colliding, never hesitating.

They didn’t speak. They resonated.
A pulse of energy rippled through the space, and suddenly, their thoughts weren’t heard—they were simply known.
"You are new."
The thought was not spoken. It simply existed inside him.

Amro tried to form words, but the concept of sound felt absurd here, like trying to light a fire underwater. Instead, he thought.
"Who… are you?"
The collective shimmered.
"We are We."

The words vibrated inside him. Not individuals. Not separate. A single consciousness, endlessly divided and reunited.

At first, it was paradise.
The pain was gone. The struggle was gone. The constant battle with his own body was over.
But something crept in—a feeling he hadn’t expected.
Something missing.

He tried to understand it, but the words—the very concept of words—began to slip from his mind. Language was unnecessary here.
And yet, he tried.

He reached out—mentally, emotionally—to the We.
"What do you do?" he asked.

A pulse of warmth, like light washing over him.
"We exist."

A pause. A deep, gnawing unease.
"But… why?"

A flicker of confusion.
"There is no why."

Amro felt his mind shudder.
There was no purpose here.
No goals. No striving. No art. No creation.
No stories to tell.

He realized it suddenly, painfully. There was no art because there was no imperfection to express.
There was no love—because love required longing.
And longing required absence.

There were no dreams, because dreams required something to be missing, something to be reached for.

Without pain, there was no healing.
Without hunger, there was no satisfaction.
Without suffering… there was nothing.

The We rippled around him, sensing his unease.
"You are troubled."

Amro's form shook, his once-fluid body rippling with instability.
"This isn’t… life."

Confusion spread through them. "This is existence perfected."

Amro tried to hold onto himself, tried to form something human within this infinite nothingness.

His mother’s voice.
Koko’s laughter.
Aaliyah’s quiet kindness.
His pain. His struggle. His suffering.

And suddenly, he realized—that was what had made him alive.
Not this.
Not eternity without struggle.
Not existence without purpose.

He was drowning in a sea of nothing.
And he had to get out.

He took a deep, human breath.
And whispered:
"Ya Allah."
The storm came back violently.
His body seized, collapsed, convulsed.
Pain ripped through him, his lungs burning, his muscles spasming, his heart slamming against his ribs.
And then—
The world snapped back into place.
The smell of jasmine.
The warmth of a trembling hand gripping his.
The sound of sobbing.
Amr’s eyes flickered open.
His mother’s tear-streaked face hovered above him.
Koko’s voice whispered his name, her fingers wrapped tightly around his arm.
Aaliyah’s silent prayers filled the room.
The storm was gone.
The universe was behind him.
And he was home.

Amr stared at the ceiling, his breath uneven.
He had left a world without suffering.
Because in the end, suffering wasn’t the enemy.
It was the proof that he was alive.
And for the first time, he embraced it.

01/24/2025

*Amr episode 10**

The world Amr returned to felt simultaneously familiar and alien. His room, the school, the people in his life—they were all as they had been before. But Amr had changed. The vastness of what he had seen, the weight of the truths he now carried, made everything he encountered feel hollow. Yet, paradoxically, it also filled him with an overwhelming sense of wonder.

In the classroom, the teacher’s voice droned on about historical dates, conflicts, and resolutions, but to Amr, the words felt irrelevant. He couldn’t reconcile the petty squabbles of humanity’s past with the grand vistas of time and existence he had seen. His pen tapped against his notebook, its rhythm a silent rebellion against the monotonous lesson.

“Amr,” the teacher called, her tone sharp. “What are you thinking about?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Why do we study wars and borders when the universe is infinite? None of this matters when we’re just specks in a vast cosmos.”

The room fell silent. His classmates exchanged confused glances, and Kasim, ever the instigator, smirked from the back. “Maybe he’s trying to sound smart because he’s bad at history.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but the teacher frowned. “Amr, focus on the lesson. This is important.”

Amr leaned back in his chair, a faint smile on his lips. “What’s important isn’t what happened centuries ago, but what we do with the time we’re given now.”

The teacher sighed, her patience thinning. “Then tell me, Amr, what do you propose we do?”

He met her gaze, his voice steady. “Understand that pain and suffering are part of the fabric of life. Without them, there’s no meaning to happiness. Without struggle, there’s no triumph. History isn’t just wars and treaties—it’s humanity trying to find meaning.”

The class fell silent again, this time not with ridicule but with an uneasy intrigue. Even Kasim seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

Later that day, Amr sat with Koko under their usual tree. She had noticed the changes in him, the way his eyes seemed to carry the weight of distant stars.

“What’s going on with you, Amr?” she asked, her tone both curious and concerned. “You’ve been... different.”

He stared at the horizon, his hands resting on his knees. “I’ve seen things, Koko. Things that make me question everything. What we call reality... it’s just one thread in a tapestry.”

She frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that pain, happiness, even time itself—they’re all part of something bigger. When I was in the future, everything was perfect. No pain, no suffering, no fear. But it was hollow. Without darkness, light loses its meaning.”

Koko tilted her head, trying to grasp his words. “But isn’t it better to not suffer? To be happy all the time?”

Amr shook his head. “Happiness without struggle is like a story with no conflict. It’s flat. Empty. We need pain to remind us why joy matters.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “You sound like an old man trapped in a kid’s body.”

He chuckled, the sound tinged with both humor and melancholy. “Maybe I am.”

On a quiet Saturday morning, Amr accompanied his mother to the marketplace. The bustling stalls, the vibrant colors, and the cacophony of voices formed a tapestry of life that should have felt comforting. But Amr couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was fleeting, fragile.

As his mother haggled over fresh vegetables, Amr struck up a conversation with a fruit vendor, an elderly man with kind eyes and a weathered face.

“You’ve seen a lot of life,” Amr began. “What do you think it’s all for?”

The man chuckled, tossing an orange from hand to hand. “For living, boy. What else?”

“But why do we live?” Amr pressed. “Why do we endure pain, loss, suffering? What’s the point?”

The vendor paused, his gaze thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about avoiding pain but finding meaning in it. Pain shapes us. Without it, we’d be like this orange—sweet, but without character.”

Amr smiled, his respect for the old man growing. “You’re wiser than most philosophers.”

The man laughed, handing him the orange. “Philosophers think too much. Life’s about feeling it.”

That night, Amr and his mother sat by the window, the moon casting a soft glow over the room. Layla had noticed the change in her son—the way he spoke, the way he carried himself—and it worried her.

“Amr,” she began gently, “you’ve been saying strange things lately. About pain, about life. What’s going on?”

He looked at her, his expression serene yet intense. “Mama, do you think death is the end?”

Her breath hitched. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just think about it,” he said. “We’re so afraid of death, but maybe it’s just... another doorway. Like sleep. Or a bridge to something else.”

Layla’s eyes filled with tears. “Habibi, you’re too young to be thinking about these things.”

“But I have to,” he insisted. “If we don’t understand death, how can we understand life? How can we find meaning in the time we have?”

She took his hand, her voice trembling. “Amr, I just want you to be happy. To live your life without carrying such heavy thoughts.”

He smiled faintly, squeezing her hand. “Happiness isn’t about ignoring the heavy things, Mama. It’s about carrying them and still finding joy.”

At school, Amr’s classmates began to notice his odd behavior. He would drift off during lessons, scribble strange symbols in his notebook, and mutter about time and the universe. During lunch, Kasim couldn’t resist taunting him.

“Hey, Amr,” he called, smirking. “Are you planning your next trip to the moon?”

Amr looked up, unfazed. “The moon’s too close. I’m aiming for the stars.”

Kasim laughed, but the others around the table fell quiet, sensing something deeper in Amr’s words.

“You’re weird,” Kasim said, shaking his head.

“Maybe,” Amr replied, his tone calm. “But weird is just another word for seeing things differently.”

As the weeks passed, Amr continued to avoid his medication. The storm, the seizures—he welcomed them now. They were his gateway, his bridge to the infinite. But they didn’t come. The waiting gnawed at him, the anticipation stretching his nerves taut.

At night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a whirlwind. What if the storm never returned? What if his chance to ascend was gone forever?

But deep down, he knew the storm would come. It was only a matter of time. Until then, he would carry the weight of what he had seen, the truths he had glimpsed, and the questions that still lingered.

And so he waited, suspended between worlds, his life a delicate balance of reality and the infinite possibilities that lay beyond.

01/19/2025

Amr episode 8; Death, Immortality

The air around Amr felt heavier as he opened his eyes to a dazzling brightness that wasn’t the sun. Instead, a pulsating sky hung above him—a kaleidoscope of shifting hues, its colors refracting like light through a prism. Amr sat up slowly, his chest tight with anticipation and trepidation. The words of the Governor of the First Universe echoed in his mind: You have chosen to glimpse the future, to see what lies ahead for humanity.
Before him lay a city that defied comprehension, an amalgamation of human ingenuity, ambition, and perhaps hubris. The towering structures weren’t just buildings—they were living entities. Covered in bioluminescent materials, they pulsed and shifted as though breathing, their surfaces rippling like water disturbed by a stone.
“Welcome, traveler,” a smooth voice interrupted Amr’s awe. A figure emerged, humanoid but distinctly advanced. His skin shimmered faintly, a translucent layer revealing an intricate network of lights and circuits beneath. His eyes, glowing with a soft blue hue, seemed to scan Amr’s very essence.
“I am Ehsan, an Adaptive Intelligence and your guide,” the figure said, inclining his head in a gesture of politeness.
Amr hesitated, his voice catching in his throat. “Is this... Earth?”
“It is what Earth has become,” Ehsan replied, a faint smile gracing his lips. “The year is 2500. Humanity has evolved, adapted, and, in some ways, fragmented. Let me show you.”

Amr followed Ehsan through the sprawling cityscape, his gaze drawn to a towering structure that gleamed in the dim light. The intricate facade shifted and shimmered, a monument to humanity’s most profound questions and the answers science had provided. Ehsan called it The Nexus of Continuance, a place where life, death, and meaning converged.
Inside, the atmosphere was hushed, reverent. The air pulsed faintly with energy as if the building itself were alive. Along the walls, holographic timelines displayed humanity’s journey—from ancient rituals around fire to the discoveries that had unraveled the mysteries of existence.

Ehsan gestured toward a sleek chamber where people sat in contemplation. At the center, a man reclined in a capsule, his face calm, his body suspended in a translucent gel. Monitors displayed his vital signs, steady and unwavering.
“That’s an optional death capsule,” Ehsan explained. “He’s chosen to end his journey—for now.”
Amr blinked, confused. “For now?”
Ehsan smiled faintly. “Death is no longer absolute. Through cryogenic preservation, anyone can pause their life and return when they wish. Aging is optional, diseases are eradicated, and the body can remain young forever through telomere manipulation and cellular regeneration. But some, after centuries of living, find existence... tiresome.”
Amr frowned, watching the man in the capsule. “How old is he?”
“Three hundred and fifty,” Ehsan replied. “His body is perfect, untouched by time. But his mind... his consciousness struggles with the weight of his memories. Scientists study him and others like him to understand the effects of extended life on human emotions and perception.”

Amr followed Ehsan to another room where a group of researchers huddled around holographic projections. Images of human brains lit up the space, each one showing patterns of thought, emotion, and memory.
“Humans weren’t designed to live forever,” Ehsan said quietly. “Our consciousness is built on the idea of endings. Without death, achievements lose their meaning, relationships their urgency, and life its purpose.”
“Then why choose immortality?” Amr asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.
“Some believe in exploring existence endlessly,” Ehsan said. “Others fear the unknown. But as many are discovering, forever isn’t what they imagined. Living too long can unravel the very fabric of who we are.”

01/13/2025

Episode 7 (the 7 Worlds) ; Whispers of the Gatekeeper
Amr sat by the window in his room, the sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the blinds, painting golden stripes across his face. His notebook lay open on the desk before him, but the words of the Gatekeeper filled his mind, drowning out everything else. "The hierarchy guards. The ultimate truth. The chance to rewrite everything." The phrases replayed endlessly, a melody of promise and mystery. He was no longer just Amr, the boy with seizures—he was someone on the verge of something extraordinary, and he could feel it coursing through his veins.
At school, however, this newfound focus on the Gatekeeper began to show in ways that confused those around him. Amr sat at his desk in the back corner of the classroom, the teacher’s voice a faint hum in the background. His eyes were fixed not on the chalkboard but on the patterns in the wood grain of his desk, tracing them with his finger as though they were pathways to another world.
“Amr!” the teacher’s voice snapped him back to reality. His classmates turned to look at him, some with confusion, others with quiet snickers.
“Yes?” he said, blinking rapidly as though emerging from a trance.
“I asked you to solve the equation on the board,” the teacher said, her tone stern but concerned.
Amr squinted at the numbers scrawled in chalk but couldn’t focus. Instead, he muttered under his breath, “There are equations far greater than this. Equations that shape the entire universe…”
The class erupted into laughter, and the teacher’s brow furrowed. “Amr, this isn’t like you. Please stay after class.”

After the bell rang, the classroom emptied quickly, leaving Amr alone with his teacher. She leaned against her desk, arms folded, studying him with a mix of frustration and worry.
“Amr, what’s going on with you?” she asked. “You’re distracted, you’re talking nonsense during lessons, and your grades are slipping. This isn’t the Amr I know.”
He hesitated, his gaze falling to his hands. “I… I’m waiting for something.”
“Waiting for what?” she pressed, her voice softening.
“For the storm,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The storm will take me to the Gatekeeper again. He said I could find the truth. That I could change… everything.”
The teacher’s eyes widened slightly. “Amr, are you feeling alright? Have you told your mother about this?”
Amr shook his head. “She wouldn’t understand. Nobody does.”
At dinner that evening, Layla watched Amr push his food around his plate. His face was distant, his fork tracing aimless patterns in the rice.
“Amr, you’ve barely eaten,” she said, her voice gentle but tinged with worry. “Is everything alright?”
He looked up, his eyes holding a strange intensity that made her stomach twist. “Mama, do you believe we can change our destiny?”
The question caught her off guard. “Destiny? Why are you asking about that?”
“Because…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because what if we’re stuck in a life that isn’t ours? What if we could… rewrite it? Like a book, starting over from the beginning.”
Layla’s heart ached at the sadness in his voice. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “Habibi, life isn’t a book we can rewrite. But we can make the best of the pages we’re given.”
Amr pulled his hand away, frustration flashing in his eyes. “But what if the pages are wrong? What if I wasn’t meant to live like this?”
Her breath hitched, but she kept her voice calm. “Amr, you’re my son, and you’re perfect the way you are. Don’t let these thoughts consume you.”
He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to his plate. Layla bit her lip, the unease in her chest growing.
The next day at school, Amr sat on the edge of the playground, his back against the chain-link fence. Around him, his classmates laughed and shouted as they chased each other in a game of tag. Koko ran up to him, her red ribbon fluttering in her hair.
“Amr, why aren’t you playing?” she asked, plopping down beside him.
He glanced at her but didn’t answer right away. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the Gatekeeper’s words.
“Do you think there’s a place where we can be anything we want?” he asked suddenly.
Koko tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“A place where you’re not… stuck. Where you can choose who you are and what happens to you. Like… heaven, maybe. Or another world.”
Koko frowned. “I don’t know. But why are you thinking about that?”
Amr looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. “Because I’m tired of being stuck here. I’m tired of this life.”
She reached out and grabbed his arm. “You’re not stuck, Amr. You’re my best friend, and you’re smart and funny, and—”
“But I’m broken, Koko,” he interrupted, his voice cracking. “I’m broken, and I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”
She stared at him, her eyes welling with tears. “You’re not broken. You’re just… different.”
Amr didn’t respond. He leaned his head back against the fence, his gaze fixed on the sky. He was waiting. Always waiting.
Days turned into weeks, and the storm still hadn’t come. Amr’s frustration grew with each passing moment. He spent hours alone in his room, staring out the window or lying on his bed, replaying the Gatekeeper’s words in his mind. "The ultimate truth. The chance to rewrite everything."
One evening, he sat cross-legged on the floor, the dim light of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. His notebook lay open before him, filled with strange symbols and sketches—his attempts to make sense of the visions he had seen.
“Why won’t it come?” he muttered to himself. “Why won’t the storm take me back?”
He clenched his fists, the frustration boiling inside him. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of his unanswered questions.
“Are you playing with me?” he asked aloud, his voice trembling. “Is this some kind of game? You show me the Gatekeeper, you promise me answers, and then you leave me here to rot?”
His words hung in the silence, unanswered. He pressed his palms to his face, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
The longer the storm refused to come, the more Amr’s mind began to spiral. He started to see patterns where there were none—shadows on the wall that seemed to move, whispers in the stillness of the night. His dreams were vivid and chaotic, filled with glimpses of the Gatekeeper and the swirling vortex of the gate.
One night, he dreamed he was standing before the gate again, its massive doors carved with intricate symbols that seemed to shift and change as he watched. The Gatekeeper stood before him, its form glowing with an otherworldly light.
“Why are you making me wait?” Amr demanded, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “Why won’t you let me through?”
The Gatekeeper’s response was calm, almost serene. “The storm will come when it is time. Patience is the first step toward understanding.”
“But I’m tired of waiting!” Amr shouted. “I’m tired of this life!”
The Gatekeeper’s light dimmed, and its voice softened. “Then perhaps it is not the storm you are waiting for, but yourself.”
Amr woke with a start, his chest heaving. The words lingered in his mind, cryptic and maddening.
Layla watched her son with growing concern. He was withdrawing further and further, his once-bright eyes now clouded with something she couldn’t name. She found him in his room one evening, sitting on the floor with his notebook open, muttering to himself.
“Amr,” she said softly, kneeling beside him. “What’s going on? Please talk to me.”
He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mix of frustration and sadness. “You wouldn’t understand, Mama.”
“Try me,” she urged, her voice trembling. “I just want to help you.”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m waiting for the storm. It’s the only way I can get back to the Gatekeeper.”
“The Gatekeeper?” Layla repeated, her brow furrowing. “What are you talking about, habibi?”
Amr shook his head, tears spilling over. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”
Layla pulled him into her arms, her heart breaking as she held his trembling frame. “You matter, Amr,” she whispered. “You matter so much.”
But her words felt hollow, even to herself. She didn’t know how to reach him, how to pull him back from the edge of whatever abyss he was standing on.
Amr’s life became a cycle of waiting and frustration. He was caught between two worlds—unable to move forward, unable to go back. The storm that had once terrified him had become his only hope, and its absence felt like a cruel joke.
In the quiet of his room, he stared at the sky, wondering if the Gatekeeper was watching him, waiting for him to break. And in the depths of his despair, he whispered a question to the void:
“Is this my destiny? To wait and suffer, caught between chaos and order, never truly living?”
But the void remained silent, its answer hidden in the stillness. And Amr, once so full of life, was left to wonder if the storm would ever come again—or if he was destined to remain on the shores of nowhere, forever waiting.

01/12/2025

Novel Amr episode 6
The Keeper of the Gate
Amr sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, the dim glow of the moonlight casting long shadows across the walls. The quiet of the house enveloped him, interrupted only by the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. It had been weeks since his last seizure, weeks of waiting for the storm to come. He wanted it—no, needed it. The storm was his only way to the gatekeeper, the enigmatic figure he had glimpsed in his last journey. His heart ached for answers, for a reason behind his fractured life.
The silence pressed against him like a weight, thick and unyielding. He stared at the crack in his ceiling, a fissure in the otherwise smooth surface, as if it mirrored the break within him. His fingers idly traced the patterns on his blanket, his mind circling the same thought: Why hasn’t it come?
And then, there it was. A flicker in the corner of his vision. It was faint, like a tiny ripple across the still waters of his consciousness, but it was enough to make his breath catch. He sat up, his pulse quickening. The storm was coming.
The air in the room grew heavier, charged with an almost electric tension. He felt it in the base of his skull—a buzzing, low and insistent, that began to spread through his head. His senses sharpened, and yet, everything around him seemed distorted. The books on his shelf leaned at odd angles, the shadows on the walls danced unnaturally, and the faint ticking of the clock became a deafening metronome.
Amr closed his eyes and exhaled. He had waited for this moment, prepared for it. His muscles tensed in anticipation as the familiar dizziness began to creep over him. His vision blurred, colors bleeding into one another, and a faint metallic taste filled his mouth.
The storm wasn’t just here—it was tearing through him.
It started in his temporal lobe, a spark igniting a cascade of chaos that rippled through his brain. His body je**ed violently, his arms and legs stiffening as if pulled by invisible strings. A guttural cry escaped his lips, raw and primal, a sound not entirely his own. His chest heaved, muscles contracting with a force that seemed to come from somewhere beyond him.
The walls of his room rippled like waves, the boundaries of reality bending and twisting. His senses exploded in a cacophony of sensations—light burned his eyes, his mother’s jasmine perfume from earlier in the day turned acrid in his nostrils, and the ticking clock became a deafening roar. His heart pounded, the rhythm syncing with the storm inside him.
Amr’s vision darkened, the world around him dissolving into a void. And then, just as before, he fell—not downward, but through layers of existence, slipping into a place unbound by the constraints of time and space.

When Amr opened his eyes, he stood on the threshold of the gatekeeper’s realm. The ground beneath him shimmered with an otherworldly light, as if made of liquid galaxies. Above, the sky stretched infinitely, a tapestry of swirling stars and dark voids. And before him stood the gate: an immense archway of shifting stone, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to move and writhe like living things.
In the center of the gate stood the figure he sought. The gatekeeper.
The gatekeeper was neither man nor creature but a being of shifting light and shadow, its form constantly transforming. Its eyes—or what Amr perceived as eyes—glimmered with an ancient, knowing glow. Its voice filled the space around him, resonating in his mind rather than his ears.
“You have returned,” the being said, its tone calm yet commanding.
Amr steadied himself, the weight of the storm still lingering in his limbs. “I had to,” he said, his voice trembling but firm. “I can’t keep living like this. The pain, the seizures, this fractured life... I need answers.”
The gatekeeper tilted its head, the motion fluid and alien. “Answers are not freely given. Why do you seek them, child of chaos?”
Amr clenched his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because I want to know why I’m like this! Why do I have to suffer while everyone else gets to live normal lives? Did you do this to me? Are you the one causing my chaos?”
The gatekeeper’s form flickered, its voice tinged with something akin to sorrow. “I am not the architect of your pain. I am Orakiel, the Keeper of the Gate. I guard the passage to worlds beyond understanding, realms that exist within and beyond the threads of your reality.”
Amr’s breath caught. “Then why am I here? Why do the seizures bring me to you?”
“Because your storm has shattered the veil,” Orakiel said. “Few mortals can perceive the gate, let alone stand before it. Your suffering has opened a path, but it is not I who determines your journey.”
Amr’s voice rose, desperation coloring his words. “Then who does? Who decides if I can pass through the gate and see what’s beyond?”
Orakiel’s light dimmed, as if the being was contemplating something profound. “Beyond this gate lie the Threads of Existence, the strands that weave together all that was, is, and could be. To pass through, you must gain the permission of the Hierarchs—the guardians of the Threads. They hold the power to reveal your destiny or to alter it.”
Amr’s shoulders sagged, the weight of his journey pressing down on him. “And if I don’t get their permission? If I can’t go beyond the gate, what happens to me?”
“You will return to your world,” Orakiel said. “You will carry the scars of your storm and the knowledge that you have glimpsed what few ever see. But the choice to seek the Hierarchs lies with you.”
Amr hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. “What if... what if I want to change my destiny? What if I don’t want to live like this anymore?”
Orakiel stepped closer, its form towering over him yet strangely comforting. “Changing one’s destiny is no small task, child. To do so, you must unravel the threads of your own existence and weave them anew. It is a journey fraught with peril and sacrifice.”
Amr swallowed hard. “But it’s possible?”
“It is,” Orakiel said. “But beware—the threads of destiny are delicate. Pulling one may unravel many. Are you prepared to face the consequences of your choice?”
Amr’s gaze shifted to the gate, its surface glowing with a pulsating light that seemed to call to him. The weight of his decision pressed on him, the enormity of the journey ahead filling him with both hope and fear.
“I need to think,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Orakiel inclined its head. “The gate will remain, but time moves differently here. When you return to your world, choose wisely. The next storm may not bring you back.”
Before Amr could respond, the ground beneath him shifted, the shimmering plane dissolving into darkness. He felt himself falling again, the sensation both terrifying and oddly familiar. And then, with a jolt, he was back in his room, the storm within him subsiding, leaving only a faint hum in his skull.
He sat up, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The moonlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in an eerie stillness. Amr’s mind raced, the words of the gatekeeper echoing in his thoughts.
Beyond the gate lay answers—perhaps even salvation. But was he ready to face the Hierarchs and the truth they might reveal? Was he willing to risk everything to change his destiny?
As the night stretched on, Amr stared at the ceiling, the weight of his choice pressing down on him. The storm had come and gone, but the journey it promised had only just begun.

Synapse Of The Gods/ WikiLeaks

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