Journey Through Multiverse

Lucian Everhart's life was defined by routine. At twenty-seven, he lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone else. His days were a predictable sequence of events, stitched together with monotony and habit. The alarm would buzz at 6:30 a.m., and he'd groggily stumble out of bed to prepare for another day at the warehouse where he worked as an inventory manager.

The job wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills. He didn't particularly enjoy it, nor did he hate it; it was just something he did. The same could be said about nearly every aspect of his life.

Lucian wasn't unattractive, but he wasn't striking either. His brown hair was always neatly combed, his brown eyes were mild, and his average build seemed designed to blend into the background. He had no close friends to speak of, only casual acquaintances who waved at him in passing. His family lived in a nearby city, but their interactions were limited to holiday calls and obligatory visits.

His apartment was as plain as his life—minimalist and meticulously clean. The furniture was standard issue: a beige couch, a wooden coffee table, and a bed covered with a gray duvet. On his walls hung generic art pieces he had picked up at discount stores. He didn't have a hobby unless you counted watching anime,Tv shows, Movies, etc or occasionally tinkering with the houseplants that sat in his windowsill.

The day it happened began like all the others. Lucian woke up to the sound of his alarm, made himself a cup of instant coffee, and stared out the window at the cloudy sky. The weather forecast had predicted storms, but he shrugged it off. Storms were common in autumn, and he liked the sound of rain pattering against his windows while he worked.

The day at the warehouse dragged on. He double-checked inventory lists, restocked shelves, and dealt with a minor issue involving a shipment delay. By 5:00 p.m., he was heading home, his mind already wandering to what leftovers he might heat up for dinner.

The storm had arrived in earnest by the time he pulled into his driveway. Thunder growled in the distance, and lightning flickered across the horizon. Lucian grabbed his umbrella and hurried inside, the sound of the storm growing louder as he shut the door behind him.

Lucian's evenings usually followed a set pattern. Dinner, TV, and bed. That night was no exception—at least, not at first. After heating up some spaghetti, he settled onto the couch and turned on the television. The storm outside intensified, and he found himself half-listening to some news while the thunder grew louder.

Around 9:00 p.m., the power went out.

"Great," he muttered, fumbling for his phone to use its flashlight. The rain lashed against the windows, and the room felt eerily silent without the hum of the television and the overhead lights. He decided to step outside onto his porch to get a better view of the storm.

The air smelled of rain and ozone. Lightning flashed, illuminating the neighborhood in stark white for an instant. Lucian stood there, transfixed by the beauty of it. The storm had a chaotic energy that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

Then, without warning, it happened.

A deafening crack split the air as a bolt of lightning struck him directly. He had no time to react, no time to feel fear or pain. One moment he was standing there, and the next, his world exploded into blinding light and searing heat.

When Lucian's consciousness returned, he found himself floating in an endless void. It wasn't black or white—it was nothing. No light, no dark, no sound. Just an infinite, featureless expanse that defied comprehension.

His body was gone. Or rather, he couldn't feel it. He wasn't sure if he had a body anymore. He was simply there, a formless awareness adrift in the void.

"Where am I?" he thought, but no voice came. His thoughts didn't echo; they simply existed, private and contained.

At first, there was panic. The memory of being struck by lightning was vivid in his mind, but he couldn't make sense of what had happened afterward. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife?

The panic gave way to curiosity. He couldn't move, not in the traditional sense, but he found that his awareness could shift. He could focus on one "direction," though there was nothing to see, and then another. It was a strange sensation, like turning without a body.

Lucian tried to call out, to make any sound at all, but the void swallowed his attempts. There was no air to carry his voice, no ears to hear it.

Time became meaningless. He couldn't tell if minutes or millennia were passing. The only thing he knew for certain was himself—his own existence as a floating consciousness in this infinite emptiness.