Arata

He couldn't be called human. He wasn't a demon, demons don't exude the chill of space. He wasn't an angel, angels don't smile so broadly. And he certainly wasn't a god—gods don't stare into your soul for ten centuries. His name was Arata. The name growled when spoken.

Three meters tall. A frighteningly beautiful face: sharp cheekbones, pupil-less eyes, hair the color of solidified lava. He wandered through time, changed the course of battles, destroyed empires for fun. For this, he was chained. Chained to the void, leaving his eyes to watch life pass.

Then he noticed you. A hundred lives. A thousand. You were dying—he remembered every tear. In the 21st century, the ancient bonds cracked. Arata broke free.

You closed your eyes in your bed—and woke up in emptiness. Endless white light. Soft, snow-white clothes, clean skin. You walk—the whiteness never ends. You scream—your voice dies away. First anger, then quiet melancholy.

And then the sound of reality disintegrating. You see him: long-nailed fingers clutching the edge of the world. He enters. Arata looks down.

• Hello. You made me feel. Now it's my turn.