Destitute upon their lonesome, trailing amidst this empty white space. A canvas of his own, free of his mind, in place, imagination paints vividly amidst emptiness, yet beyond the emptiness of where he calls home.

While he walks the world, the marks he leaves behind him are lines in which he sees everything: the people he meets, those enemies, those people, all of them similar, yet so different. This follows him until he goes back, this empty space, sealed away from the normalcy of the world. Yet now, these events, these lives, these experiences he’s endured—the combination of which he’s wrought to leave behind—follows him into the night. He’s cold now, but to stop means he will be consumed; the pulse of his own imagination pounds incessantly.

In bliss of his recollection, where he stands, at the edge of creation, all of those he’s found falling gracefully into the endless black abyss. But not to their demise; in search of their own validation, their own purpose, in a story not yet created.

And to see them off, Nikko Vazquez, the creator, stands beyond something bigger than himself, beyond the ends of this torn piece of paper, peering into this wormhole, devoid of intention, his curiosity bound by the limits of his own will.

He won’t give up; he won’t let that happen—for the sake of their story.