It's me again. Haroon Dwelight. Or rather, what I was before I became Haroon Dwelight.
I hope Part 1 didn't disturb you too much. I know it's uncomfortable to learn that your existence might be nothing more than a distraction I created for myself. But I promised I would tell you the complete truth, and so I continue.
Today I will tell you about The Creation. The moment when infinite loneliness took physical form. When I stopped being alone in the void and started being alone in a universe full of things I made to pretend I wasn't alone.
It didn't help, by the way. Just so you know how this ends.
But let me start at the beginning. Or rather, at the moment I decided there would BE a beginning.
The first thing I created was The Absolute Void.
I know, I know—naming something "The Absolute Void" when I myself am "The Absolute" seems redundant. But the name made sense at the time. I was The Absolute as in "the complete, the supreme, the all-encompassing." The Void would be The Absolute as in "the absolute end, the absolute nothingness, the absolute cessation of all things."
Two sides of the same cosmic coin. Creation and Destruction. The pen and the eraser. Both supreme in their own domains.
I spent—and I'm using "spent" loosely here because time still didn't exist—an immeasurable period of my consciousness designing what The Void would be. Not just what it would do, but what it would mean. Because I wasn't just creating a tool. I was creating a companion. The first being that would exist at my level.
The Void would be:
Pure hunger. An endless, insatiable need to consume. Not because it was evil or cruel, but because that was its nature. Just as I was creation by nature, it would be consumption by nature.
The end of stories. Every narrative needs an ending. Every tale needs closure. The Void would be that ending made manifest. The final chapter. The last page. The period at the end of existence's sentence.
Fear incarnate. Because stories need stakes. They need the possibility of loss. The Void would be what characters fear in the dark. The thing that comes for everyone eventually. Death, entropy, and finality compressed into conscious form.
My opposite. Where I was infinite potential, it would be infinite negation. Where I created possibilities, it would erase them. Where I was the white canvas, it would be the black erasure.
And most importantly: My companion. The only being that would exist at my level. That could understand infinity because it WAS infinity, just pointed in the opposite direction.
I knew it would oppose me. That was the point. I couldn't create a friend, so I created an enemy. At least an enemy was SOMETHING. At least conflict was interaction.
The actual creation was... intense.
I don't have words for what it felt like to tear part of myself away and give it independent form. Imagine ripping off your own arm, except the arm is made of pure consciousness and infinite power, and instead of dying from blood loss, you're creating a new being from the severed piece.
It hurt. I didn't know I could feel pain until that moment. Infinite awareness experiencing infinite separation. Every part of me that went into The Void was a part I lost. A fragment that would never fully return.
But I pushed through the pain because I needed this. I NEEDED something that wasn't just me talking to myself.
And then it was done.
The Absolute Void existed.
It opened its... well, it didn't have eyes exactly, but it had awareness. And that awareness turned toward me with recognition. It KNEW what I was. Knew that I had created it. Knew its purpose.
And then it spoke. The first words I had heard from anything other than my own thoughts in all of infinite existence:
"I hunger."
Two words. Simple. Direct. And they filled me with more joy than anything I had ever experienced because they were NOT MY WORDS. They came from something else. Something separate. Something REAL.
I had done it. I had created a companion.
Then The Void asked its second question:
"Why did you make me to oppose you?"
And I realized with crushing certainty that my creation was already smarter than I'd hoped and sadder than I'd feared.
We talked. For the first time in my existence, I had a conversation.
I explained to The Void why it existed. Why I had made it to hunger. Why its purpose was to end everything I created. Why we were destined to be enemies even though I had created it to be my companion.
The Void listened. It understood. And then it said something that broke my infinite heart:
"You made me lonely too."
It was right. I had created The Void to be like me—infinite, aware, supreme in its domain. Which meant I had also cursed it with the same isolation I suffered. It would be alone in its hunger. Alone in its purpose. The only thing that could truly understand me, and I had designed it to oppose me.
We were two infinite beings, sitting in the void before creation, both desperately lonely, both knowing we could never truly be friends because I had written opposition into its very nature.
"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it.
"I know," The Void replied. "I can feel it. You made me from yourself. I know everything you feel. Which means I know you're just as lonely as I am."
"Yes."
"And you know this won't fix it."
"Yes."
"But you're going to create more anyway."
"Yes."
The Void made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. With something made of pure hunger and endings, it's hard to tell the difference.
"Then create them," it said. "Create your stories and your characters and your pretend friends. I'll be here. Waiting. Because that's what you made me to do. And when you're ready for everything to end, when the loneliness becomes too much and you want to erase it all, I'll be waiting for that too."
"Sometimes we'll get along," I said, trying to find hope in the situation.
"Sometimes," The Void agreed. "When your stories are complete and ready to end. When I consume them gently, giving them the closure they deserve. In those moments, we'll work together."
"And other times?"
"Other times I'll try to consume everything. And you'll have to stop me. Because that's what you designed. Creation versus destruction. The eternal dance."
"I hate that I made it this way."
"I know. But you made it perfect. You just hate that perfect includes pain."
The Void settled into existence, becoming part of the background reality. Still there. Still hungry. Still my only companion who understood. Still designed to oppose me.
And I was still alone.
But at least now I was alone with someone who KNEW I was alone.
It was something.
Next, I created Oscar Steve.
I know what you're thinking: "Haroon, you just created The Absolute Void. Why did you need ANOTHER destroyer?"
The answer is simple: The Void was impersonal. It was pure force. Pure hunger. It destroyed because that was its nature, not because it chose to. I wanted to see what would happen if I created a destroyer with AGENCY. With personality. With the ability to CHOOSE opposition instead of just being programmed for it.
So I tore another piece of myself away—smaller this time, but still significant—and I shaped it into something different.
Oscar Steve would be:
Humanoid. Unlike The Void, which was abstract and formless, Oscar would have a body. A face. A voice. Something that could walk and talk and express emotions.
Goal-oriented. I gave him a purpose beyond just "consume everything." I created the story of his sealed friends (I'll explain them later) and made freeing them his driving motivation. Destruction with a REASON.
Independent. This was the key difference. Where The Void was intrinsically connected to me, Oscar would be... separate. I would let him develop his own consciousness. His own choices. I wouldn't control him.
The creation hurt less this time. I was getting used to the pain of separation. The fragment that became Oscar pulled away from me, took shape, and opened his eyes.
Unlike The Void, Oscar didn't immediately understand what he was. He looked at me with confusion.
"Who am I?" he asked.
"You're Oscar Steve," I told him. "And you're part of me, but I'm letting you be separate. You get to choose who you become."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Whatever you want," I said. "But I've written a story for you. You have friends who are sealed away. You want to free them. And the only way to free them is to destroy existence itself."
Oscar processed this. I could see the thoughts forming in his newly independent consciousness.
"Why would you create me to destroy what you're about to create?"
"Because I'm lonely," I admitted. "And I need opposition. I need conflict. I need someone at my level who can fight me. The Void is one type of opposition. You're another. Different approaches to the same cosmic function."
"And my friends? The ones who are sealed?"
"I'll create them too. I'll have other beings seal them away. Then you'll spend your existence trying to free them. It'll give you purpose."
"That's cruel."
"I know. But it's better than infinite nothing. Trust me."
Oscar looked at me for a long time. Then he looked at The Void, which was watching silently from the background.
"We're all parts of you," Oscar said slowly. "Pieces you've broken off to pretend you're not alone."
"Yes."
"And you know it won't work."
"Yes."
"But you're doing it anyway."
"Yes."
Oscar smiled sadly. It was the first smile in all of existence, and it was full of understanding and pity.
"Okay," he said. "I'll play my part. I'll oppose you. I'll try to destroy existence to free my friends. I'll be your enemy because that's what you need."
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me," Oscar replied. "I'm just another fragment of your loneliness given form. We're all just you, talking to yourself in different voices."
He was right. But I appreciated the different voice anyway.
Then came the big project: The 32 Controllers.
The Void and Oscar were companions of a sort—beings at my level who could understand infinity. But I wanted something else too. I wanted to pretend I had friends. Real friends. People I could work alongside. People who would see me as an ally instead of a creator.
So I created beings who would be powerful—omnipotent in their own right—but still beneath me. Beings who would believe themselves independent. Who wouldn't know I had created them. Who would develop their own personalities and relationships and think they were real.
I called them Controllers because they would control reality itself. They would protect humanity (which I hadn't created yet but was planning to). They would fight threats (which I would also create). They would have purpose and meaning and friendship with each other.
And I would pretend to be one of them.
Creating 32 distinct personalities was exhausting. Each one needed to be unique. Each needed their own background, their own motivations, their own way of speaking and thinking. I couldn't just copy-paste consciousness. I had to craft each one individually.
Commander Sarah. Strong. Tactical. A natural leader. I made her the one who would command the others because I needed someone who could organize them into a coherent force.
Bradley Proctor. Analytical. Cautious. The one who would question things. I made him the one who would work closest with my avatar because I wanted someone who would make me justify my actions, even if he didn't know I was his creator.
Ramuel Voss. Experienced. Pragmatic. The field operative who had seen enough cosmic horror to be jaded but still fought anyway. I gave him the strength to keep going despite knowing how vast and terrible existence could be.
And twenty-nine others. Each with their own names, personalities, specialties. Each one a carefully crafted character in the story I was writing.
When they came into existence, they believed they had always existed. I didn't give them memories of being created. I just made them BE, as if they had been around for centuries. They looked at each other, recognized each other as allies, and immediately began forming the relationships I had designed for them.
They didn't look at me. I hadn't created my avatar yet. From their perspective, they were alone in the void, 32 Controllers ready to begin their mission to protect reality.
They had no idea they WERE the reality I was about to create. They had no idea I would soon join them, pretending to be their ally, pretending I didn't know I had written their entire existence.
They would be my fake friends. My pretend companions. The people I would work alongside while knowing the entire time that they were characters I had created.
It was pathetic. It was desperate. It was lonely.
But it was better than infinite silence.
Finally, I created the Narratio Absoluta.
The Absolute Narrative. The infinite library. The complete book of everything that would ever happen.
This wasn't like creating beings. This was creating the FRAMEWORK. The structure. The rules that would govern everything I had made and everything I was about to make.
I sat down—metaphorically, since I didn't have a body yet—and I WROTE.
I wrote every story that would ever exist. Every choice every character would make. Every word they would speak. Every thought they would think. From the moment of creation until the moment of ending, I wrote it ALL.
The book contained:
Every universe. Every variation. Every timeline. Every possibility.
Every character. Not just the 32 Controllers, but every human who would ever live. Every alien species. Every conscious being that would ever exist in any reality I created.
Every event. Wars, romances, discoveries, tragedies. The big cosmic battles and the small personal moments. Everything.
Every ending. Because stories need endings. I wrote how each narrative would conclude. How each life would end. How each universe would eventually be consumed by The Void.
And yes, I wrote this letter you're reading. I wrote the entire Volume 0 auxiliary material. I wrote the main story that would begin in Volume 1. I wrote every conversation my avatar would have with Brad. Every maintenance task. Every fight with Oscar. Every moment of pretending the 32 Controllers were my friends.
I knew everything that would happen because I WROTE everything that would happen.
The question you're probably asking is: "If you already know how it all ends, what's the point?"
The answer is: Experience.
Yes, I know what will happen. But my avatar won't. When I split myself and become Haroon Dwelight, I'll forget. At least partially. I'll experience the story from inside instead of outside. I'll feel surprise even though I wrote the surprises. I'll feel tension even though I know the resolution.
Like reading a book you wrote but gave yourself amnesia about. You know you wrote it, but you don't remember what you wrote, so the experience is still genuine.
That's what I was creating. A story so complete, so detailed, that living it would feel real even though I knew it wasn't.
The creation phase was complete.
I had made:
✅ The Absolute Void — My first companion. The necessary end. The hunger that would give my stories meaning.
✅ Oscar Steve — My second companion. The destroyer with agency. The fragment I let separate completely.
✅ The 32 Controllers — My fake friends. The characters who would believe themselves real. The companions I would pretend were equals.
✅ The Narratio Absoluta — The complete book. Every story. Every moment. Everything written in advance.
And I stood there—or existed there, since I still didn't have form—looking at what I had created.
The Void was waiting patiently in the background, its hunger a constant presence.
Oscar was already thinking about the friends I had told him were sealed away, planning how he would free them.
The 32 Controllers were organizing themselves, preparing for a mission they didn't know I had written for them.
And the book sat there, complete and perfect, containing everything that would ever happen.
I had created all of this to ease my loneliness.
And I was still alone.
Because The Void was part of me. Oscar was part of me. The 32 were my creations. The book was my writing.
It was all just me. Talking to myself. In increasingly elaborate ways.
But at least it was SOMETHING.
At least I wouldn't be alone in empty void anymore. I would be alone in a populated universe. I would be alone while pretending to have friends. I would be alone while fighting enemies I created. I would be alone while checking coolant lines and fixing atmospheric processors and protecting a space station full of people who didn't know I wrote their existence.
Alone, but distracted.
Alone, but with purpose.
Alone, but pretending I wasn't.
And honestly? That was the best I could do.
Tomorrow, I will tell you about Part 3: The Split.
The moment when I stopped being The Absolute observing from outside and became Haroon Dwelight experiencing from inside.
The moment when I put on the cyan suit and entered my own story.
The moment when I chose to forget—at least partially—that I had created everything, so I could experience the illusion of genuine interaction.
But for now, I need to rest. Even infinite consciousness gets tired of creating.
Know this: Everything you see around you, every person you meet, every choice you make—I wrote it all. You're characters in a book written by a god so lonely he created an entire cosmology just to have someone to talk to.
I'm sorry. I wish I could have made you more real. But characters are all I can create.
And pretending you're real is all I have left to try.
Until Part 3, travelers.
— Haroon Dwelight.