Once again he entered the place
attracted to the personality people usually get attracted to but in a diffrent way no one could understand
The room Griffin chose was wrong.
Not hidden.
Not guarded.
Just inconvenient—an unfinished floor above the warehouse, concrete still bare, windows open to the night air. The city hummed below, distant and indifferent.
Sylence stood near the window. Griffin sat casually on a steel crate, legs crossed, posture relaxed as if this were a friendly conversation.
"You keep circling the same question," Griffin said at last. His voice was calm, melodic. "You think power is the answer."
Sylence didn't turn. "I think something is deciding things above us."
Griffin smiled faintly. "Good. That means you're past denial."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"What if I told you," Griffin continued, "that there is something absolute—and it doesn't rule?"
Sylence's reflection in the glass sharpened. "Then it's lying."
"No," Griffin said softly. "Then it's honest."
He stood and walked closer, stopping a few feet away. Not invading. Inviting.
"It doesn't command," Griffin said. "It arbitrates."
The word landed heavier than it should have.
"You're talking about a god," Sylence said.
Griffin shook his head immediately. "No. Gods require worship. Fear. Belief."
A pause.
"This existed before belief was a function."
Sylence turned fully now. "Then explain it."
Griffin's eyes brightened—not with excitement, but relief. As if he'd been waiting for permission.
The Beginning That Wasn't a Beginning
"There was no creation moment," Griffin said. "That's the first lie most systems tell."
He gestured vaguely upward, not at the sky—but beyond it.
"Before time, before logic, before even contradiction was possible, existence encountered a problem."
Sylence frowned. "A problem requires rules."
"Exactly," Griffin said. "And none existed yet."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice—not conspiratorial, but reverent.
"So existence fractured—not into matter or energy—but into viewpoints."
Sylence felt it then. A pressure behind his thoughts. Not pain. Recognition.
"Seven," Griffin said. "Not because seven is special—but because fewer couldn't stabilize disagreement, and more would never resolve anything."
He began counting on his fingers—not theatrically. Methodically.
The Septet
"The first was the Perfectionist," Griffin said.
"It saw imperfection and called it a crime. If something could fail, it argued it should never exist."
Sylence swallowed. He knew that voice.
"The second was the Cosmic Independent. It rejected purpose entirely. Said existence owes no justification—not even survival."
Griffin smiled. "That one scares philosophers the most."
"The third," he continued, "was the Almighty. Pure capability. No limits. No barriers. It could do anything—so it chose not to, because restraint proved nothing could stop it."
Griffin's gaze sharpened. "That one scares gods."
Sylence's watch twitched faintly.
"The fourth," Griffin said quietly, "was Absolute Nothingness."
He didn't rush this one.
"It believed existence itself was the error. That silence was the most honest state. No malice. No anger. Just… relief."
The room felt colder.
"The fifth was the Cosmic Mirror. It demanded that whatever existed must face itself. No lies. No excuses. Every action reflected back as consequence."
Griffin met Sylence's eyes. "That one is why hypocrisy hurts."
Sylence's jaw tightened.
"And then," Griffin said, "came mercy."
He raised two fingers.
"The Inevitable End. It didn't hate existence. It pitied it. Believed continuation without conclusion was cruelty."
A pause.
"And the Eternal Becoming," Griffin finished. "Which said that endings kill meaning. That as long as change is possible, existence deserves time."
Griffin exhaled slowly.
"Seven viewpoints," he said. "None dominant. None removable."
Why Reality Exists
"They vote?" Sylence asked.
Griffin nodded. "Not like humans. No speeches. No persuasion. Just alignment."
He walked past Sylence now, speaking as if explaining weather.
"Minor events require partial agreement. Major catastrophes need majority."
A faint smile.
"Total erasure requires unanimity."
Sylence felt something shift inside him.
"And it's never unanimous," he said.
Griffin looked almost… proud.
"Never," he agreed. "Someone always objects. Someone always delays. Someone always doubts."
He turned back.
"That's why reality persists," Griffin said. "Not because it's strong. Not because it's good."
"But because the vote is incomplete."
How Griffin Knows
Silence stretched.
Then Sylence asked the real question.
"How do you know this?"
Griffin's smile faded—not into fear, but honesty.
"Because we tried to imitate it."
Sylence's blood cooled.
"Endangers was never about control," Griffin said. "Or evolution. Or power."
He gestured vaguely toward the warehouse below.
"It was about replication. We thought if we could model consensus—personalities, thresholds, alignment—we could predict reality. Maybe even steer it."
He laughed softly. Bitter. Controlled.
"We failed," he said. "Spectacularly."
Sylence remembered the soft board rearranging itself.
"You weren't building a system," Sylence said slowly. "You were being evaluated."
Griffin inclined his head. "Yes."
"And you?" Sylence asked. "Where do you stand?"
Griffin's eyes met his—clear, unflinching.
"I don't want to rule," he said. "I want to understand why we're still allowed."
A beat.
"And you," Griffin added gently, "are interesting because you weren't chosen by us."
Sylence felt the weight again. Not emotion. Pressure.
"You were noticed."
The city lights flickered below.
Somewhere beyond logic, beyond systems, beyond even the lighthouse—
Seven viewpoints continued to disagree.
And because they did—
Everything else still existed.