The void changed without warning.
There was no ripple or tremor to announce it. One moment there was only the endless black reflection, Ophelia seated and waiting, Reo standing with nothing to do but think. The next, something solid asserted itself between them.
A table formed.
It rose from the black surface as if drawn upward by an invisible hand, its edges clean and exact. The material was glass—black glass, polished to a mirror sheen so deep it seemed to swallow its own reflection. Reo could see his face in it, distorted slightly by the thickness, his features stretched downward into darkness.
The table was rectangular and unadorned. No carvings. No symbols. It existed purely to hold what followed.
Six cards appeared atop it.
They did not arrive together. Each manifested in sequence, sliding into place with deliberate spacing, as though arranged by an unseen dealer who cared about symmetry. When the last settled, they formed a neat row between Reo and Ophelia.
Five of them glowed.
The light was soft but unmistakable, bleeding gently into the surrounding black. Each card shone with a different color—red, blue, green, gold, and violet—distinct without clashing. Their surfaces were not reflective like the table. Instead, the light seemed to come from within them, pulsing faintly, patiently.
The sixth card did not glow at all.
It sat at the far right of the row, identical in shape and size to the others, yet fundamentally different. Where the table reflected light, where the other cards emitted it, this one absorbed it. The space around it appeared subtly dimmer, as though the card were drinking in illumination and refusing to give any back.
Reo felt his attention pulled toward it immediately.
He didn't reach for it. Not yet. He simply stared.
Ophelia rose from her chair and stepped to the table. She did not touch the cards. She stood behind them, hands folded loosely, her expression unchanged.
"These represent options," she said.
"Options," Reo echoed. "That's new."
"Yes."
He leaned forward slightly, peering at the glowing cards. As he did, faint markings surfaced on their faces—text, symbols, impressions that resolved only when he focused on each one in turn.
The red card showed motion. Speed. A body in constant, violent momentum. Strength amplified beyond human limits, muscle and reflex honed into something brutal and precise.
"Physical augmentation," Ophelia said, following his gaze. "Combat viability increases significantly. Survival probability in hostile environments improves."
"By how much?" Reo asked.
"Enough to matter."
The blue card shimmered coolly. Its surface suggested thought—patterns, branching paths, equations forming and reforming faster than he could track.
"Cognitive expansion," Ophelia said. "Accelerated perception. Enhanced reasoning. Strategic foresight."
"So I get smarter."
"Yes."
"Smarter enough to avoid getting shot in the first place?"
She did not answer that.
The green card pulsed slowly, rhythmically. It made him think of growth without intention—plants breaking through concrete, wounds knitting themselves closed.
"Regenerative capacity," Ophelia said. "Resistance to disease. Extended lifespan relative to baseline."
"Immortality?" he asked.
"No."
The gold card glowed warmly, almost invitingly. When he looked at it, he felt a subtle pressure behind his eyes, as if the world itself were leaning closer.
"Influence," Ophelia said. "Charisma, authority, probability alignment. Others are more likely to listen. Events are more likely to favor you."
"Luck," Reo said.
"Not exactly."
The violet card was the hardest to look at. Its light seemed to bend inward, folding over itself, hinting at depth far beyond the surface.
"Perceptual access beyond conventional reality," Ophelia said. "You would see more than most. Understand forces typically obscured."
Reo straightened slowly. "And the cost."
"There are always costs."
He let his gaze move back and forth across the five glowing cards. Power, each in its own way. Tangible. Defined. The kind of choices people imagined when they fantasized about second lives and divine intervention.
"And I get one," he said.
"Yes."
"No combinations."
"No."
"No retries."
"No."
He nodded. That tracked.
Then his eyes drifted again to the sixth card.
It did not announce itself. It did not promise anything. It simply existed, heavy in its silence.
"What's that one?" he asked.
Ophelia did not respond immediately.
It was the first time Reo had seen her hesitate.
The pause was subtle—barely more than a fraction of a second—but it stood out sharply against her prior certainty. Her gaze shifted to the blank card, then back to Reo, as if recalibrating.
"That option," she said carefully, "is anomalous."
"Meaning?"
"It does not conform to established parameters."
Reo leaned closer to the table. The black card did not reflect his face at all. It was like looking into a hole cut into the world.
"And what does it do?"
Ophelia's fingers tightened slightly where they were clasped. When she spoke, her tone had changed—not warmer, not colder, but more deliberate.
"I don't know," she said.
The admission hung in the air.
Reo blinked. "You don't know."
"Yes."
"You're telling me that the omniscient goddess of transition—"
"I am not omniscient," Ophelia said evenly.
"—doesn't know what one of the options does."
"That is correct."
He stared at her, searching for irony. There was none.
"What happens if I choose it?" he asked.
Ophelia met his gaze directly now. "Outcome unknown."
"That's vague."
"It is literal."
"Do I still reincarnate?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly," he repeated. "That's not reassuring."
"No."
"Do I survive?"
She did not answer immediately.
When she did, her words were precise. "Survival is not guaranteed."
Reo straightened fully. The weight of that settled into him, heavier than any promise the other cards offered.
"So this one might just… end me."
"Yes."
"Completely."
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to look away from the blank card and back to the others. The glowing ones seemed brighter now by comparison, almost eager. Safe, in their way. Defined paths with known risks and known rewards.
"Why include it at all?" he asked.
"Because it exists," Ophelia said. "And because occasionally, consciousness like yours encounters it."
"Consciousness like mine," he said. "Meaning what, exactly?"
She studied him again—not his posture or expression, but that deeper, intangible layer she seemed to observe so easily.
"You are resistant to disengagement," she said. "You retained coherence beyond expected termination. You are… attentive."
"That's one word for it."
"Most do not notice the choice," Ophelia continued. "They select reflexively. The brightest option. The one that aligns most closely with their fear."
"And me?"
"You are still evaluating."
Reo looked at the cards again, more slowly this time. He imagined himself with each gift. Stronger. Smarter. Harder to kill. More influential. More aware.
Each vision felt oddly hollow.
Not wrong. Just insufficient.
"They're all power," he said.
"Yes."
"And that one"—his eyes returned to the blank card—"isn't."
Ophelia did not contradict him.
"It feels heavier," he said. "Like it's not offering me something, but asking."
"That is a reasonable interpretation."
"What is it asking for?"
She paused again. "Commitment."
"To what?"
"To uncertainty."
He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "You really know how to sell it."
"I am not selling," Ophelia said. "I am informing."
Reo rested his hands on the edge of the table. The glass was cool beneath his palms, solid and unyielding.
"If I pick one of the others," he said, "this conversation ends."
"Yes."
"I forget you."
"Yes."
"I live another life, with some advantage, and never know this choice mattered."
"Yes."
"And if I pick that one?"
"The process deviates."
"How?"
"I don't know."
There it was again. That rare, unsettling boundary to her knowledge.
Reo closed his eyes briefly. Images flickered behind them—his death on the pavement, the ringing in his ears, the way regret had arrived too late to be useful. A life ended without meaning or closure.
He opened his eyes.
"This isn't about power," he said quietly.
"No," Ophelia agreed.
"It's about whether I let the system decide everything."
She said nothing.
"If I take one of those," he continued, nodding at the glowing cards, "I'm just optimizing within rules I didn't make."
"Yes."
"And if I take that one…"
"You accept the possibility of failure without context."
"Without memory," he added.
"Yes."
He swallowed. Fear stirred again—not sharp, not paralyzing, but deep and steady. The kind that came from standing at the edge of something that did not care whether you jumped.
Ophelia watched him closely now. Not to stop him. Not to encourage him. Simply to witness.
"You should understand," she said, "that this choice is irreversible."
"Of course it is."
"And that whatever follows, you will not be able to evaluate it as success or failure in the way you currently understand those concepts."
"Of course," he repeated.
The blank card seemed darker now, if that was possible. The space around it felt thinner, less stable.
Reo extended his hand.
For a moment, it hovered between the cards. He could still change his mind. Choose certainty. Choose something bright and named and survivable.
Instead, his fingers closed around the edge of the blank card.
It was colder than the rest.
As he lifted it from the black glass, the light from the other five dimmed slightly, as if receding in acknowledgment.
Ophelia's gaze did not waver.
Reo drew the card toward himself.
And the void held its breath.