The walls of the laboratory began to peel away like wet paper, revealing not the night sky of Earth, but an infinite, shimmering expanse where thought shaped matter.

He sat in the center of the Cathedral of Logic—a laboratory built of cold steel and unwavering equations. On the table before him sat the "Lazarus Lens," a device designed to peer through the veil of probability. For a decade, it had shown him only blackness. Logic dictated that the past was a locked room and the future was a blurred window. Then, at 3:14 AM, the hum changed.

As he stepped into the light, he whispered the words that would become the epitaph of the old world and the anthem of the new: And then, he simply was everywhere at once.