The Clock that never Stopped Ticking: And The Realm Jumping of Bougeman
The Pheemic glass shattered, and with it, a million lives splintered-fragments of what was, what could be, and what would never be. Each shard held a memory, a destiny, a whisper of a life unlived. Some glowed gold, vibrant with hopes fulfilled. Others were dark as obsidian, heavy with regret.
Bougeman Lumcatroze watched the glass fall, though he could no longer tell if he was awake or dreaming. Was this his fate? To stand here eternally, watching the universe fracture?
Once, he had been a werecat of Neptune-sleek, free, untethered to the constraints of time. Now, in the Here and Now, he was only a man. A man who carried the weight of futures denied and pasts replayed.
In this realm, the Philms ruled. They were the keepers of the present, the self-proclaimed masters of time. Not the past. Not the future. Their power, like brittle glass, was sharp and dangerous-fragile, yet capable of cutting through existence itself.
The shards seemed to hum in the darkness. Bougeman reached out, and a voice echoed through his mind.
"The game has begun."
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