Two weeks Later.
Zeph was trapped.
There was nothing to be trapped by in the conventional sense because there was nothing around him at all—no floor beneath his feet, no ceiling above his head, no air moving against his skin. Just the particular nothing that existed before the concepts of space and dimension had anything to operate on.
And yet he could not move.
He understood, in the way you understood things in this kind of place, that movement was not the problem. His legs worked. His arms worked. The body was entirely functional. The trap was not physical.
The trap was that there was nowhere to move to, and the nowhere extended in every direction without edge or variation, and the extension itself was the mechanism—an imprisonment made entirely of the absence of anything to escape into.
He had been here before.
