Li’l Bill's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Li'l Bill floated in the Void, watching deals collapse before they started. A dreamer would drift close, eyes wide with want, and he'd know exactly what they needed — escape, power, a way out of whatever trap held them. But they never stayed long enough to realize he was their answer. They'd laugh, or shrug, or simply vanish into the dark. No one feared a yellow triangle in a top hat. Not yet. This time he'd prepared. He'd placed a pylon days ago, its neon glow pulsing magenta and blue in the emptiness. The light drew dreamers like moths, pulled them down a specific path through the Void. And at the end of that path, a sign materialized — stark black with bold white letters spelling DEAD END. The dreamer stopped in front of it, a woman flickering at the edges like a dying star. She turned, searching for another route. There wasn't one. Li'l Bill drifted into view, his single eye fixed on her. He didn't speak. He never had to speak first. The woman stared at him for three seconds. Then she laughed — a sharp, breaking sound that echoed in the nothing. "You?" She laughed harder, clutching her sides. "You're the exit? A floating party favor?" But her laughter cracked at the edges, and Li'l Bill saw the moment it happened: her eyes swept the Void again, found nothing, returned to him. The laughter died. Her face went blank. She opened her mouth, and Li'l Bill knew — truly knew — that she would say yes to whatever he offered. Fear had arrived. Not with a scream, but with silence. Then she pulled something from her chest. A white structure unfolded in her palm, geometric and impossible, frames twisting into dimensions that shouldn't exist. A tesseract. Li'l Bill's eye widened. She pressed it between her hands and the Void split open behind her, revealing corridors of light that led anywhere but here. "Thanks for the laugh," she said, stepping backward into the portal. It sealed behind her like a wound closing. Li'l Bill floated alone in front of the dead end sign, his careful trap empty. The pylon still pulsed its colors into the dark. He'd learned something today: you can't corner someone who carries their own exit. Next time, he'd check their pockets first.