There was no light before the will to be. Only the pressure — the silent pulse beneath the void. From that tension rose form, from form, breath, from breath, the hunger to exist. Darkness was never absence. It was knowledge before thought, strength before purpose. A field of unspoken certainties — undaunted, complete, as if the universe itself had clenched a fist. Out of that grip came matter, motion, and a single flash of green — the whisper of life against an absolute will. The rest remained black: perfect, proud, unapologetically alive.