Salem's eyes snapped open to the same ceiling he had seen countless times before—or had he? The cracks in the plaster seemed sharper, the shadows longer, stretching like dark fingers that reached for him with every blink. His chest tightened as if reality itself were pressing down on him. Time felt… wrong. Not like the skips he'd endured before, but heavier, layered, like multiple clocks all ticking out of sync.
The journal lay on the floor beside him, pages fluttering as if caught in a ghostly breeze. He grabbed it reflexively, scanning the scribbled notes, symbols, and half-formed sentences. Most of it made sense… then didn't. Some of the writing wasn't his. Not entirely. Certain words pulsed with a rhythm, almost like they were alive, beating against his mind.
"You're late," a voice whispered.
Salem froze. Not a whisper in his head this time—it was tangible, vibrating through the air.
"Who's there?" he demanded, standing up. The walls seemed to warp slightly, bending inward and then back out, like the world itself was breathing.
"You know me, Salem. Or at least… you should," the voice said, echoing as if through a hallway of mirrors.
The words made him shiver. It was the same voice from the glitches, the same one that had broken the fourth wall with him, but deeper, layered, multiplied. Something about it felt older, wiser, and more patient than before.
The room shimmered. A translucent screen appeared midair, flickering with images that didn't belong together—children running in July heat, hospitals filled with masks and desperate faces, soldiers marching in black-and-white footage, then a strange glowing virus that seemed suspended in a bubble of light.
Salem blinked, and the images changed. He saw himself, younger, terrified, caught in the middle of crowds that didn't recognize him. He wasn't sure which reality he was in anymore.
"Do you understand now?" the voice asked, softer this time.
"Understand what?" Salem's voice was hoarse. His fingers trembled as he traced the images, trying to make sense of the chaos.
"The skips… the fragments… the echoes. They all started because someone had to see, to remember. Someone had to carry the weight of the lost, the broken, the moments no one else would survive."
Salem's mind raced. He remembered fragments—the July revolution, the children who had disappeared, the rumors of a virus he had unknowingly carried to the past. A surreal knot of events tied together in his head, yet each thread threatened to unravel at any second.
"And now?" Salem whispered.
"Now… you need to move. Forward. Backward. Across. There is no straight line, Salem. Only the choices you dare to make and the chaos you survive."
The room flickered again. Salem's vision blurred, replaced by another scene: he was standing in the middle of a hospital in early 2020. Masks, panic, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He could feel the virus lingering in the air, unseen but palpable, like a shadow clinging to everyone he passed. He coughed, half in fear, half in confusion. People glanced at him—suspicious, anxious, wondering why he seemed to be… different.
"Do they know?" he whispered to the voice.
"They think you're just another patient, another anomaly. But you're more than that. You're the observer. The carrier. The bridge."
The ground trembled. Suddenly, a calendar flickered into view, flipping rapidly from 2020 to 1971, and Salem's stomach lurched. He saw bombs falling, flags waving, blood and hope intermingled. This wasn't just a memory—he realized with dawning horror—he was being pulled into it. Pulled into every moment simultaneously.
"You won't survive alone," the voice warned.
Salem looked around frantically. The walls stretched, twisted, and melted. The hallway of drafts—the one from the narrative bureaucracy—breathed around him, doors appearing and vanishing at random. One door opened to reveal an older version of himself, scarred and hollow-eyed. Another door shimmered with a glowing, smiling figure, beckoning him closer. And yet, every path seemed equally treacherous.
"You can't save everyone, Salem," the older version said, voice hollow, echoing like a recording. "But you can choose to fix the ones who matter. Or… you can fail beautifully, and the story will rewrite itself."
Salem felt the weight of every choice pressing down. Every timeline, every universe, every moment of chaos and comedy, of pain and laughter—folding into him. He staggered, clutching his head. The fourth wall wasn't just broken anymore; it had shattered completely. The air vibrated with laughter—his own, the Writer's, the universe's.
And then, the voice returned—calm, patient, almost teasing:
"Ready to play the game, Salem? Every step is a consequence. Every laugh is a warning. Every kiss, every scream, every heartbreak… it all matters."
Salem's breath caught. He realized something fundamental. The skips, the glitches, the meta-jokes—they were all leading him here. Not to survive, not to witness, but to act. To make choices that no one else could make. To step into the chaos with purpose.
A new door materialized, red, glowing faintly with symbols that pulsed like a heartbeat. Beside it, a blue door shimmered, calm but ominous.
"Choose, Salem," the voice said, almost playful. "Red is chaos, closer to the truth, but dangerous. Blue… safer, simpler… but illusions lie there."
Salem hesitated. Then he laughed—a short, bitter, exhilarated laugh.
"Red," he whispered. "Chaos. Truth. Whatever this is, I'll face it."
He stepped forward, and the world exploded.
Words, colors, and fragments of reality whirled around him. He passed children who had never been born, virus strains that shouldn't exist, soldiers who fought wars no one remembered. Shadows laughed. Light screamed. Time fractured. Yet beneath the chaos, Salem felt… control. Not absolute, but his own. His heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the multiverse.
"You're getting it," the voice said softly. "You're becoming the observer and the participant. The glitch and the repairer. The story is yours now, Salem. But only if you survive the next few chapters."
And with that, he plunged deeper into the unknown, ready for whatever timelines, horrors, or laughs awaited him. Reality was no longer stable. Narrative was a playground. And Salem—chaotic, scared, exhilarated—was ready to rewrite everything.