Salem's fingers itched as he held the scattered cube fragments, each one pulsing like a heartbeat from a world that shouldn't exist yet. Time felt slippery, like mercury between his palms, refusing to settle. He had no idea whether the fragments were memories, skipped days, or remnants of forgotten futures—but one thing was certain: they demanded attention.
"Ah, yes," the Writer's voice purred from nowhere, omnipresent and smug. "Welcome to the part where things get messy. Very messy."
Salem groaned. "If this is messy, I'm never going near another timeline again."
"Oh, but you will," the Writer said, with a chuckle that made the air quiver. "You have to. It's in your narrative DNA. Skips, echoes, chaos… you're practically built for this."
The ground beneath him shuddered. Reality bent, stretching into warped versions of streets he recognized from skipped days: shattered hospitals, deserted playgrounds, neon-lit alleys from futures that hadn't happened yet. Children ran in loops, their laughter glitching like corrupted audio files, while adults whispered warnings that vanished before he could hear them fully.
Salem clenched the fragments tighter, feeling them vibrate, almost as if they were alive. "Okay, okay… breathe. Focus. One fragment at a time."
A flash of light pulled him forward, and suddenly he was standing in what looked like a laboratory frozen in 2020. White-coated figures moved in slow motion, their expressions anxious, fearful. Monitors displayed viral patterns, numbers flickering in impossible sequences. He recognized it—an unknown virus that had never existed in his timeline—but the echoes of it radiated from the cube.
"Ah! Now we're cooking," the Writer said, teasingly. "Remember that skipped day? The one with the virus? You're holding it in your hand."
Salem's stomach twisted. "So… I'm carrying some kind of anomaly through time?"
"Technically, yes. Narratively, spectacularly, tragically yes."
One of the scientists glanced directly at him, blinking in perfect synchronicity with a past Salem he remembered from the July revolution fragments. "Who… are you?"
"Ignore them," the Writer muttered. "They're not supposed to notice you yet. Consider it… foreshadowing."
Salem turned away, heart hammering. Every fragment in his grasp hummed, resonating with unseen chains pulling on the threads of history. If he dropped one, a timeline could collapse—or worse, loop endlessly, trapping some poor version of himself forever.
A ripple of sound, like a chorus of whispers, filled his head. "Do not falter. Every choice echoes. Every day skipped leaves a scar."
He shivered. "I don't even know where to start."
"Start where the chaos is loudest," the Writer said. "Start where the echoes hurt the most."
Salem's gaze fell on a fragment glowing brighter than the others. It vibrated violently, images of July revolution protests, overturned streets, and frightened children flickering within it. He could feel the weight of every lost day, every skipped life, pressing against his chest.
"Careful," a shadowy version of himself warned. "You can't fix everything at once. The timelines bite back if you try."
Salem swallowed hard. "Then I fix what I can… and survive the rest."
He reached for the fragment. As his fingers touched it, the world warped violently. Streets dissolved into clouds, and he fell through space that wasn't space, time that wasn't time. Every skipped day flashed past him: children screaming, hospitals empty, laughter lost, conversations erased. He could feel the weight of every choice, every forgotten fragment, pressing down on him.
"Bravo," the Writer said. "Beautiful panic. Very marketable."
Salem growled. "Not helping."
The cube shattered in his hand, fragments scattering in all directions. Each one projected visions of different timelines: one where the virus spread uncontrollably, another where the July revolution never happened, yet another where future Salems walked endlessly through empty streets.
"And now," the Writer said, voice almost reverent, "you get to pick which fragments to follow. The story is yours… technically."
Salem's eyes narrowed. "Pick carefully. Every choice counts."
He focused on a fragment showing the earliest skipped day: children vanishing in a flash of light, their small hands reaching out before disappearing. He grasped it, and the air around him trembled. Time pulsed, bending, stretching, snapping like a broken rubber band.
"Yes! Excellent!" the Writer said. "Feel it. The narrative threads unraveling. The chaos… sublime!"
The ground beneath him reformed into a twisted version of his own street, but warped, flickering between 2020, 2063, and an unfamiliar 1970s era. Vehicles half-formed, shadows stretched unnaturally, and distant voices echoed fragments of conversations he couldn't place.
"You're seeing echoes of the multiverse," the Writer explained. "Tiny hints. Big implications. And yes, slightly terrifying. Enjoy."
Salem felt the cube fragment pulsing in his hand, vibrating in sync with his heartbeat. Every skipped day, every lost child, every unseen event whispered to him, urging him to fix, to mend, to survive.
"Do not forget," an older Salem warned from the shadows. "This isn't just about the past or the future. It's about you. Every version, every choice, every echo…"
Salem nodded. "I understand. Sort of. Maybe. I'll do my best."
A sudden flash of light threw him into a new scene: a darkened alley with neon signs flickering, shadows dancing, and a single figure waiting—cloaked, familiar, yet unreadable. The figure spoke without words, their presence carrying the weight of the skipped days and future crises yet to unfold.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," the Writer said, voice dripping with mischief. "Readers, brace yourselves. Salem's about to dance with time—and yes, break a few more rules along the way."
Salem squared his shoulders, gripping the cube fragment. He could feel the pull of countless timelines, the echoes of children, the remnants of pandemics, and the whispers of revolutions. Every choice ahead would ripple, every fragment mattered, and the Reader was watching.
"One final note before chaos ensues," the Writer said. "Remember… your child may very well become your father. Oh, and game over is not far away."
Salem blinked, swallowing hard. "I… what?"
"Details, Salem. Details. Just survive the chapter first."
He took a deep breath, bracing for the collision of past, present, and future. The fragments spun around him, weaving timelines, skipped days, and echoes of forgotten realities into a storm of color and sound.
"Chapter Forty-Two is ready," the Writer whispered. "Are you?"
Salem exhaled, eyes on the chaos swirling around him. "I was born ready. Let's fix this… one fragment at a time."