Salem stumbled through the smoky ruins of the city, the faint echo of his own footsteps bouncing against walls that weren't entirely solid. Shadows stretched unnaturally, slithering across broken windows and fractured pavement as if they had a mind of their own. Somewhere behind him, the faint hum of distorted time whispered promises he didn't want to hear.
"You can't keep running, Salem," murmured a voice that seemed both everywhere and nowhere.
He whipped around, heart pounding, but there was nothing—only the flickering streetlights, their glow bending unnaturally, painting the ground in fractured patterns. A puddle reflected a dozen versions of himself, each distorted, each sneering back with a knowing look that chilled him.
"Figures I'd be haunted by me first," Salem muttered, rubbing his temples.
The fractured reflections shimmered, one stepping out of the puddle and solidifying. It was a Salem from a timeline he barely remembered—older, eyes hollow, clothes scorched as if he'd walked through fire.
"You're behind, aren't you?" the older Salem rasped. "Every choice you delay, every hesitation… it widens the gap. You're losing control."
"Control is a joke," Salem spat. "And if I'm losing it, it's because this—" he gestured vaguely at the twisting, malformed city around him "—is insane."
"Insane? Maybe. But necessary. You think this chaos exists for your entertainment? No. It's the only way to see the threads clearly."
Salem's stomach twisted. Threads. He had seen them before—thin, glimmering filaments that wove through reality, connecting events, people, and times he hadn't fully lived yet. He had thought he understood them. He hadn't. Not even close.
The ground quaked, snapping him from his thoughts. A gash of light tore across the sky, like the city itself was splitting open. From it, a cascade of numbers, symbols, and fragmented words poured down, wrapping around him like living vines. The reflections in the puddle screamed silently, distorted faces screaming in unison as the vines coiled around his limbs.
"Not again," Salem groaned, trying to pull free.
The older version leaned close, voice low. "You knew this day would come. You just didn't expect it to be like this."
Salem's eyes darted across the sky; the fractured light formed shapes—some familiar, some nightmarishly alien. And then he saw it: a figure standing at the center of the fracture, its outline blurred, almost as if the universe itself had forgotten to render it fully.
"Who…?" he whispered.
The figure raised a hand. Its gesture was almost polite, almost human—but the air around it warped violently with every movement. Time flickered; moments repeated, rewound, then skipped ahead in chaotic leaps.
Salem felt his stomach drop. "No. Not them. Not now."
"Yes, now," the figure replied, its voice layered—simultaneously commanding, mocking, and strangely sorrowful. "You've meddled far enough. It's time to understand the weight of choice."
The vines of fractured light tightened. Salem's breath came in shallow gasps. He tried to remember what he had learned, what tools he had at his disposal, but the chaos of time and probability weighed on his mind like a physical force.
Then a sudden flicker—a memory?—flashed across his mind. A child's laugh. A hospital corridor. A hand he had once held and forgotten. Each image stabbed at him, urging him to remember.
"Focus," the older Salem hissed. "Don't let the void claim you."
"Void? You call this void?" Salem shouted, frustration cracking his voice. "It's alive! It's screaming!"
The figure tilted its head. "Alive? Perhaps. Conscious? Debatable. But it reacts. It adapts. And now, it's waiting for you to react."
Salem clenched his fists. "I won't—won't be a puppet."
"A puppet?" The older Salem's lips curled into a bitter smile. "You've been dancing on strings you didn't even know existed. But maybe—just maybe—you can cut them."
"Cut them?" Salem's voice was incredulous.
"Exactly," the older version said. "But first… you need to step through."
Before he could respond, the fractured light shifted violently, forming a portal of spinning time threads that led directly to the shadowed figure. The air vibrated with anticipation, a hum that seemed to resonate with Salem's own heartbeat.
"Step through, Salem. And beware… the person you'll find might not be the one you want to see."
He swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to run, but he knew—running wouldn't help. Not here, not anymore. The threads of time had pulled him too far, stretched him too thin. The city outside was a distant memory, distorted and unreliable. This… this was the path he had to take.
Salem stepped forward. The moment his foot touched the first thread, reality bent violently. Memories, probabilities, and shadows swirled around him. He glimpsed himself in countless forms—child, lover, father, stranger—all overlapping, all coexisting in the chaotic dance of time.
"It's… too much," he gasped.
"No," the older Salem corrected. "It's exactly enough."
A sudden jolt. The world snapped. He was no longer in the city. Not entirely. The fractured skyline of the Carnival had merged with the skeletal ruins of his memories, forming a liminal space where past, present, and potential collided. The shadowed figure hovered ahead, calm and impossibly composed, yet every heartbeat of its existence threatened to unravel him completely.
Salem's voice trembled. "Who are you… really?"
The figure's outline shimmered, folding in on itself. "I am… the consequence you never faced. The truth you refused to see. The future you tried to outrun."
Time threads coiled tighter, wrapping around his chest, whispering doubts and fears in voices that weren't entirely his own. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fight. But the threads weren't physical—they were fundamental. They tugged at memory, at possibility, at identity.
And then—
"Choose. Or be chosen."
Salem's knees buckled. His mind screamed, his heart thundered, and the world around him fractured even further. Shadows of himself, echoes of choices, and whispers of forgotten promises swirled violently. He reached out toward the figure, the threads tightening, the weight of infinite timelines pressing down on him.
"I… I won't…" he choked.
"You don't have a choice," the figure whispered, almost gently. "Not really. Not anymore."
Salem's fingers brushed the shadow's form. Reality cracked. Time splintered. And in that moment of contact, he felt the universe hold its breath.
"Everything you know… everything you are… will be rewritten," the figure murmured.
And then, silence.
The fractured threads unraveled slightly, but the shadowed figure's eyes glowed with certainty.
"Now, Salem Grey… choose wisely. Or the game ends here."
Salem's vision blurred, the threads of infinite possibilities swirling around him. His mind, body, and soul teetered on the edge of everything and nothing. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet, insistent voice whispered:
"Game over… is closer than you think."
The shadowed figure looms before Salem, time threads tightening as the city, memories, and possibilities converge. One choice remains—but will it be his, or has the universe already chosen for him?