Salem wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting at his desk. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time didn't work the way it used to—not for him. The journal still lay open in front of him, the mysterious handwriting glowing faintly under the desk lamp, as if mocking him.
You're not the only one who remembers.
That sentence played on repeat in his head. Like a whisper stuck between dimensions, humming in the space between thoughts. Whoever—or whatever—had written it, knew more than him. That thought was more terrifying than the skips.
The air in the room buzzed.
A soft hum. Then a static pop. Then—
BZZZT.
His vision blinked.
Like someone hit the pause button on reality.
Everything froze—except him.
The shadows on the wall stayed mid-wriggle. The fan stopped mid-spin. Even the blinking cursor on his laptop stood still.
"…Hello?" Salem asked, voice echoing far too loud.
NO RESPONSE DETECTED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO FILE A COMPLAINT?
"What the hell—"
Text appeared in the air.
System Error: Timeline Fragment Detected.
"What system? What timeline?"
The words glitched. Rearranged. Became something… ruder.
System Error: Dumb Human Detected.
"Hey!"
Then the text dissolved like sand.
A new voice entered the room.
Not the whisper from before.
This one was… annoyed. Tired. A little sarcastic.
> "Ugh, Salem. Seriously? You weren't even supposed to wake up in this chapter."
Salem blinked. "Excuse me?"
> "This is Chapter Eight. You're supposed to be unconscious from the last glitch. I'm trying to build suspense, but noooo, you had to sit there looking all dramatic with your stupid journal."
"…Who are you?"
> "The Writer. Duh."
"…No you're not."
> "Oh, I assure you, I am. I gave you your name. I gave you your skips. And frankly, I'm a little hurt you haven't thanked me for the trauma. Took effort."
Salem stood slowly, backing away. "This isn't funny."
> "It's not meant to be. It's a narrative device, Salem. You're breaking the fourth wall. Embrace it. Be cool."
"…Am I having a breakdown?"
> "No, just a breakthrough. Big difference."
The room tilted.
The journal pages flipped rapidly on their own. One page burst into flame, revealing bold words underneath:
DO NOT TRUST THE NARRATOR.
> "Okay, rude."
Salem grabbed the journal. "Why are you doing this to me?"
> "Because, dear protagonist, you were never meant to follow the rules. That's the whole point of Out of Order. Everything's broken. Including the barrier between you and me."
"So I'm just a… story?"
> "A story with free will. Scary, right?"
"…So what now?"
> "Now you get to make a choice."
The walls pulsed.
Two doors appeared out of nowhere—one red, one blue. Salem's breath hitched. The classic choice.
> "One path leads you deeper into the truth, the chaos, the broken timelines. The other… well, let's just say it's safer. Simpler. But fake."
He glanced at both doors.
> "Choose quickly, Salem. The readers are watching."
"…Readers?"
> "Oh yes. You've got fans. Or… voyeurs. Depends on how you see it."
He stepped forward.
Stopped.
Turned around.
Faced the air, as if looking through the screen.
"…If you're really there," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I hope you're ready. Because I'm not following anyone's script."
And he stepped into the glitch.