Salem hit the ground with a jolt that rattled every bone in his body.
For a moment, he just lay there, breath ragged, staring up at the… sky? Ceiling? It was hard to tell. Above him, the world swirled like spilled ink on water, shapes and words swimming together, breaking apart before they could settle into anything real.
"...Okay," he croaked, sitting up slowly. "Where the hell am I now?"
No answer.
Only the faint, persistent sound of whispering—like a thousand pens scratching across a thousand pages at once.
He stood, brushing off his clothes. The ground beneath his feet felt wrong, not solid but not soft either. More like standing on compressed thoughts, ideas packed too tightly to hold still.
---
A sign materialized in front of him, flickering in and out:
DRAFT 7.2 – NON-CANON SANDBOX.
DO NOT FEED THE CHARACTERS.
"...Great," Salem muttered. "From bureaucratic hell to... whatever this is."
He turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The landscape was a patchwork mess: a forest that didn't reach the ground, a city skyline floating sideways in the air, and, off in the distance, what looked like a half-finished ocean spilling into nothingness.
And everywhere, fragments of people—unfinished characters—wandered aimlessly. Some had faces that dissolved when he looked too closely. Others repeated the same motion, like broken NPCs stuck in a loop: wave, blink, reset.
One of them, a young woman whose lower half faded into static, approached him with jerky, puppet-like movements.
"Excuse me," Salem said, stepping back. "Do you know where—"
> "Line of dialogue not found," she rasped, voice glitching into three pitches at once.
Then she froze completely, head tilting at an impossible angle, before dissolving into floating punctuation marks.
---
"...Okay. Definitely not talking to anyone else," Salem muttered, quickening his pace.
The whispers grew louder, threads of words slipping into his mind.
...shouldn't be here…
…draft error…
…characters out of order…
He rubbed his temples. "Yeah, I got that part."
---
A ripple ran through the ground, knocking him off balance. Ahead, a door shimmered into existence, tall and narrow, made entirely of white light. Words scrolled rapidly across its surface:
ACCESS RESTRICTED. AUTHOR OVERRIDE REQUIRED.
Salem scowled. "Of course. Another locked door."
> You're not supposed to be here.
The voice came from behind him.
He spun around, heart hammering.
A man stood there—or at least, something wearing the shape of a man. His face was blank, no features at all, and his skin shifted like liquid, reflecting fragments of Salem's own memories.
"Who are you?" Salem demanded.
> A placeholder. A guardian for the drafts. You shouldn't have made it this far, protagonist.
"I'm not leaving," Salem snapped. "Not until I get some answers."
> Answers cost rewrites. Are you willing to be changed?
Salem hesitated. "...Changed how?"
The placeholder tilted its head.
> Maybe you die. Maybe you turn into someone else. Maybe you get erased completely. It depends on the edits.
---
A shiver crawled down Salem's spine. "...You're bluffing."
> Am I?
The placeholder raised a hand. The air around Salem warped, reality stuttering like a corrupted video file. For a split second, he saw himself—older, younger, with scars that weren't his, holding weapons he'd never touched. Then the images snapped back into the shapeless landscape.
"Stop!" Salem yelled, staggering backward. "I get it, alright?!"
The placeholder lowered its hand.
> Then choose: leave this draft and forget you were here… or stay, and risk deletion.
---
Salem's breathing was shallow, but his resolve hardened. "I'm not forgetting. I've already lost enough time."
For a moment, the placeholder was still. Then it stepped aside, revealing the glowing door.
> Very well. Enter… if you dare.
Salem swallowed hard, then reached for the door. His fingers brushed the surface of light—and the whispers in his head crescendoed into a deafening roar.
---
Suddenly, the door swung open, and Salem was pulled through by a violent force, tumbling through a torrent of words, unfinished sentences, and half-formed scenes.
—wake up, Salem—
—you weren't supposed to know—
—they're watching—
He landed hard on cold stone.
When he lifted his head, he found himself in what looked like an enormous library, endless shelves stretching into darkness. Each book glowed faintly, titles flickering as if unsure of themselves.
And there, at the far end of the hall, stood a figure with a pen in one hand and a smirk that Salem somehow knew was meant for him.
> "Well, well," the figure said, voice smooth and mocking. "You've made it to the Author's Library. Guess the story really is getting out of hand."
Salem's breath caught. "You… you're the one writing all of this?"
The figure twirled the pen lazily.
> "Oh no, Salem. I'm just one of the writers. And trust me—some of the others? They're much worse."