Salem held the note like it might explode in his hands.
"Every draft gets a choice. Yours is coming."
A bitter laugh slipped from his throat. "A choice? Sure. Like any of this has been mine."
He shoved the note into his pocket and stood. The metal floor beneath his feet hummed faintly, almost like a living thing. Around him stretched a cavernous chamber, walls smooth and colorless, no doors or windows in sight—just an oppressive emptiness.
And then a voice, the same one that had haunted him since the skips began, echoed:
> "Welcome, Salem. You've made it further than most."
"Further into what?"
> "Into yourself. Into your story. Into the mess you call existence—take your pick. Now, about that choice…"
A spotlight snapped on overhead, illuminating two pedestals in the center of the room. On the left: a sleek, futuristic-looking key, etched with strange, shifting symbols that made Salem's head ache if he looked too long. On the right: a thick, leather-bound book, its cover blank, but pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat.
> "One opens every locked door in this story. The other lets you rewrite any chapter—including your own beginning."
Salem took a tentative step closer.
"Let me guess," he said slowly. "You're not going to tell me which one's the trap."
> "Oh, Salem. They're both traps. That's the point."
---
He hovered between the two pedestals, muscles tense. His instincts screamed at him not to trust either.
"Why me?"
> "Because you're unstable. Unpredictable. Every time I write you, you slip out of the lines. Half the readers hate you, half are obsessed, and the rest… well, they're just here for the chaos. But you? You're my favorite mistake."
Salem's fists clenched. "I'm not yours."
> "You sure? You're standing in a room I made, agonizing over a choice I designed, in a story I'm writing. If that's not mine, what is?"
Something in him snapped. He grabbed the key.
Instantly, the walls shuddered and split, revealing a corridor of blinding white light. Salem shielded his eyes, heart pounding.
> "Interesting," the Writer mused. "You didn't even hesitate. Curious what door you'll try to open first?"
"Yeah," Salem muttered, gripping the key tighter, "starting with the one out of here."
---
The corridor stretched on forever, a featureless tunnel of light. Every few steps, reality hiccupped—walls flickered into raw lines of code, and words, half-formed and glitching, crawled across the surfaces:
[DRAFT 3 TERMINATED]
[CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT: INCOMPLETE]
[CAUTION: AUTHORIAL OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS]
"Great," Salem muttered. "Feels like walking through a PowerPoint presentation made by a lunatic."
> "I heard that," the Writer sang.
"Good," he shot back. "Maybe start taking notes."
---
The tunnel ended abruptly at a massive door. Salem raised the key, but before he could insert it, a screen above the frame flickered on, displaying his own face—except it wasn't quite right. The eyes were sharper, colder.
ACCESS DENIED — DRAFT INCOMPATIBLE.
> "Oops," the Writer chuckled. "Looks like that key isn't for this door after all."
"Then what the hell does it open?"
> "Oh, lots of things. Some you'll regret finding. Others will regret finding you. Try again."
---
Salem turned, but the tunnel was gone. Instead, he was standing in front of the book—the other choice—lying open on the floor. His own handwriting filled the pages, frantic and jagged:
I DIDN'T PICK THIS. STOP WRITING ME.
He reached down, fingertips brushing the words—and reality stuttered.
---
Suddenly, he was standing in his childhood bedroom.
Old posters peeling off the walls.
The faint scent of stale cereal.
And on the bed—a younger version of himself, maybe eight years old, scribbling in a cheap notebook.
"Hey," Salem whispered.
The boy looked up, eyes wide. "Who are you?"
"…You. Kind of."
The boy tilted his head. "You don't look happy."
Salem swallowed. "Yeah. I guess I'm not."
The notebook in the boy's lap shimmered, its pages filled with crude drawings of machines, cities, and monsters—an entire future sketched in childish handwriting.
"Do you… remember any of this?" Salem asked, voice barely audible.
The boy shook his head. "I just make stuff up. It's fun. I like making worlds."
A sharp pang twisted in Salem's chest. "Yeah," he murmured. "You used to."
---
The walls began to melt, the room dissolving into static.
> "Time's up," the Writer chimed in. "That wasn't your chapter to keep."
"Wait—what happens to him? To me?"
> "Nothing. He's still there. Safe. You're the one falling apart, Salem. Better hold onto that key before you lose it."
The world shattered like glass.
---
Salem tumbled through darkness and landed in another endless corridor, this one lined with doors engraved with the same shifting symbols as the key. He shoved the key into the nearest lock.
The door clicked open, revealing… nothing. Just a yawning void that seemed to whisper promises of answers.
Salem hesitated, then stepped inside.
---
Instantly, a dozen versions of himself swarmed into view—some laughing, some screaming, some silently watching. One stepped forward, a twisted grin stretching across its face.
"Welcome to the Draft Graveyard," it said. "Hope you brought a plan."