Salem hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in his body. For a moment, there was only darkness—thick, suffocating, endless. He pushed himself up slowly, palms scraping against something that felt more like rough paper than stone.
The air here didn't move. It clung to his skin, dry and stale, smelling faintly of burnt ink.
Where… am I?
A single light blinked above him, far too bright for the void. It wasn't a sun or a lamp—more like the cursor of an old computer screen, pulsing slowly, waiting for input.
"Another draft," Salem muttered, voice hoarse. "Always another draft."
He looked around, and for the first time noticed the edges of his surroundings weren't solid. They bled into nothingness, corners unraveling into drifting strings of letters and half-formed sentences that floated upward like dying embers.
A whisper shivered through the air.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Salem spun around, fists clenched.
"Who said that?"
From the void, a figure stepped forward—a man, or something close enough to pass for one. His features were blurred, as though someone had sketched him hastily and never finished the lines. The only clear thing about him were his eyes: hollow, pitch-black voids reflecting Salem's own face.
"You don't belong here," the figure said, voice flat, mechanical. "This is the Hole. A place between drafts, between moments. Characters who fall here… don't usually come back."
Salem swallowed hard. "You're one of them, aren't you? Another… leftover?"
The figure tilted his head, and for a split second, Salem swore he saw recognition flash across that blurred face.
"I was," the man said softly. "Once. But I remembered too much. And then… they erased me."
Salem's chest tightened. "They? You mean the Writer?"
The man's mouth twitched into something that might've been a smile.
"Call them whatever you want. Narrator. Author. God. They decide which versions of us exist. Which ones get deleted."
He took a step closer, and Salem instinctively stepped back.
"You're Salem Grey," the figure continued. "The one who keeps slipping. The one who's starting to notice the edges of the story."
Salem hesitated. "…And you know me?"
"Everyone here knows you," the man said. "You're the mistake that wasn't corrected in time. The protagonist who refuses to stay in his lane."
The words hit harder than Salem expected. "So what now? You gonna try and recycle me too?"
The figure shook his head. "No. I'm here to give you a choice. Stay here in the Hole—fade, like the rest of us. Or climb out, knowing the more you remember, the faster they'll try to erase you."
Salem's fists trembled. "Climb out… to where?"
The man gestured toward the unraveling horizon. For the first time, Salem noticed a faint, jagged tear in the fabric of the void—a hole in the Hole, flickering like a glitch.
"Through there," the figure said. "Back into the story. But you won't be the same."
---
Salem took a cautious step toward the tear, his entire body tense.
Then a familiar voice slithered into his mind.
"Oh, come on, Salem. Running again? You're so predictable."
His blood ran cold. The Writer.
"Stay out of this," Salem hissed.
> "I can't. You're my character, remember? And you're trespassing in areas of the story I didn't approve."
The tear pulsed brighter, as though reacting to the Writer's presence.
"Do you even know what happens if you keep peeling back layers like this?" the voice mocked. "You'll lose yourself. And trust me—nobody likes a protagonist who forgets why they're interesting."
Salem clenched his teeth. "Maybe I don't care."
"Oh, but they do."
The words dripped with amusement.
"The readers. You think they're on your side, Salem? They want chaos, sure, but only as long as you're fun to watch. The moment you stop entertaining them…"
The voice trailed off into laughter.
---
Salem turned back to the blurred man. "If I go through that tear… can I fight back? Against them?"
The man hesitated, his form flickering. "Maybe. But every choice comes with a cost."
"What cost?"
"Your memories. Each skip will take more. Eventually, you won't know if you're fighting for freedom or just because the script told you to."
Salem swallowed hard, gaze darting between the tear and the man.
"Why are you helping me?"
For the first time, the man's expression softened.
"Because once, I stood where you are. And someone gave me the same chance."
---
The tear shuddered violently, pieces of the void collapsing inward.
"Time's up, Salem," the Writer crooned. "Make your choice."
Salem took one last look at the Hole—at the drifting fragments of forgotten stories, at the man who had no name anymore.
Then he faced forward.
"To hell with your script," he whispered, and dove through the tear.
---
He emerged gasping, the world around him reforming in sharp, painful clarity.
He was in a new place: a deserted train station under a sky that flickered like broken neon. Posters on the walls showed his own face—wanted posters, each with a different accusation: "Reality Breach," "Narrative Sabotage," "Unauthorized Fourth-Wall Contact."
Salem staggered forward, his reflection catching in a cracked mirror. For a heartbeat, he saw himself smiling—a version of him with black, hollow eyes.
The smile moved on its own.
"Welcome back, Salem," it said. "Let's make this story interesting."