Salem stood frozen, staring at the cracked mirror. The other version of himself smiled back—a thin, deliberate smile that belonged to someone who knew far more than he did.
"You're me," Salem whispered.
The reflection tilted its head.
"Am I? Or am I just what you become when you keep peeling the layers? Hard to say anymore."
Before Salem could speak again, the station speakers crackled to life. A distorted voice, sharp as breaking glass, announced:
"Attention: Reality breach confirmed. Subject Salem Grey. High-priority containment. All agents converge."
A mechanical hiss echoed through the air.
Salem's heart lurched. "They're coming for me."
The reflection laughed, a hollow, grating sound.
"Of course they are. You're the Writer's biggest headache, Salem. Every skip, every glitch, every time you question the script—they hate it. You're a liability."
---
The floor trembled. From the far end of the platform, figures emerged—twisted silhouettes clad in fractured armor, their faces blank like erased pages. Each held weapons that glitched in and out of form: swords turning to rifles turning to ink-stained pens.
Agents…
Salem stumbled back, his mind racing. Fight? Run? Hide?
"Run, obviously," the Writer's voice chimed in, dripping with mockery. "You're not ready to fight them yet. You'd lose, and frankly, it'd be embarrassing."
"Shut up," Salem muttered.
"Oh, come on, Salem. I'm the only one keeping this remotely entertaining. Move!"
---
He turned and bolted, sprinting down the empty platform. The wanted posters on the walls shifted as he passed—each one displaying a different version of his face: younger, older, broken, twisted, some barely human. Underneath the images were accusations that twisted into new words each second:
TRAITOR
ANOMALY
PROPERTY OF THE NARRATIVE
Why do they want me so badly?
"Because you're not supposed to exist," the reflection's voice echoed in his head now, merging with his own thoughts. "You're proof the story can be broken. They can't allow that."
---
Ahead, the tracks split into dozens of impossible paths, rails twisting upward into the air like a metallic spiderweb. Salem skidded to a stop, his breath ragged. Every path pulsed with unstable light, as if choosing wrong might erase him completely.
Behind him, the agents closed in.
"Pick one," the Writer taunted. "Hurry. Readers are getting bored again."
"I'm not playing your game!" Salem snapped.
"You already are. You always were."
---
In desperation, Salem dove onto the central track just as a train materialized from thin air. It wasn't like any train he'd ever seen—its body was a collage of mismatched cars, each from a different era, stitched together with glowing seams.
The doors slid open without a sound.
Salem hesitated for a split second, then jumped inside.
---
The interior was worse.
Passengers sat slumped in their seats—half-formed figures, flickering like bad holograms. Some were frozen mid-scream, others mid-laugh, all caught between realities. As Salem made his way down the aisle, he realized they were… versions of himself.
Each had slight differences: scars, missing limbs, hollow eyes, or faces twisted with madness.
"They're drafts," the reflection murmured in his head. "Failed attempts. Stories that didn't make it. This train collects us."
---
A voice crackled over the intercom, different from the Writer's—colder, procedural:
"Next stop: Erasure."
Salem's stomach dropped.
"You have to get off this train," the reflection warned. "Before they delete you like the rest."
"How?" Salem demanded, scanning the car for an exit.
"Find the Conductor. He's the only one who knows how to jump lines."
---
As if on cue, the lights flickered violently.
From the far end of the train, a door slammed open. A tall figure in a tattered conductor's uniform stepped inside. His face was obscured by a cracked porcelain mask painted with a perpetual smile.
"Tickets," the Conductor rasped, his voice like metal scraping glass. "Show your tickets, passengers."
The failed versions of Salem twitched but remained silent.
The Conductor's head turned toward him, the porcelain smile tilting unnaturally.
"You," he said. "You don't belong here."
Salem's breath caught.
"No kidding," he muttered.
The Conductor reached out a gloved hand.
"Either you show me your ticket… or I throw you off the line."
---
Salem hesitated, heart pounding. He had no ticket, no plan. Just the hollow-eyed version of himself whispering in his mind:
"Trust me. Say the words: 'Out of Order.'"
Salem swallowed hard, looked the Conductor dead in the mask, and said:
"Out of Order."
The train shuddered violently, the words echoing through every car like a gunshot. The Conductor froze, then slowly lowered his hand.
"…Very well," he said, voice unreadable. "Hold tight."
The train derailed.