Salem's eyes flicked open to a ceiling that wasn't his own. The familiar cracks of his dingy apartment replaced by polished panels that gleamed like they belonged in some sci-fi control room. He sat up, but the chair beneath him hummed softly, adjusting automatically to his posture like it knew him better than he did.
Great. Not a skip day. Just a full-blown glitch in reality.
His mind raced as he scanned the room — screens flickered with scrolling code, strange symbols, and looping timelines. One monitor flashed: ERROR 404: TIME NOT FOUND.
Salem groaned. "Oh, come on. Can't even escape the timeline mess when I wake up?"
Before he could think further, a metallic voice interrupted.
"Welcome back, Salem Grey. Your current temporal stability is at 37%. Please proceed to recalibration."
"Temporal stability? What am I, a malfunctioning toaster?" Salem muttered, rubbing his temples.
The chair reclined automatically, and an arm slid out from the side panel holding a device resembling a cross between a joystick and a wristwatch.
"Your time recalibration session is scheduled for immediate commencement. Resistance is futile," the voice continued, dry and robotic.
Salem snorted. "Yeah, resistance is my middle name. Or at least it should be."
He gripped the device, which buzzed lightly in his palm. The room around him warped again, and suddenly he was no longer alone.
A shadowy figure materialized beside him — tall, indistinct, features constantly shifting like a glitching hologram.
"Who are you?" Salem demanded.
"I am the Keeper of Lost Seconds," the figure replied, voice echoing as if spoken through an endless corridor.
Salem raised an eyebrow. "You come with a cool title but zero explanations. Typical."
The Keeper chuckled — a sound like a clock winding down.
"You are out of sync, Salem. The timeline is unraveling because of you."
Salem frowned, gripping the armrests. "Out of sync? I'm just trying to live my messed-up life. If time's broken, don't blame the guy."
The Keeper's form shimmered. "You carry the paradox within you — the child who is also the father, the man caught in endless loops. This fracture in time is your doing."
Salem exhaled, a bitter smile curling his lips. "Figures. So, I'm both the cause and the victim? Perfect."
"Exactly," the Keeper said. "Your recalibration will either fix the timeline or collapse it entirely."
Salem's eyes narrowed. "So, what? I just sit here, press buttons, and pray?"
The Keeper extended a hand, revealing a device covered in buttons, levers, and a single red switch ominously labeled: THE FINAL RESET.
"Your choice," the Keeper intoned.
Salem stared at the device like it was a bomb waiting to detonate.
Suddenly, the robotic voice from earlier chimed in again, "Warning: Narrative coherence at critical levels."
He sighed. "Of course it is."
Then Salem did something unexpected. Instead of panicking or complying, he leaned forward with a grin.
"Alright, Keeper, let's play."
He grabbed the device, flicked a switch, pulled a lever, and pressed a button. Sparks flew from the panel, alarms blared, and the whole room shook as if the very foundation of reality was buckling.
But instead of destruction, a calm voice filled the space — the voice of the Writer, dry and sarcastic.
"Well done, Salem. You've officially broken the timeline… again."
Salem smirked. "Couldn't resist."
The Writer's voice continued, "You do realize, of course, that each time you do this, the story gets even more complicated for everyone involved?"
"Yeah, but that's the fun part."
Suddenly, the room shifted once more, and Salem found himself back in his dingy apartment — the ceiling cracked and the walls grimy.
He sat up, heart pounding.
No chair hummed. No robotic voice. Just the quiet, imperfect reality he knew.
For a moment, he thought maybe the timeline had fixed itself.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message popped up on the screen:
"Time isn't fixed. Neither are you. Ready for the next skip?"
Salem laughed, shaking his head.
"Game on."