Salem woke to the sound of dripping water.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound echoed endlessly, as if it came from every direction at once. He opened his eyes to darkness—not the usual kind, but a living, crawling black that felt like it was watching him back.
For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was lying down or floating. Gravity seemed optional here. His body felt weightless, disconnected from itself. His thoughts were slower, stretched like chewing gum between two timelines.
Then the whisper returned. The one that had been following him since the glitches began.
"Salem."
His breath hitched.
"Who—who is that?" His voice trembled, swallowed by the void.
"You've asked me that before."
"I don't remember."
"Exactly."
The darkness shifted. Something like a silhouette emerged—tall, cloaked, its edges flickering like bad signal. It had no face, yet its presence was suffocating.
Salem scrambled backward, but the floor wasn't solid. His hands sank into black fog. He gasped and jerked upright—only to find himself standing now, as if the thought of standing had rewritten the rules.
"You've broken so many pieces, Salem," the voice said softly. "You think this chaos is new. You think you're the first to see behind the curtain."
"What do you mean?"
The figure stepped closer. Its movements didn't make sense—like it existed in multiple frames at once. Every step was a glitch.
"Others have tried to change the script before. Others have spoken to the writer."
Salem swallowed hard. "And what happened to them?"
The figure tilted its head.
"They became shadows."
The darkness around them shivered. Shapes began forming—figures half-drawn, like characters erased mid-sketch. They whispered in broken sentences.
"…was supposed… ending changed…"
"…don't let them write you out…"
"…I loved her but the draft—"
Salem clamped his hands over his ears. "Stop! Stop it!"
The whispers didn't stop. They grew louder, overlapping until they were almost screams.
The figure raised a single hand, and silence slammed into the void like a command.
"You can still escape their fate," it said. "But you have to stop fighting the story."
Salem shook his head. "No. I'm not playing by anyone's script. Not yours. Not theirs."
The figure laughed—or maybe glitched. It was hard to tell the difference.
"You think you have a choice? Look around, Salem."
The darkness peeled away like burnt paper, revealing fragments floating in midair—scenes ripped from different realities.
In one, Salem was sitting in a café, laughing with someone whose face was blurred out.
In another, he was running through a collapsing city while alarms screamed overhead.
And in one more—this one burned into his mind—he saw himself holding a small child. The child's eyes were his eyes.
Salem stumbled back. "What… what is that?"
"A possibility. A loop. A truth you were never meant to see yet."
His pulse thundered in his ears. "That—no. That's impossible."
"Is it? Or is it the only thing that's ever been real?"
The fragments began spinning faster, like shards caught in a storm. Salem reached out instinctively—his fingers brushed one of the scenes, and suddenly he was there.
He was standing in a sterile white room, walls humming with quiet machinery. A glowing device—circular, elegant, impossible—rested on a pedestal in the center.
A voice behind him said:
"You built it, Salem. Don't you remember?"
He turned.
And froze.
Because standing there was himself.
Older. Harsher. A scar cutting across his jaw.
The older Salem smirked. "Took you long enough."
Salem's mouth went dry. "What… what is this?"
The older version shrugged. "Draft Twelve. Or maybe Thirteen. Honestly, I lost count after they started deleting me."
"They?"
"The Writer. The System. Whatever you want to call it. Doesn't matter. Point is—you've been here before. Over and over."
The machine pulsed behind him like a heartbeat.
Salem backed away. "No. No, this isn't real. This is another trick."
Older Salem stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Real or not, you're running out of time. That thing—" he jerked his head toward the machine—"is your only chance to break out for good."
Salem stared at it. The hum seemed to seep into his bones. The machine called to him.
But before he could move, the void cracked like glass. The fragments shattered, sucking everything into a whirlpool of static.
He heard the older version shout something—but the words broke apart, lost in the noise.
Then everything went black again.
---
When Salem opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of a narrow alley, neon signs flickering above him. Rain poured down in relentless sheets, soaking him to the bone.
He sat up slowly, disoriented. The world felt… wrong. Too bright. Too loud. People in strange clothes hurried past the alley entrance, their faces blurred like corrupted files.
And then he saw it—painted in huge letters on the wall across from him:
"TIME IS BROKEN. TRUST NO ONE."
His breath hitched.
Because underneath those words, written in his own handwriting, was a single line:
"You only have three skips left."
Salem staggered to his feet. "Three… what does that mean?"
A low chuckle rolled through the alley—familiar, taunting.
"It means the game is almost over."
Salem spun around, heart pounding.
No one was there.
Just the rain.
Just the whisper of a story that was no longer his to control.