Salem was halfway through explaining why cereal should legally be considered soup when the world decided to interrupt him.
Again.
He had one foot propped up on the coffee table, the other dangling off the couch like he was in a courtroom defending the most important case of his life. A nearly-empty bowl of cornflakes sat on his lap, the milk turning into that slightly suspicious thin film that always made him think of crime scenes.
"Think about it," he said, gesturing with his spoon like a lawyer pointing to Exhibit A. "Bowl, liquid, chunks floating… that's soup. Therefore, breakfast soup is—"
BOOM.
The sound came from inside the apartment.
Not outside. Not the hallway. Not from the neighbors arguing about whose turn it was to clean the cat's litter box (Salem still didn't know who owned the cat, only that its meows sounded like someone stepping on a kazoo).
No—this was here.
Between the couch and the coffee table.
Salem froze, mid-sentence, milk dripping off his spoon.
Lina didn't even flinch. She just sipped her tea, her eyes fixed on him like she was waiting for a magic trick to go wrong.
"That was the punchline," she said calmly.
Salem blinked. "To what joke?"
"To the one you haven't heard yet."
He stared at her teacup. It was… empty. Completely empty. No steam, no liquid, not even a tea bag string hanging out. Yet he had just watched her lift it and sip.
"Okay…" he chuckled nervously, trying to play it off. "Creepy. But you're messing with me, right?"
Lina set the cup down on the table with a soft click. Her hands stayed on it like she was holding something fragile, but her eyes… they didn't blink.
"No, Salem," she whispered, leaning forward until her nose almost brushed his. "You're the one messing with you."
The lights flickered. Not the normal flicker—this was the slow, dragging kind, like the bulbs were unsure if they still existed.
Salem turned to glance at the TV for comfort—
—but the TV wasn't there.
Instead, there was air.
Well, not exactly air—more like a floating rectangle of static.
A grainy black-and-white recording played midair, right in the exact space his TV should have been. The footage wasn't old or historical—it was now.
It showed Salem.
Sitting on the couch.
In the exact clothes he was wearing.
Only… that Salem was smiling.
Not just smiling—grinning like someone had told him a secret too big to contain. And as the recording-Salem smiled, his lips moved in silent words that didn't match what real-Salem was saying at all.
"Okay… I'm… uh…" Salem leaned closer, his cereal bowl still in hand, the spoon tilting dangerously.
He squinted to read the lips.
And then—without warning—recording-Salem's eyes moved.
Right. At. Him.
The grin widened. Teeth too perfect. Skin too still.
It mouthed something. Slowly. Deliberately.
Salem felt his heart climb into his throat.
Lina was watching like she'd seen this scene before and was just waiting for him to catch up. She whispered, "Oh, this is the best part."
He couldn't hear the words. But he could read lips. He was good at it.
"Turn around."
Every hair on his neck lifted.
The lights snapped off completely.
Darkness swallowed the room.
For a second, there was only the sound of his own shallow breathing and the faint drip of milk hitting the carpet.
And then—
From behind him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of breath on his ear, someone whispered in his own voice—
"Soup time."