Salem landed hard on the cracked, uneven ground, the air around him shimmering with unstable energy. The red door behind him winked out like a broken neon sign, leaving only darkness and the faint echo of the Writer's voice, playful and infuriating.
"Welcome, Salem. You've officially gone off-script. Bravo," the Writer purred. "Now, let's see how you handle this little… temporal roulette."
Salem groaned, brushing dust from his coat. "Temporal roulette? Really? That's what we're calling this apocalypse of timelines?"
"Names are irrelevant," the Writer replied. "What matters is consequences, chaos, and, of course, entertainment value."
The ground beneath him rippled, like a pond struck by an invisible fist. Every step warped reality slightly, twisting shadows into shapes that weren't supposed to exist. Children from 1971 winked into existence, then vanished. Soldiers from another draft of history marched out of thin air, their eyes hollow yet terrified, like puppets caught in the strings of time.
Salem ran a hand through his hair. "Alright, I need… I need a plan. Or at least some idea of where not to get deleted."
"Deleted? Oh, you sweet, naive protagonist," the Writer mused. "You're not going to be deleted. You're going to be rewritten. Over. And over. And—well, you get the picture."
A flicker caught Salem's eye. A familiar street corner—except it wasn't familiar. Buildings were warped, leaning at impossible angles. Smoke billowed from multiple sources, some of them in decades that shouldn't coexist. He realized, with a mixture of horror and fascination, that he wasn't moving through space as much as he was moving through time itself.
"Congratulations! You're officially playing roulette with the very fabric of reality. Hope you like surprises."
Salem muttered under his breath, pacing. "This is insane. Absolutely insane. And you're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Enjoying? My dear Salem, I'm thrilled. The readers? Even more so."
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow—a distorted, stretched-out version of himself, screaming silently. Then it split into multiple versions, each a fragment from a timeline where he had failed, where choices had gone disastrously wrong. They flickered like broken holograms, frozen in motion, reaching for him but fading as he blinked.
Salem clenched his fists. "Alright. If I'm stuck in this… roulette… I'm going to play by my own rules."
"Rules? Oh, I see. You're taking initiative. Bold. Foolish. I like it."
The air thickened, static buzzing along his skin. Suddenly, a doorway appeared before him—not red, not blue, but translucent, pulsating like a heartbeat. Etched across it were words that shimmered and shifted: "One step decides centuries."
Salem hesitated. His instincts screamed caution. But curiosity—the chaotic kind that had gotten him this far—pushed him forward. One step, and everything could unravel. One step, and he might finally understand the scope of his influence.
"Go on, Salem," the Writer encouraged. "I promise, it'll be… educational."
He placed a foot on the threshold. The world shattered around him. Decades collided. A hospital from 2020 fell into 1971 streets. Children ran past him screaming, yet simultaneously, the same children sat safely in classrooms that shouldn't exist yet. The air was electric with paradoxes, the smell of burning paper and history mixing together.
Salem felt a tug in his chest. Memories—not just his own, but fragments of every timeline—flooded him. A pandemic he hadn't survived yet, wars he hadn't fought yet, love he hadn't felt yet. Each memory pressed against his mind, competing for dominance, overwhelming his senses.
"Overwhelmed? Good. You're supposed to be. It's chaos. And you, my dear protagonist, are the perfect instrument."
Salem stumbled back, nearly tripping over a version of himself—older, battle-worn, eyes hollow.
"You've done this wrong," the older Salem rasped. "Every choice you make sends ripples. Fix the past, or break the future. And remember… you're not alone."
The shadowy figure vanished into a flicker. Salem's heart pounded. Every decision, every movement now carried more weight than he'd ever imagined. The roulette wasn't just a game—it was an orchestra of timelines, and he was the conductor without a score.
Suddenly, voices echoed—multiple, overlapping, some from centuries away, others from moments he hadn't lived yet.
"Salem… save us."
"Do it differently."
"Why are you here?"
"Game over is closer than you think."
Salem's stomach churned. He gripped the air around him, trying to ground himself, but the reality—or what passed for reality—was slipping. He needed a plan. Not a perfect one, not even a safe one. Just a plan.
He glanced around and noticed small threads of light connecting points in the warped landscape. Each thread pulsed faintly, leading somewhere—maybe toward safety, maybe toward disaster. He didn't have time to analyze. He had to choose.
"Follow the threads," the Writer advised. "Or don't. I'm not your babysitter."
Salem swallowed hard. "Fine. I'll follow them. But if anything tries to kill me, I swear…"
"Oh, don't worry. That's already happening."
He leapt onto the first thread, feeling it hum under his hands. The world bent, twisted, and rotated around him. Time accelerated, decelerated, then stopped entirely. He passed moments that hadn't happened yet—futures that could be erased by a single misstep.
And then he landed. Not on solid ground, not in air, but in a space suspended between timelines. Ghosts of himself flickered in and out, some screaming, some laughing, some weeping. All versions of Salem existed here, trapped in fragments, watching, waiting.
"Welcome to the liminal," the Writer whispered. "Where every Salem meets every choice. Pick wisely."
Salem's chest heaved. He could see the stakes now. Every decision had consequences. Every step was a thread connecting centuries. And somewhere deep inside, he knew that what he did next could echo across the multiverse—maybe even break it entirely.
He raised his gaze, meeting the collective eyes of his fragmented selves. Fear, determination, humor, despair—they all converged in a silent understanding. Salem Grey might just be one boy, one story, but here, in this fractured liminal space, he carried the weight of countless worlds.
"Ready?" the Writer asked. "Your move, Salem. The readers are holding their breath."
Salem smiled—dark, chaotic, determined. "I've been ready since the first skip. Let's see how far this roulette goes."
And with that, he stepped forward.
The threads pulsed, reality splintered, and the infinite possibilities of chaos expanded around him, leaving only one certainty: nothing would ever be the same again.