Salem opened his eyes to a world that looked familiar—but wrong. The ceiling above his head rippled like a disturbed pond, and the floor beneath him hummed with a subtle vibration, almost as if reality itself were purring—or laughing.
He swung his legs off the bed, only to find they passed through the sheets like they were made of mist. "Great," he muttered, voice echoing as if the room had suddenly acquired a microphone. "Just another… whatever this is."
Static popped along the walls. Images flickered—half-formed faces, cities twisting like origami, snippets of conversations that weren't his. He squinted at one flicker: a child coughing in a deserted hospital corridor, the date blinking "July 1975" above the doorway. Another blink, and he saw a street empty except for discarded masks and neon graffiti spelling "UNKNOWN VIRUS ALERT."
Salem rubbed his temples. "Okay… I didn't sign up for history class."
Then the air shimmered, and a voice—familiar, tired, sarcastic—spoke from everywhere and nowhere.
"Hello, Salem. You're awake. Again."
Salem froze. "Writer?" he asked cautiously. "You—again?"
"Yes, me. Don't look so surprised. You should be used to it by now. Though judging by the last scene… maybe you're not."
Salem sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Can you tell me what's happening? Or are we just… glitching for fun?"
"Oh, it's for fun. And chaos. And foreshadowing. Pick your favorite."
A ripple passed through the air, and Salem felt a sudden tug—like someone was shaking reality itself. The walls bent, and a window formed on the floor, showing a street he recognized but didn't. Children ran past him, laughing, masks on their faces, the year flashing "2020" in neon digits above a crumbling billboard.
He blinked, and the scene changed. Now, the same street was empty, quiet, snow falling where none should be. Shadows moved unnaturally, and a strange, unplaceable hum filled the air.
Salem stumbled back. "This isn't… just time skips. This is…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence, because nothing made sense anymore.
"It's the beginning of the bigger picture," the Writer whispered. "Little hints, tiny nudges. The readers won't see it clearly yet. But you… you might."
Salem narrowed his eyes. "I might? You're saying I can see what's coming?"
"More like you're bumping into pieces of it. Pieces you're not supposed to understand yet. But, oh, isn't that fun?"
A shadow flickered across the room. It wasn't the usual static figure Salem had learned to expect—it was taller, broader, almost human, yet somehow… wrong. The shadow paused, tilting its head, like it was studying him.
Salem swallowed hard. "Who—what—are you?"
The shadow whispered, voice echoing like it came from everywhere at once: "I'm a warning. Or maybe a hint. Or just a glitch. Depends on the day."
Before Salem could respond, the walls rippled again. Pages from his journal floated in midair, spinning like leaves caught in a hurricane. One page stopped before his eyes, scribbled in handwriting that wasn't his:
"The virus isn't just a memory. It's a fragment. Collect it, understand it, or it'll rewrite everything."
Salem blinked. "Fragments? Rewriting everything?"
"Yes. Pieces of the past, pieces of the future, all mixed together. Chaos soup."
The floor shuddered beneath him. A line of glowing cracks appeared, showing glimpses of what looked like another Salem—older, more haunted, stepping through a neon-lit city. He moved too fast to see clearly, but Salem caught a glimpse of his own face, gaunt and shadowed, staring back at him from some other reality.
Salem staggered. "This… this is too much."
"Oh, we're just getting started," the Writer said, almost cheerfully.
A low chuckle echoed around him. "Not started?" Salem whispered. The shadows shifted, forming vague silhouettes of children, cities, viruses, wars, laughter, screams, and neon lights, all flashing like they were trying to tell him something.
"Every little chaos, every little skip… it's building up," the Writer continued. "You're seeing the hints now, the cracks before the flood. Think of it as… a puzzle. You're holding some pieces, not all of them."
Salem felt his stomach twist. "And if I fail? If I miss something?"
"Then… well, you'll learn the hard way. Story doesn't forgive mistakes easily."
A flicker of humor glinted in the Writer's tone. "Or maybe the readers will enjoy it. Depends on your point of view."
The air shifted again. A clock appeared on the wall, though the numbers spun backward, then forward, then backward again. Salem's pulse raced as he realized he could see fragments of his own future—moments he hadn't lived yet, conversations he hadn't had, people he hadn't met.
"It's all connected," the Writer said softly. "Time isn't linear. Not for you, not for anyone. The skips, the chaos, the glitches—they're all teaching you, guiding you. Or warning you. Or maybe just torturing you. Tomato, tomahto."
Salem clenched his fists. "I don't care if it's torturing me. I need to understand."
The shadows shimmered. One of them leaned closer, its vague features twisting into something like a smile. "Understanding comes with a price, Salem Grey. Are you ready to pay it?"
Salem swallowed. "I have to."
The room convulsed. Walls bent, floors rippled, and time seemed to stretch like taffy. He stumbled through the chaos, each step feeling like wading through a river of glass shards. Images flickered around him: children laughing, hospitals burning, neon signs flashing, his own older self staring silently.
Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, everything froze. The Writer's voice whispered again:
"Remember this moment, Salem. Tiny clues, subtle hints. They'll make sense later. Or they won't. Either way… keep moving forward."
Salem nodded, though no one could see him. His gaze fell on two glowing doors that had appeared, one labeled Chaos, the other Truth. Both pulsed gently, inviting—and terrifying.
"Pick a path," the Writer said. "Or stumble blindly. Either way… the story moves."
Salem took a deep breath. The shadows receded slightly, the chaotic flashes dimmed, and he stepped toward the door labeled Chaos. His heart pounded, but a strange thrill ran through him. Every skip, every fragment, every hint had led to this—one choice among countless realities.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," the Writer murmured, almost gleefully. "Let's see how you handle the next skip, Salem."
The door swung open. Light poured through, and the air hummed with possibilities. Salem stepped inside, ready—or as ready as one could be—to chase the glimpses of the past, the hints of the future, and the endless, chaotic fragments of his story.
The shadows whispered one final warning:
"Not everything is what it seems… and not everyone survives the draft."
Salem swallowed hard and walked forward.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving only the echoes of chaos, the whispers of warnings, and the thrill of what was yet to come.