The air felt heavier than usual, as if the world itself had paused just to watch Salem stumble through it. He didn't know if he was outside his apartment or still trapped in the flickering neon corridors of the Clockwork Carnival, but the city seemed to stretch endlessly, its edges bending like liquid. Streetlights flickered out of sync, casting shadows that whispered in voices he almost recognized.
Salem rubbed his temples, trying to anchor himself to something solid. "Okay… think. Think like a normal person," he muttered, though the words felt meaningless in a reality that refused to stay still.
A faint buzz crawled across his skin, tiny static pricks that made him flinch. Somewhere above, the air shimmered. He squinted—and the shimmer coalesced into a form he had hoped he wouldn't see again.
"Ah… there you are."
The voice was familiar, silky, and impossibly patient. Salem's stomach sank.
"Not you again," he muttered, backing up.
The figure emerged fully—a silhouette of himself, but wrong. Older, harsher, eyes glinting with memories Salem didn't remember living.
"Right. And yet, here you are. Younger, fluffier, more… confused."
Salem's hands trembled. "I don't… I don't even know how this is possible."
"Possible? You've already been everywhere. Everywhere, Salem. Past, future, possibilities that didn't even make sense yet."
Salem took a deep breath, trying to make sense of it. "So… this is me? From another time?"
"Yes. And no. And maybe. It's complicated. Welcome to your own life, fractured into a dozen mirrors, none of them entirely honest."
Before he could respond, the world wobbled. Buildings twisted, streets folded over themselves like origami, and the sky above shifted colors—once orange, then green, then a swirling violet that made Salem's stomach churn.
A familiar ticking echoed. He turned his head, and there it was—the brass pocket watch, spinning lazily in the air.
"Oh, Salem. You've attracted attention again."
Salem frowned. "Attention from who?"
"From… well, everything. The timelines are annoyed. The multiverse is sulking. And your choices—don't get me started on your choices."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can't I just… I don't know… exist normally for one second?"
The watch twirled, scattering a faint trail of sparks.
"Normal is… gone. It left when you first skipped a day. Every skipped day left ripples. Tiny, chaotic, beautiful ripples."
A cold wind swept through the fractured city streets, carrying voices—echoes of people he knew, people he had forgotten, and some he'd never met. Whispers overlapped, a chaotic symphony of memory and possibility.
Salem shivered. "Why does it feel like… they're all watching me?"
"Because they are. Not in the creepy, stalker sense. More like… a jury. You're auditioning for reality, one impossible choice at a time."
Suddenly, the older version of Salem stepped closer, extending a hand—not threateningly, but with a strange intimacy.
"Listen carefully. Every choice you make now echoes back. The timelines remember. They'll remember whether you act out of fear or courage, selfishness or empathy. And yes… love counts too, whether you like it or not."
Salem's stomach knotted. "Love… right. I don't even—"
"Shh. Not the time to overthink that."
A ripple passed through the air, and suddenly the world flipped sideways. Cobblestone streets became rivers of ink. Neon signs morphed into blinking code. Ferris wheels spun impossibly, their skeletal horses now suspended midair.
The watch's ticking sped up, then slowed, then stuttered as if unsure of its own rhythm.
"Time is not linear. It's a suggestion," it whispered.
Salem tried to take a step, but the ground beneath him cracked. He plunged downward, falling not into the void, but into countless overlapping realities. Each one contained another Salem—smiling, crying, screaming, laughing—all versions converging into one chaotic spiral.
"Fun, isn't it?" said his older self, voice distant yet omnipresent.
Salem gasped, twisting, trying to hold onto something familiar. But each echo of himself tugged in a different direction. Memory collided with possibility. Choice collided with inevitability.
"Stop! I… I can't—"
"Oh, but you must," the watch said. "Must and will are different, but in your case… nearly synonymous."
The cascade of timelines carried him into a strange quiet. A small park appeared, impossible in this city, frozen in eternal twilight. A single swing moved on its own, creaking softly. He noticed a figure sitting there—a girl he didn't know but felt he should remember.
Her eyes locked on him. "Salem," she said softly. "You're late."
Salem froze. "Late… for what?"
"For the part of your life where choices stop being yours. Where the universe decides."
He swallowed hard. "I… I can't let that happen."
The air shimmered, pulling the park apart, revealing the skeletal Ferris wheel spinning above, city streets bending and twisting endlessly below.
"Choices are overrated anyway," whispered the watch, louder now, almost amused.
Salem's older self leaned close. "But you can fight. Not everyone gets this chance. Don't waste it."
The ground shook. The Ferris wheel groaned, lights flickering to form words he couldn't read fast enough. The girl stood, extending her hand.
"Come with me… if you want to survive what's coming next."
Salem hesitated. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then—everything exploded into fractured light. Clocks, streets, memories, and possibilities collided in a dazzling chaos.
He closed his eyes, gripping the girl's hand, letting the ride carry him forward into the unknown.
"Ready or not… here comes the next chapter," whispered the watch.
The world shattered completely. And through the cracks, a shadow loomed—cold, vast, and aware of him.
"You shouldn't have come… Salem."
Salem opened his eyes. He was falling, spinning, screaming, laughing. All at once. And then—
Black.
The shadow waiting beyond the fracture. Salem's next choice is unknown, and the multiverse is watching.