Salem held the note like it might explode in his hands.
“Every draft gets a choice. Yours is coming.”
A bitter laugh slipped from his throat. “A choice? Sure. Like any of this has been mine.”
He shoved the note into his pocket and stood. The metal floor beneath his feet hummed faintly, almost like a living thing. Around him stretched a cavernous chamber, walls smooth and colorless, no doors or windows in sight—just an oppressive emptiness.
And then a voice, the same one that had haunted him since the skips began, echoed:
> “Welcome, Salem. You’ve made it further than most.”
“Further into what?”
> “Into yourself. Into your story. Into the mess you call existence—take your pick. Now, about that choice…”
A spotlight snapped on overhead, illuminating two pedestals in the center o
