The archive was quiet.
Too quiet.
Salem walked down the corridor of unstable doors, every step echoing like it was being recorded—for someone else. The kind of echo that didn’t bounce off walls, but off expectations. Each step felt… watched.
And he hated it.
> “Where am I now?” he muttered.
The corridor flickered like an old VHS tape—tracking lines and all. The doors shifted shape behind him. One melted. One pixelated. Another caught fire and calmly asked for a manager.
Then came the typing.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
He spun around.
A floating typewriter hovered above the floor, keys moving on their own. Words formed midair.
> “Salem walks forward, confused but determined.”
He took a step back. The typewriter clacked again.
> “Salem takes a step back, his fear growing.”
&g
