Salem hit the ground with a jolt that rattled every bone in his body.
For a moment, he just lay there, breath ragged, staring up at the… sky? Ceiling? It was hard to tell. Above him, the world swirled like spilled ink on water, shapes and words swimming together, breaking apart before they could settle into anything real.
“...Okay,” he croaked, sitting up slowly. “Where the hell am I now?”
No answer.
Only the faint, persistent sound of whispering—like a thousand pens scratching across a thousand pages at once.
He stood, brushing off his clothes. The ground beneath his feet felt wrong, not solid but not soft either. More like standing on compressed thoughts, ideas packed too tightly to hold still.
---
A sign materialized in front of him, flickering in and out:
DRAFT 7.2 – NON-CANON
