Salem’s fingers itched as he held the scattered cube fragments, each one pulsing like a heartbeat from a world that shouldn’t exist yet. Time felt slippery, like mercury between his palms, refusing to settle. He had no idea whether the fragments were memories, skipped days, or remnants of forgotten futures—but one thing was certain: they demanded attention.
> “Ah, yes,” the Writer’s voice purred from nowhere, omnipresent and smug. “Welcome to the part where things get messy. Very messy.”
Salem groaned. “If this is messy, I’m never going near another timeline again.”
> “Oh, but you will,” the Writer said, with a chuckle that made the air quiver. “You have to. It’s in your narrative DNA. Skips, echoes, chaos… you’re practically built for this.”
The ground beneath him shuddered. Rea
