Salem opened his eyes to a sky he didn’t recognize. The color was wrong—too violet, too alive, as if the atmosphere itself were breathing. Below him, a city stretched in impossible angles, twisting like melted wax. Every building leaned differently, some floating just a foot above the streets, defying gravity with a casual shrug.
He groaned. “Not again…”
Time felt wrong. Each second dripped slowly, then leapt forward in jagged bursts, like a scratched record. Salem realized, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t just in another timeline. He was inside someone else’s memory of a timeline. Or maybe multiple memories, overlapping like transparencies.
A voice, soft and sardonic, crept into his mind.
> “Oh, look who decided to wake up. You really don’t learn, do you, Salem?”
“…The Writ
