Salem stumbled through the haze of smoke and dust, his boots scuffing over broken cobblestones. The city of 1971 roared around him, alive with fire, shouts, and the ragged pulse of history bleeding through every street. He had landed in the revolution’s heart, the air thick with fear, hope, and the scent of something acrid that made his throat burn.
“Okay… okay, think,” he muttered, trying to orient himself. His journal wasn’t here. His tools, his clues, his notes—they were all gone. Just him, the chaos, and the whispers of the Writer, still tugging at his mind like a mischievous phantom.
> “Oh, Salem, always so dramatic. You know, some protagonists would cry. But not you. Not yet, anyway.”
He scowled. “I’m not crying. I’m… assessing tactical options.”
> “Sure, sure. Tactical. Ke
