Salem's hand hovered over the glowing shard, the jagged text blazing above him: "CHOOSE… OR BE ERASED." Every instinct in him screamed to pull back, but some deeper, stubborn part of his being—the part that had survived skipping days, bureaucratic hell, and fractured timelines—urged him forward.
"Fine," he muttered, almost to himself. "I choose… something."
The shard pulsed violently, sending shockwaves through the suspended void. Echoes of countless "Salems" screamed in chorus, each shouting a different warning, encouragement, or outright insult. The Observer's voice slithered around him, a whisper that seemed to come from inside his own mind:
"Bold. Or foolish. Hard to say which, really."
Salem clenched his fists. "I don't have time for lectures."
"Time, my dear boy… is precisely what you've lost, are losing, and will never have again," said the watch, now spinning violently around him. Its gears flashed erratically, projecting miniature constellations of impossible symbols. "And yet, paradoxically, you have all of it."
"That's… comforting?" Salem asked sarcastically, though his stomach twisted with nausea.
Before he could answer, the shard quivered, splitting into a dozen smaller shards, each one glowing with a different hue. They weren't merely fragments—they were entire timelines, possibilities, echoes of choices he hadn't made yet. Some showed worlds ravaged by chaos, others serene but hollow, others grotesque and impossible.
Salem swallowed. "Which one… which one do I pick?"
"Pick? Oh, sweet chaos, you misunderstand," the Observer said. "You don't pick. They pick you. The shard chooses which of your infinite selves gets to survive."
Salem froze. "Wait. What?"
"Yes. Tiny, delicious detail," the watch chimed gleefully. "You're both player and played. Script and improv. Punchline and tragedy. Don't worry, that's only mildly terrifying."
The shards floated closer, almost beckoning, almost threatening. One in particular glimmered brighter than the rest: a timeline that mirrored a future he didn't fully remember but felt hauntingly familiar. He could see a child in the distance, a small hand reaching toward him, eyes wide and trusting. And then—his own older face, scarred but smiling faintly, gesturing as if to say: This is the one.
Salem's heart thumped. He wanted to step forward, to reach, to grab that future, but doubt gnawed at him. Every instinct screamed that choosing wrong could unravel everything, erase lives, or worse—turn him into another fragment lost in the void forever.
"Doubt is delicious," the Observer whispered, slipping between the shards. "Makes chaos taste better."
"Why are you always here?" Salem snapped. "Can't you just… let me live my story?"
"Oh, but I am your story," it said, voice echoing and fracturing like glass. "Without me, you're just a boring sequence of decisions. With me, you get… spectacle."
The shard pulsed again. He could feel the pull physically, tugging at his chest, at his memory, at his sense of self. The whispers of his other selves grew louder, more insistent.
"Choose the bright one! No, the green one! Forget that! Go for the one with the carnival!"
"Shut up!" Salem shouted, hands over his ears. "I… I need… silence!"
And then—silence. The shards froze mid-air, the Observer's form suspended in a flicker, the watch's ticking slowing to a slow, deliberate heartbeat. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
Salem exhaled, trembling. "Okay… okay," he muttered, hand hovering over the shard with the child. "Here goes nothing."
The moment his fingers brushed the glowing surface, reality snapped. A violent surge of energy slammed through him, tearing him away from the void, away from the Observer, away from all those infinite echoes. He landed on solid ground with a jolt, the world twisting violently before settling.
He looked around. He was somewhere familiar, yet impossibly different. The air smelled of ozone and old books. Neon lights flickered intermittently. People walked past him, moving normally, but when he looked closely, their shadows stretched into impossible shapes, some twining together, some splitting into multiple versions of themselves.
"Oh, this is… fun," the watch said, now perched on his shoulder like a mischievous bird. "Welcome to your… hmm… let's call it the After-Choice."
Salem groaned. "After-choice? That sounds… worse than before-choice."
"Semantics, darling. Reality is fluid. Perception is subjective. Also, chaos is mandatory."
He took a cautious step forward. The ground beneath him rippled, each footstep leaving echoes that walked alongside him, shadows of himself that mimicked movements he didn't recall making. He glanced at a nearby puddle: his reflection didn't match him. One eye was older, scarred. One shoulder carried a weight he didn't remember.
"Oh, splendid," Salem muttered. "I'm walking chaos already. Great start."
From the corner of his eye, a figure moved—a child. Same child from the shard. Their eyes locked, and a shiver ran down Salem's spine. That child smiled faintly, then vanished into the crowd before he could reach them.
"You see?" the watch said, circling him rapidly. "Consequences. Choices. Little lessons in humility. Tiny existential crises. All in one tidy package."
Salem clenched his fists. "I don't have time for lessons!"
"You always have time for lessons," the Observer said, stepping out from the shadows. "Even if the lesson is… brutal."
The city around him flickered violently. Buildings warped, time dilated, and suddenly multiple versions of himself appeared, walking toward him, each from a slightly different timeline. Some looked terrified, some amused, some angry beyond measure. They stopped a few feet away, staring silently, waiting.
"You're… all me?" Salem whispered.
"Exactly," the Observer said. "Your life, your choices, your failures, your victories, your… broken bits. All of them are here to greet you. Consider it a reunion. Or a jury. Your call."
Salem's stomach churned. "This is insane… every shard, every choice, every timeline… how am I supposed to deal with all of this?"
"By moving forward," the watch said. "By stepping into the chaos. By… well, surviving. Possibly thriving. Or maybe failing spectacularly. Either way, entertainment guaranteed."
The versions of Salem stepped closer, forming a circle around him. Each one's eyes told a story: regret, curiosity, fear, hope. One spoke, a voice older and wiser than the rest:
"You've chosen… but the consequences are just beginning."
Before Salem could react, the ground beneath them cracked, glowing red-orange light spilling out like molten reality. The circle of Salems screamed—simultaneously themselves and something else entirely.
"Oh, my dear boy," the Observer whispered, voice laced with amusement and malice. "The next choice isn't just yours… it's everyone's. And some may not survive the… fun part."
The cracks spread faster, the shards of time collapsing into streams of molten color. The multiple Salems tried to flee but were caught in the shifting, fractal ground. Salem felt himself yanked along, dragged toward the heart of the rupture.
And then—
A massive, echoing boom. Silence.
The fractured sky split open again, revealing… a hand reaching out. Familiar. Terrifying. Not entirely human. Not entirely him.
"Salem Grey…" the voice said, echoing from the void and every timeline simultaneously. "You've stepped far enough… or perhaps not far enough. Decide quickly… or everything you've known… will unravel."
And then, darkness swallowed him.
Salem is caught between multiple versions of himself, the consequences of his choice just beginning to ripple through all timelines, while a mysterious hand emerges from the void, promising either salvation or annihilation.