Salem stumbled out of the doorway, coughing, clutching the spinning hourglass to his chest. The floor beneath him was solid now—too solid, as if reality had overcompensated for how unstable it had been moments ago.
Cold wind slapped his face. The smell of dust, antiseptic, and faint perfume filled his lungs. He looked up—and froze.
He was standing in a hospital corridor.
Dim fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering with a rhythm that almost matched a heartbeat. Doors stretched on either side, each labeled with numbers that didn't make sense—27.5, 31½, 9999, 404. Some doors had no handles. Others had padlocks. A few… were breathing.
"Nope," Salem muttered. "Absolutely not. I am not opening a breathing door. That's—no. Just no."
The Watch chuckled from his wrist. "Oh, don't be boring. Breathing doors are usually the most fun."
Salem glared at it. "Your definition of fun is broken."
"Correct," the Watch said cheerfully.
At the far end of the hallway, a single door stood apart. Unlike the others, it wasn't labeled. Instead, it had a small sign taped to it in sloppy handwriting:
DO NOT ENTER.
Salem stared at it, then at the hourglass in his hand. The sands inside swirled violently, rattling against the glass whenever his gaze landed on that door.
"Yeah, I know," Salem muttered. "That's obviously where I'm supposed to go. Because warnings are basically neon invitations."
The moment he stepped toward it, the corridor groaned. Lights flickered. The other doors rattled on their hinges. Salem quickened his pace, the warning door pulling him like gravity.
He reached out, turned the knob—
—and stumbled straight into chaos.
The room wasn't a room. It was… a mashup. Streets, rooms, memories, and skipped days collided into one another. A school desk sat half-buried in sand. A vending machine buzzed next to a grave. His own bedroom wall floated in midair, attached to nothing. And in the center, a hospital bed glowed faintly, occupied by… someone.
Salem's heart stopped.
It was him.
A younger version of himself, pale, coughing, a breathing mask strapped over his face. His small chest heaved, and on the table beside the bed was a vial—the same glowing vial he had glimpsed earlier, pulsing with the unknown virus.
"No… no no no no," Salem whispered, stumbling closer. "That's not… that's not how it's supposed to—"
"Oh, but it is," came a familiar voice.
He spun around.
Standing at the far corner of the chaos-room was another Salem—older this time, sharp-eyed, carrying himself like someone who had been through too much and lost too much more.
This one smirked. "You're finally catching up. Took you long enough."
"What… is this?" Salem asked, pointing to the younger, sickly version of himself.
The older Salem shrugged. "A beginning. Your beginning. Or maybe your end. Depends on how you play it."
"He's dying," Salem whispered.
"Of course he is," the older self replied. "That virus isn't just any disease. You carried it. You spread it. And you'll carry the consequences, too."
The hourglass rattled violently in Salem's hands. The sands whirled, creating faint shapes—timelines shattering, people collapsing, entire skipped days bleeding into darkness.
The Watch hummed, gears ticking louder. "Careful now. This is one of those choices. Save the child—you break the flow. Let him die—you carry the curse. Either way, something cracks."
Salem's hands trembled. His own sickly self gasped for air, reaching out weakly.
And in the corner, the older Salem tilted his head. "What's it gonna be?"
Salem's throat tightened. His mind screamed. Every fiber of his being begged for an answer, but he knew there wasn't a clean one.
He looked down at the hourglass. The sands had stopped swirling. They had arranged themselves into words:
CHOOSE.
Salem's breath caught.
His hands shook.
And then—
The hospital bed lurched. The younger Salem sat up, eyes glowing gold, staring directly at him.
"Too late," the child rasped. "You already chose."
The hourglass cracked.
The room shattered.
Salem screamed as he was pulled into another doorway, leaving only the echo of his voice behind.
The Watch whispered in the void:
"Oh, this is going to be deliciously disastrous."