Salem tumbled through the void again, but this time the air—or what passed for air—was thick with glittering shards of moments that never happened. The snap of the golden thread still echoed in his chest, vibrating with possibility and danger. Each heartbeat felt like it belonged to three different versions of him, overlapping, colliding. He twisted in the void, trying to grasp something stable, anything—except stability didn't exist here. Not anymore.
"Great," he muttered. "I just can't catch a break, can I?"
The watch appeared again, spinning lazily like a drunken hypnotist. Its tiny hands blurred, ticking backward then forward in bursts, leaving trails of golden dust.
"Breaks are overrated," it said. "You're here for entertainment, for chaos, for the full multiversal experience. Besides… did you enjoy the first carnival? Think of this as… the VIP section."
Salem pinched the bridge of his nose. "VIP? I barely survived the first ride, and you call this VIP?"
"Perspective," said the watch. "A minor detail. Now look."
The void stretched endlessly, threads of time unraveling like old ribbon. Figures emerged from the strands—some familiar, some grotesque—echoes of Salem from moments that hadn't been, days that had been skipped, versions erased. Each figure stared at him, smiling, frowning, gesturing frantically, as if trying to communicate a secret he wasn't ready for.
"Stop staring!" Salem shouted. "I can barely tell which one is me!"
"Ah, but that's the fun," the watch replied. "Confusion is a spice of life. And death. And… well, everything in between."
A flicker of light drew his eyes upward. A staircase of glowing threads twisted in impossible knots, leading to a platform floating above nothing. On the platform stood a figure cloaked in shadows, taller than he should be, radiating an aura of cold certainty. The shadowed presence's face was obscured, yet Salem felt its gaze pierce through him like an X-ray, reading not just his thoughts, but every skipped moment, every choice he hadn't made yet, every laugh, every tear.
"I told you," the watch said, voice low and conspiratorial. "Observers love their theatrics. One wrong step, and—poof. Multiversal cleanup duty."
Salem clenched his fists. "Why do I feel like I'm the punchline in some cosmic joke?"
"Because you are," the watch said, twirling midair. "And honestly? You wear it well."
He stepped carefully onto the nearest thread. It vibrated faintly, humming with possibilities and warnings. Each step shifted the carnival around him—Ferris wheels spun faster, skeletal horses reared, and shadows whispered cryptic advice:
"Trust no clock."
"Time is not linear."
"Your choice will echo louder than you think."
A portal split open beneath the floating platform, revealing snippets of history—the chaos of July Revolution, the eerie silence of 2020's COVID streets, flashes of 1971. They collided like crashing waves, impossible yet vivid, leaving Salem's stomach churning. He understood, vaguely, that every skipped day, every fractured reality was converging, and he was the fragile linchpin holding it all together—or tearing it all apart.
"Do you see now?" the watch said. "Your timeline isn't broken. It's… ambitious."
"Ambitious? I'm going to lose my mind before lunch," Salem muttered.
From the portal emerged a child, identical to the one he had glimpsed in the carnival, hand reaching toward him. The child's eyes were impossibly knowing, sparkling with mischief and sorrow at once.
"Salem," the child whispered, layered with echoes of laughter and tears, "you have to… choose."
"Choose what?" he asked, dread tightening his chest.
"Everything," the child said, "or nothing."
The shadowed observer leaned closer, its breath like frost in the void.
"One step, Salem. One thread. One action. And you'll see the consequences ripple across every skipped day, every fractured timeline, every reality that dares to exist."
Salem's fingers trembled as he hovered over a glowing strand. It pulsed with potential—history rewritten, futures altered, the multiverse hanging by a fragile line. Every option felt wrong and yet, impossibly, necessary.
"Do I… pull it?" he whispered.
"Do it," the watch said with a grin. "Do it and regret it spectacularly. Do it and laugh. Do it and cry. Or all three. Multiverse etiquette demands it."
He grasped the thread. The void screamed. Clocks shattered. Memories collided. Shadows twisted into faces he'd loved, feared, and forgotten. The carnival exploded into a thousand fragments, each spinning, fracturing, spinning again. Every moment of July Revolution, every masked street of COVID, every battlefield of 1971 overlapped, weaving a chaotic tapestry that seemed impossible to survive—and yet, somehow, he was inside it.
"What's happening?" Salem yelled, voice lost in the storm.
"It's called… progress," the watch said cheerfully. "Or chaos. Sometimes they're the same thing."
Light pierced the void, forming a bridge of glowing threads. The skeletal Ferris wheel rose before him, impossibly tall, each carriage filled with alternate versions of himself. Some smiled. Some cried. Some screamed. And in every expression, he glimpsed possibilities of what could go wrong… or right.
The child from the portal floated alongside, whispering urgently.
"This ride… decides everything," the child said. "One thread… one choice… and you'll understand why we exist—or why we don't."
Salem's heart pounded. The shadowed observer smiled, stretching impossibly wide, a grin that could devour realities.
"Tick-tock, Salem. The moment of truth approaches. Are you ready to break—or mend—everything?"
Salem swallowed, tightened his fists, and stepped forward onto the Ferris wheel carriage. The skeletal horse beneath him bowed, gears grinding in eerie harmony. The void snapped. Threads converged. The carousel's skeletal horses reared, shadows screamed, and the child's voice merged with the watch:
"Hold on… Salem. It's time to ride. And this… this will change everything."
Time shattered. Space bent. Memories, futures, and skipped moments collided into a kaleidoscopic storm of sound, color, and sensation. Salem felt himself stretching across realities, simultaneously old and young, tired and eager, lost and found. Every laugh, every tear, every choice he had avoided now surged back, impossibly, overwhelmingly.
"Welcome to the ride of your life," the watch said, its voice melding with the hum of fractured time. "Buckle up, Salem. The carnival has only begun."
The Ferris wheel spun faster, carrying him across the fractured sky. And then—a deafening silence.
The shadowed observer's grin darkened.
"You shouldn't have come here… Salem."
Everything froze. The fractured sky cracked like glass, revealing… someone—or something—watching from beyond, a presence colder and deeper than anything he had faced.
Salem's breath caught. Limbs frozen, heart hammering, he realized he was on the precipice of a choice that might never be undone.
Then a single line of glowing text stretched across the sky:
"Your next choice… will not be yours."
Salem's fingers clenched. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. And yet, in the deepest corners of his mind, a single thought screamed:
I have no idea what comes next.
The void pulsed. The Ferris wheel groaned. The carnival of fractured time waited. And Salem Grey—protagonist, traveler, breaker of walls—was suspended on the edge of all possibilities, about to discover whether chaos would consume him… or if he would consume it.