Salem's eyes burned against the sudden white light as the world detonated into a million shards of reality. It wasn't pain—not exactly—but the sensation of every skipped day, every fractured timeline, every fragment of memory colliding at once pressed against him like a tidal wave. His body moved, somehow, though he had no idea how. Each muscle, each nerve, each heartbeat seemed to exist in three places at once.
The door he had touched was no longer just a door—it was a prism, a doorway into infinite possibilities. Through its surface, he glimpsed scenes from his own life, moments he had lived and those he hadn't. Some were joyous, some horrifying, some bizarrely mundane: a spilled cup of coffee in one reality, the eruption of war in another, laughter of a child he barely remembered in yet another.
"Salem Grey," the voice of the shard tether whispered, "every possibility is a path. And every path… is a trial."
He swallowed, feeling the pulse of the shard echoing in his chest. This was beyond fear. This was comprehension: the raw, unfiltered weight of infinite outcomes pressing down, testing him, daring him to choose.
From one of the prism-shards, a figure emerged. Not Nexus, not the Watch, not any of the echoes he'd seen before. This one was cloaked in shadow, its outline shifting with every step. Its face was hidden, yet Salem felt every glance pierce him directly.
"Who… who are you?" Salem asked, his voice hoarse.
"I am… the consequence," the figure replied. "Every skipped day, every fractured memory, every choice ignored… I am what waits at the end."
The figure stretched an impossibly long arm, pointing toward the swirling chaos behind the door. Shadows from the destroyed corridor were coalescing, forming a vortex that threatened to pull everything back into nonexistence.
"You… you can't be real," Salem muttered, backing away.
"Real enough," it said. "And real enough to test you. One step forward, and the weight of all timelines will press against your soul. One misstep… and it will consume you."
Salem's hand tightened around the shard. The gold thread from the previous corridor shimmered faintly in response, tugging him toward the prism-door. Each heartbeat synced with its glow. He understood now: the shard wasn't just a guide—it was a lifeline. A tether to survive the impossible.
"Then I'll take it," he said firmly. "I don't care what waits. I've survived worse."
"Survived… but have you truly lived?" the figure asked, tilting its head. Its voice was both a whisper and a roar, echoing from all directions.
Salem hesitated, memories flashing in his mind. Children lost to skipped days, his own failures, moments of laughter, moments of despair. He had lived, in fragments, across countless realities. And yet, here, now, it felt as if every moment converged into a single point of judgment.
He stepped through the prism.
---
The world twisted. Salem landed on solid ground—or what seemed like it. The air was thick, sticky with the scent of ozone and decay, the horizon splitting between night and day, chaos and calm. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint tolling of a bell, slow and deliberate, marking moments that didn't exist yet.
"Welcome to the Choice Plane," the shard whispered, hovering above his palm. "Here, every potential of you walks together. Every version, every possibility. And every version… wants to see if you can survive them all."
Salem's eyes widened as shadows began to solidify. Every skipped self, every alternate version he had glimpsed before, materialized around him. Some bore scars, some smiles, some eyes hollowed with despair. They all whispered simultaneously, overlapping words that made his head spin.
"You… you're all me?" he asked, staggered.
"Correct," the shard replied. "And none of us are forgiving."
One version stepped forward—a younger Salem, full of hope and stubborn defiance. Another, older, weary and broken, raised a hand in silent warning. A third, faceless, tilted its head in curiosity, as if mocking him.
"So… what now?" Salem asked, his voice trembling.
"Now," the shard said, "you prove yourself worthy. Navigate the Choice Plane. Confront every possibility of yourself. Only then… can you continue."
The plane itself seemed to react to his hesitation. Paths formed beneath his feet, fractal corridors leading in every direction simultaneously. Doors appeared midair, floating staircases twisted into infinity. Every step he took echoed through a hundred realities, every breath distorted into layers of sound.
Salem ran. He leapt from platform to platform, dodging versions of himself that lunged not to attack, but to test. Some shouted warnings, some insults, some simply faded into mist, leaving echoes of their own existence behind.
"This… this isn't possible," he gasped.
"Possible?" the shard hissed. "No. But necessary."
As he pushed forward, a distant light flickered. Beyond the maze of possibilities, he glimpsed a figure in golden light—a silhouette familiar, yet alien. The outline of a child, holding something he didn't yet understand. Somewhere, deep in his memory, a warning stirred: this child… this future… was his anchor. And his danger.
"Salem Grey," Nexus's voice thundered, closer than the light, yet farther than infinity, "you're learning too slowly. Every step you hesitate, a timeline dies."
Salem clenched his fists. "I won't fail again. Not after everything."
The shadows reacted violently. Figures merged, twisted, and lunged. He dodged, the shard tether glowing fiercely, illuminating fragments of possibilities in midair. Every choice, every step, every glance carried weight, and yet, the plane refused to yield.
"Keep going!" the shard urged. "Follow the thread. Every timeline you survive… is a step closer to coherence."
Then, from the distance, a door slammed open. A wind ripped through the plane, scattering fragments of time, memories, and echoes of himself. A single voice cut through the chaos, clear and chilling:
"Salem Grey… I've been waiting."
He froze. His heart skipped. The figure emerging from the door was tall, impossibly thin, with eyes that reflected the entire Choice Plane. Not Nexus. Not a shard. Something… other. Something he had glimpsed only in nightmares.
"Who—" he began, but the figure raised a hand.
"No questions," it said. "Only choices. And this one… will decide everything."
The golden thread pulsed violently, tugging at Salem's consciousness. The shard flared, emitting a piercing sound that resonated through every timeline, every version of himself. He staggered, almost falling.
"Step forward," the voice whispered. "Or remain… fractured forever."
Salem's legs shook, his mind screaming with every memory, every skipped day, every version of himself. And yet… he knew he had to move. One step, and perhaps, he would survive.
He stepped.
And everything shattered.