Salem decided—very maturely—that if reality was going to keep acting strange, he would simply make fun of it until it behaved.
This strategy had never worked before.
But hope springs eternal.
The next morning, Salem woke up already annoyed.
Not because something was wrong.
Because nothing was.
No time stutter.
No echoing voices.
No visions of himself dramatically suffering in seventeen emotional art styles.
Just… morning.
He stared at the ceiling.
"…I don't trust you," he told it.
The ceiling, being a ceiling, offered no rebuttal.
Salem sat up and immediately stubbed his toe on the bedframe.
"OW—OKAY, WOW, GREAT START."
He clutched his foot, hopping in a small, undignified circle.
"Is this the universe's idea of comedy? Because if so, your timing sucks."
The pain felt real.
Which was rude.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine refused to work.
Salem pressed the button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again.
Still nothing.
He leaned down, squinting at it. "Don't do this. I need you. You're literally the only thing keeping me from questioning existence before noon."
The machine beeped.
Once.
Then started brewing perfectly.
Salem froze.
"…No," he said slowly. "We are not starting this. Appliances do not get personality arcs."
The coffee machine gurgled innocently.
Salem poured the coffee, watching the liquid carefully, half-expecting it to spell RUN or YOU AGAIN in the foam.
It didn't.
Disappointing.
On the walk outside, things escalated.
Not catastrophically.
Comedically.
A pigeon landed directly in front of him and stared.
Salem stopped.
The pigeon did not move.
They locked eyes.
"…You better not be symbolic," Salem warned.
The pigeon tilted its head.
Salem sighed. "I swear, if you start representing fate, I'm kicking a trash can."
The pigeon fluttered away.
Salem nodded smugly. "That's what I thought."
Behind his eyes, something stirred — amused.
The city felt… aware today.
Not hostile.
Not broken.
Just slightly too responsive.
A crosswalk light turned green the moment Salem muttered, "Come on."
A bus arrived early when he complained about being late.
A stranger bumped into him, apologized, then paused.
"…Do I know you?" the stranger asked.
Salem smiled tightly. "God, I hope not."
The stranger blinked, frowned, and walked away like their brain had just hit a loading screen.
Salem exhaled. "Yeah. That's normal. Super normal."
If you're reading this and thinking he's coping poorly — congratulations. You're paying attention.
By afternoon, Salem was narrating his life out loud.
This was not a conscious decision.
It just… happened.
"Okay," he muttered while opening a door, "this is where something stupid happens."
Nothing happened.
He nodded. "Reverse psychology. Nice."
He tripped immediately after.
"—I TAKE IT BACK."
At home, he collapsed onto the couch and stared at the wall.
"So," he said conversationally, "let's review."
He counted on his fingers.
"One: time skips are allegedly 'fixed.'
Two: reality is now being polite, which is suspicious.
Three: I keep feeling like someone is standing just behind my thoughts, like an internal HR department taking notes."
The pressure behind his eyes pulsed.
Salem smirked. "Don't think I don't feel you laughing."
A beat.
Then—nothing.
"…Wow," he added. "Silent treatment. Classic."
He leaned back, hands behind his head.
"You know," he said casually, staring at the ceiling again, "if this is the part where I slowly lose my mind, I'd really appreciate a warning label. Or a laugh track."
The lights flickered once.
Just once.
Salem pointed at them. "HEY. No."
The lights stabilized.
He grinned. "Good. Boundaries."
That night, Salem dreamed.
Not of threads.
Not of staircases.
Not of glowing figures with unsettlingly calm voices.
He dreamed he was in a room with a table.
On the table was a script.
He picked it up.
It was blank.
A voice — not audible, not clear — brushed past his thoughts:
Improv.
Salem woke up laughing.
Which stopped immediately when he realized two things:
He didn't remember falling asleep.
His watch was ticking.
Steadily.
Normally.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Salem stared at it.
"…You're either fixed," he whispered, "or you're mocking me."
The ticking continued.
From somewhere deeper — not a voice, not a memory — came a faint, dry amusement.
If you're still reading, you should know this:
The universe wasn't laughing at Salem.
It was laughing with him.
And that was far more dangerous.
Salem lay back and sighed.
"Well," he said, eyes closing, "if this is a comedy arc, I hope I get good jokes before the tragedy comes back."
The watch ticked.
Once.
Too loud.
And somewhere unseen, something made a mark.