The library

The library was a cathedral of silence, the towering shelves standing like sentinels over the labyrinth of knowledge they guarded. My boots made no sound against the carpeted floor as I moved deeper into the stacks, my mind sharpening with every page I turned.

I had always found solace here, in the quiet hum of old books and the crisp scent of parchment laced with ink. The world outside might shift, tumble, and demand, but in a library, time folded in on itself. It was a place where a man could sit with centuries of wisdom and emerge with something resembling an answer.

Tonight, though, I wasn’t here for comfort. I was here for truth.

I flipped open my notepad, eyes scanning the sketched markings from the collar. My memory had not failed me—each stroke was precise, identical to what I had seen. I worked methodically, comparing them to texts on ancient symbology, cartography, and cryptography, taking quick notes in the margins of my own pages.

Hours passed, my fingers smudged with ink, my mind wired from the caffeine still coursing through my system. I had barely touched the last square of chocolate in my pocket, saving it like a talisman for when I needed it most.

Then, I heard it again—the shuffle of movement beyond the bookshelves.

I went still, my fingers resting lightly on the notepad. The library’s night staff rarely ventured this far back. The only other people here at this hour were the sort who wanted to be alone.

I was no longer alone.

I turned a page, slow and deliberate, letting my eyes drift just enough to catch the reflection of movement in the glass doors of a nearby bookcase. A figure, dark and steady, standing at the end of the aisle. Watching me.

I sighed and closed the book in front of me with a quiet thump. “If you’re going to hover, you might as well take a seat,” I murmured, my voice just above a whisper.

No answer.

I turned slightly, resting my arm on the back of my chair. “Or is this the part where you tell me I’m in over my head?”

The man stepped closer, the dim light catching on his sharp features. He was lean, deliberate in the way he moved. Not young, not old—somewhere in between, with a face that looked like it had seen more than its share of things better left unsaid. His coat was dark, his gloved hands tucked casually into his pockets, but his eyes—those weren’t casual. They were locked onto me with a quiet intensity that suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d had to retrieve something valuable.

“I’ll take the collar now,” he said, voice smooth, patient. As if I might hand it over without question.

I didn’t move. Instead, I reached for my coffee and took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch.

“I have a counteroffer,” I said. “You tell me what it is first.”

A faint smirk. “You don’t want to know.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I always want to know.”

His gaze flicked to my pocket, just briefly, but I caught it.

And that was enough.

I moved before he did, pushing back from the table, one hand already slipping inside my coat. His reaction was fast—too fast. In an instant, he was lunging, his gloved hand closing around my wrist before I could fully stand.

The chair scraped back, tipping over, and suddenly we were locked in a struggle between the bookshelves, paper and dust scattering around us as we crashed into the table. My coffee spilled, the bitter scent flooding the air.

His grip was strong, but I had one advantage—leverage. I twisted, using the weight of my body to knock him off balance. He stumbled back just enough for me to wrench free.

Then I saw it—the collar.

In the scuffle, it had slipped from his coat pocket and landed between us on the worn carpet.

For one breath, neither of us moved.

Then we did.

I dove for it just as he did, our hands colliding in a tangle of motion. His fingers curled around the edge, but I was quicker. My hand closed over his, pressing down with everything I had.

"Let. Go."

He met my gaze, breath steady, but his fingers loosened.

And then—he was gone.

With a single swift motion, he spun back, disappearing down the aisle, his footsteps fading before I could even think to follow.

I sat there, chest heaving, the collar clenched tightly in my fist.

My coffee was spilled. My books were scattered.

But I had what I came for.