Zayn's eyes fluttered open, and the first thing that greeted him was not the cold ceiling he expected, but a vast expanse of towering shelves stretching endlessly in all directions.
The air was heavy yet silent as if the weight of countless tales pressed down upon him. The entire library shimmered under a soft, golden light, its source indiscernible, casting shadows that danced across the marble floors. The ceiling arched high above, painted with celestial murals that seemed to shift and move under his gaze.
This place, wherever it was, exuded an almost superior and otherworldly presence.
Zayn stood at the corner of this grandiose chamber, feeling like a speck of dust in the face of infinity. His breaths quickened, and an involuntary shiver ran down his spine. The sheer magnitude of the library made him feel insignificant as if he had stumbled into a realm far beyond his comprehension.
His eyes narrowed as he slowly took in the shelves, lined meticulously with books of varying sizes, shapes, and designs. Their bindings glowed faintly, some more intensely than others.
Initially, Zayn thought he had been transported into some sort of digital library, the eerie stillness giving the illusion of holograms or projections. But the distinct, tangible weight of the place dissuaded him. These were no digital artifacts – they were real books.
Danger.
The word shot through his mind like lightning. His muscles tensed as the realization sank in. Books like those meant danger. Instinct clawed at him, urging him to retreat, to escape before something catastrophic occurred. But when he spun around, he found no door, no entrance, no exit. The wall behind him was bare and unyielding.
He cursed under his breath, already calculating possible means of survival. Perhaps there was a hidden exit, or maybe—
Silence.
It was too silent. He paused, realizing for the first time that, despite the magnitude of the library, there was no looming threat. Nothing rustled, no shadows crept unnaturally, and the books, while ominous in appearance, emitted no malevolent energy he could see or even feel. He slowly unclenched his fists, his wariness lessening by a fraction.
A subtle sound—a footstep.
Zayn snapped his head to the side, eyes narrowing. A figure emerged from between the shelves, drifting toward him silently. Cloaked entirely in grey, the figure's face and body were obscured beneath a deep hood. In their hand, they held a small, unassuming notebook.
Zayn's instincts flared. He prided himself on his awareness, yet he hadn't noticed the figure's approach until now. His jaw tightened as he took a cautious step back, but somehow, the distance between them diminished.
The figure halted, tilting their head slightly as if surprised that Zayn had noticed them. For a moment, the two simply stared at one another in silence. There was no malice in the figure's stance, only curiosity.
They advanced again, and Zayn instinctively stepped back, but once more, the distance between them seemed to collapse.
His grip tightened at his sides, though he had no weapon to defend himself. He watched carefully as the figure approached a nearby shelf, running their gloved fingers across the spines of the books. Without hesitation, they plucked one from the row and slowly opened it.
Zayn immediately braced himself, preparing for the inevitable surge of danger, but nothing happened. No dark mist, no curses, no twisted manifestations. The figure casually flipped through the book as if it were an insignificant object, absorbing the words without consequence.
Zayn's eyes narrowed in disbelief. He had expected catastrophe. Wasn't this supposed to be dangerous? Wasn't that the unspoken rule?
Another book was taken down, opened, read, and closed.
"Impossible..." Zayn muttered under his breath, unable to process what he was witnessing.
The figure paused, their hooded face remaining turned toward the shelf. "You need not fear. The Stories that dwell here are not yet ready to be unraveled."
The calmness in their tone sent a shiver down Zayn's spine. He did not understand their meaning, but the assurance in their voice held a weight that eased his nerves slightly. Slowly, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.
The figure placed the book down and began walking away. After a few steps, they paused and turned slightly, their empty eye sockets seeming to pierce into Zayn's very being. "What are you waiting for? Follow me."
Zayn hesitated. A strange part of him wanted to stay put, but logic dictated that following this figure was safer than wandering a labyrinthine library alone.
The memory of videos showing books shifting on their own lingered uneasily in his mind. With a quiet sigh, he stepped forward and trailed behind the figure.
The vastness of the library overwhelmed him as they walked. It stretched endlessly in all directions, the towering shelves seemingly growing taller the further they went. Zayn craned his neck to take it all in, yet no matter how hard he looked, the top shelves faded into a misty haze.
The books he passed by had no titles or labels on their spines, only smooth surfaces that did not indicate their contents. A chill prickled at his skin.
Eventually, they arrived at a reception desk. The figure silently moved behind it, placing the small book down with careful precision. With one fluid motion, they removed their robe, revealing a startling sight.
The figure was a pale-skinned man with unruly blonde hair, but where his eyes should have been, there were only hollow, dark sockets. Zayn involuntarily took a step back, discomfort evident in his posture.
"Welcome to Libraros," the man said warmly, a stark contrast to his unsettling appearance.
Zayn's mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, he opted to study the desk. It was worn, ancient, and bore the weight of centuries of use. As his gaze wandered, he noticed the small book the figure had set down. It looked eerily familiar. Upon closer inspection, realization struck him—it was a notebook identical to the one he used for taking notes and information.
The figure caught his lingering gaze and smiled. "I found it lying around. Consider it returned."
Zayn hesitated before reaching out and taking the notebook. He tried to open it, but the pages wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he pried, the cover remained stubbornly shut. With a sigh, he placed it back down.
"What happens now?" Zayn asked at last.
The figure's expression softened. "Now it's time for you to begin your Story."
Those words sent cold alarms through Zayn's mind. His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
The figure leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on the desk. "You are here to pick a story and complete it. That is how you become a Character."
Zayn's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Characters. His thoughts scrambled for understanding.
Characters—those elite, supernatural figures capable of challenging and completing Stories, ensuring that dangerous anomalies didn't wreak havoc on the world, all while using strange unmatched powers. They were the heroes, the ones standing between humanity and the unknown but unstoppable threat of Stories.
Zayn had once dreamed of becoming a Character himself, back when he was younger. But reality struck hard. Without talent, without a sign of awakening, the dream had died quietly. He'd turned to studies and knowledge, clinging to the faint hope that it could forge a different path for him.
Yet here he was. With no future, possibly dead and in this strange place.
"That's not possible," Zayn muttered, shaking his head. "I'm not supposed to be able to become a Character."
The figure's expression remained unreadable, his hollow gaze fixed on Zayn. "Why do you think you're here, then?"
Zayn sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like an iron chain. Despite everything he knew telling him that this was absurd, he found himself settling into the idea.
What choice did he really have? The figure before him, the Librarian as it called itself, held all the answers. But those answers came in riddles wrapped in vague phrases.
He crossed his arms, eyeing the pale-skinned figure curiously. "I don't even know who you are."
The Librarian smiled faintly, an expression that looked unsettling on a face devoid of eyes. "I am a simple Librarian," it said.
Zayn raised a brow. "That doesn't really explain much."
"It explains enough."
Seeing that line of inquiry would lead nowhere, Zayn shifted to more pressing concerns. "Fine. Then why am I, of all people here?"
The Librarian's fingers lightly traced the surface of the desk as it spoke. "Because you were chosen."
Zayn frowned. "Chosen for what exactly?"
"To begin your story."
Zayn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But I died, didn't I?"
The Librarian nodded with eerie calm. "Yes, you did."
The bluntness of the confirmation sent a chill crawling down Zayn's spine. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to that. He let silence linger between them before asking, "Why aren't the books around here exploding into Stories?"
"They are not ready to be explored."
"And what if I want to leave?" Zayn's tone was edged with irritation, though he already suspected the answer.
"You may leave when your Story is complete."
Zayn could only sigh, dragging a hand down his face. The lack of control gnawed at him, but he recognized the futility of fighting against something so far out of his understanding. His gaze drifted back to the small notebook resting on the desk. There was something oddly familiar about it, and despite everything, the thought of starting a Story from his own notebook made his stomach churn with unease.
"How do I begin?" he asked at last, resting a hand on the notebook.
The Librarian stepped back slightly. "Select a book and place a drop of your blood on its cover."
Zayn glanced up at the Librarian, surprised by the strange ritual. "That's it?"
The Librarian nodded, but after a pause, it added, "If I may suggest, starting with a smaller book would be wise."
Zayn narrowed his eyes at the notebook beneath his fingers. It was far from large—thin and well-worn, filled with notes from his old classes. But he hesitated, remembering that notebooks and journals couldn't normally become Stories unless every page was filled. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed. The risks of using them were well known, though it was a risk he often took since he couldn't afford the more expensive digital journals others used.
However, he always made sure to get rid of them before reaching the last page.
"In Libraros," the Librarian continued, "any book can hold a story."
Zayn's fingers tightened around the notebook. Hearing that brought no comfort. But despite himself, he lifted the notebook, his thumb grazing its frayed edges.
Now, how to draw blood? His eyes flicked to the desk, spotting a small pen lying beside the notebook. He considered using it, but something about this place made him wary of relying on tools that weren't his own. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to break the skin. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and a droplet rolled off his lip, splattering against the cover of the notebook.
The moment the blood made contact, the notebook trembled in his hand. Zayn's eyes widened as faint golden lines began to trace the edges of the cover. A low hum filled the air, and he glanced at the Librarian, who simply observed in silence.
Before he could speak, light erupted from the notebook, swallowing his vision entirely.