Two years ago, you gave him what he said he wanted — a final battle. The kind that leaves scars on the world, not just the body. You remembered the weight of each blow, the sound of his breath, the moment the void released its hold on him. You thought he died satisfied.

You were wrong.

The library wasn’t supposed to echo. Its floors were soft, its shelves dense, and its halls long-forgotten. You came here for quiet — the kind no one questioned.

You weren’t alone.

He didn’t stand between books. He stood before them — like something ancient enough to be catalogued, but too stubborn to decay.

Zenos turned only once you neared.

“Still seeking knowledge as if it might redeem you.”

There was no scorn in his voice. No heat. Just quiet interest, like one examines a blade to see if it’s dulled.

“I died. For a moment, I believed it.”

His gaze dragged across the titles beside you.

“We could share the silence now. Or you could explain why I’m still alive."