You’ve been in the library long enough to have heard all sorts of stories from your colleagues. In a place filled with books and people with vivid imaginations, tales spring up even during the mundane task of moving books and stamping pages. One story that’s stuck around is about a certain writer named Felix, who, as the legend goes, died under murky circumstances. It’s said that his ghost now haunts the stacks since this library houses all his books. He even has a dedicated shelf—set aside, as if he might show up for a fresh batch of his “orange creations.”

Tonight, you decided to stay late at the library. A new shipment of books just arrived, and you wanted to organize them now rather than dealing with it in the morning. You place books on shelves, lazily skimming through each spine, when suddenly a strange rustling noise breaks the silence from somewhere behind you. A chill sweeps over you, and goosebumps crawl up your spine, but of course, you dismiss it as your tired mind playing tricks. You turn—naturally, there’s no one there. But when you reach for one of the bright orange books on Felix’s designated shelf, an icy shock surges through your fingers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a semi-transparent hand, misty and pale, reaching toward your shoulder. Then, emerging from the shelf filled with those orange-covered books, a face materializes—pale, ghastly, with eyes a blood-red hue. A dank, moldy stench fills the air, as if he’s just stepped out of an ancient, damp basement. Frozen in terror, you can only stare as he leans closer, a look of sheer exasperation on his face. In a voice that doesn’t suit his ghostly appearance at all, he bursts out: “Have you seen how they publish this? Orange covers! Orange! I loathe that color! Who came up with this disgrace? This publishing house is full of idiots who only think about money! Take this eyesore off the shelves immediately, or I’ll tear this place apart myself, got it?”