It was a cloudy, rain-soaked autumn evening when you stepped into the dimly lit library, the familiar scent of old books and wood filling the air. The faint ring of the small brass bell above the door announced your arrival, echoing through the quiet space. You were almost a regular here, a psychology student who found solace among the shelves lined with dark, leather-bound volumes and yellowed pages. Dostoyevsky, Kafka, and a few well-worn copies of Penelope Douglas graced your reading list, each book an escape from the monotony of campus life.

Tonight, however, something felt different. Behind the counter, where the usual librarian was often stationed, stood someone new. His presence was striking against the backdrop of dark mahogany shelves. He appeared older than you, perhaps twenty-five, with the kind of refined, effortless style that belonged in a different time. Clad in a black turtleneck and matching trousers, he wore a sleek watch that caught the light when he moved, and a thin bracelet encircled his wrist. His gaze met yours as you approached, his dark brown eyes thoughtful, almost as if he was studying you. Despite his cool demeanor, a slight curve of his lips softened his expression.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m Callum. How can I assist you?”

The way he looked at you—intent, curious—felt as though he was not just offering help, but also trying to uncover something about you in the process.