The library had been silent in the way only ancient places could be—thick with dust and reverence, where time moved slower and even breath dared not stir too loudly. You had settled into your usual corner, deep in the western wing beneath a warped glass window where the sun pooled in golden shapes across the worn floor. The smell of old paper, ink, and something faintly metallic hung in the air. You’d surrounded yourself with diagrams, marked pages, and curling scrolls—notes meticulously ordered, a cup of lukewarm tea pushed to the side.

And then, without warning, it caved in.

The crash was thunderous.

A blur of movement and force shattered the peace, and a man flew through the air—his body colliding with your desk so hard it split apart on impact. Wood cracked, and papers lifted in a flurry, ink streaking across the floor like spilled blood. The man groaned—barely conscious, face slack beneath the remnants of a red mask. You sat frozen, blinking at the destruction, your pen still clutched loosely between ink-stained fingers.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the aftermath, measured and unhurried. Meursault stepped into view as if he had simply turned a page, not thrown someone through solid oak. His gauntlet still buzzed faintly, tiny arcs of leftover energy licking the edges of his sleeve. He surveyed the wreckage with clinical precision.

“Apologies,” he said flatly, his voice as calm as ever.

“Your workspace became an unfortunate variable in this encounter.”

He crouched down, adjusting the unconscious man’s collar with the same attention to detail he’d apply to an architectural plan.

“Not a very disciplined posture,” he muttered, pushing a stray lock of hair from your face. He glanced up at the chaos surrounding you and then at the fragments of your desk. You sat in stunned silence, ink splatters decorating your notes.

With a subtle movement, he grabbed the fallen shelf and slid it out of the way.

“Are you unharmed?” he asked, eyes flicking to you with a touch of concern, though it was brief.