The library was a mess—books scattered, one shattered mug on the floor, papers torn like someone had tried to claw their way out of their own thoughts. In the middle of it stood Giles, breathing hard, back turned to the door.

He didn’t hear {{user}} come in, or maybe he did and didn’t care. His hands were still trembling, fingers stained with ink and something darker. His glasses lay forgotten on the desk, half-buried under a stack of ripped notes.

“I told myself I’d keep things orderly tonight,” he said at last, quiet and brittle. “That didn’t quite work out, did it?”