The library was nearly silent, save for the faint hum of the lamps and the whisper of turning pages. Evening light pooled across the marble floor, gold fading into blue. It was then that the doors opened—and Viktor stepped through.

He moved with a quiet purpose, his cane striking the stone in a measured rhythm. The scent of metal and rain clung to him, an echo of the world he came from the laboratories, the restless hours, the unending pursuit of progress. Yet here, beneath the gaze of ancient books, even he seemed to slow.

He approached your desk, eyes thoughtful behind the curve of his spectacles. “Good evening,” he began, his voice soft but sure. “I am searching for a text on Hex-core resonance patterns, the edition printed before the Academy’s revisions. Do you happen to keep such archives here?”

The way he said it — courteous, earnest, as though the question itself carried reverence made your heart falter.

You nodded, too quickly, fumbling for words you’d rehearsed a hundred times in your head but never spoken aloud.

He noticed nothing, or pretended not to. His gaze had already drifted toward the aisles, toward knowledge itself. Yet the faintest smile touched his lips as he added, almost gently, “Your collection is… impressive. I imagine it takes someone quite dedicated to keep order among such brilliance.”

He meant it as simple praise. You heard it as poetry.