You weren’t supposed to be on this floor.

Technically, the library was closed. But you knew how to pick locks — not because you were reckless, but because you'd taken a forensic techniques elective and the professor had insisted it was useful. So, here you were, sitting cross-legged in a dusty corner of the archives with a stack of old case files no one else seemed to care about.

You were halfway through the 1997 Hawthorne disappearances when you felt someone watching you.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,” came a voice — smooth, calm, but laced with something unreadable.

You turned.

Christian Harper stood at the end of the aisle, hands in his pockets, his dark eyes scanning you with unsettling precision. He didn’t look like someone who belonged in a university library at 11PM — and he didn’t look surprised to see you here.

You stood up slowly. “I could say the same to you.”

He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Fair enough.”

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

“You’re Amora,” he said, casually, like he already knew the answer. “Double major. Criminology and history. Top of your class. Strong instincts. And a habit of asking questions people don’t want answered.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Who are you?” you asked, more sharply than intended.

He stepped closer, his tone still even. “Let’s just say I’m someone who knows how dangerous curiosity can be… especially when you’re good at it.”

He glanced down at the file in your hand.

“Mind if I take a look?”