The key burned in Lena's palm.
Not as a metaphor.
Actually burned.
Thin trails of smoke rose between her fingers. The metal scorched her skin with the smell of old parchment and something far older—something that didn't belong in this world.
She should've dropped it.
She didn't.
Because the whispers were still going.
And the book—
The dead book—
Was laughing.
---
THE FIRST LOCK
Lena's apartment wasn't destroyed.
It was gone.
Wiped clean.
Where her front door used to be, there was just a flat, featureless wall. The windows reflected only static. The air carried the thick scent of damp ink and something sickly sweet, like fruit left to rot in a coffin.
The key pulsed in her hand. Its jagged teeth moved—melted—shifting like living metal.
"Turn me," it breathed into her mind.
Lena exhaled. Her breath misted in the freezing air.
She wasn't alone.
Behind her, the shadows breathed.
---
THE COLLECTOR'S HAND
Something brushed her spine—a single gloved finger.
She turned fast, the key raised like a weapon—
And froze.
A man stood there in a deep red suit, the color of dried blood. A porcelain mask covered his face, with a single word painted across it:
LIAR.
When he spoke, his voice felt like velvet dragged across rusted nails.
"You really thought it'd be that simple, little Keeper?"
He tilted his head. The mask's hollow eyes stared straight through her.
"Death's just another page. And you—" he tapped the key—"you're holding the bookmark."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
The Collector.
She didn't know how she knew his name. But she did. The word landed cold and sharp in her mind, like a blade slipping between bones.
"What do you want?" she asked.
The mask cracked—just a little. Darkness pulsed from the break.
"What all collectors want."
He reached into his coat.
"The rarest piece."
---
THE SECOND KEY
He didn't pull out a weapon.
He pulled out a box.
Small. Black. Its surface covered in strange carvings—an ouroboros like the one stamped into the book's spine.
As soon as she saw it, the key jerked in her hand, almost leaping toward it.
The Collector chuckled.
"Ah. It knows its twin."
He crouched and placed the box on the floor between them.
"Open it."
Lena didn't move.
"No."
The mask's painted mouth curled wider.
"Then watch."
He snapped his fingers—
And the walls screamed.
---
THE UNLOCKED MEMORY
The apartment peeled apart, opening up like wet paper.
It revealed a library.
Not the flesh archive.
Something worse.
Row after row of shelves faded into the shadows. Cages lined them—small and intricate, their bars braided with what looked like human hair. Inside each one was a book, each one beating softly. Like a heart.
Suspended at the center of it all, tangled in a web of black thread—
Alistair Voss.
Not his corpse.
Not his ghost.
Him.
Alive. Breathing. Terrified. His mouth stitched shut with gold thread, his eyes filled with helpless recognition.
"Lena—"
The sound scraped out of him like a sob.
The Collector tugged a single thread—
And Alistair's mouth tore open.
---
THE THIRD LIE
No words came out.
Only ink.
Thick and black, it spilled from Alistair's throat, slapping the floor in twitching, messy letters:
HE NEVER ESCAPED. HE WAS TAKEN.
The Collector sighed, like a teacher bored by a student's sloppy handwriting.
"All this time, you thought your grandfather was running from the book." He stepped forward, his shoes ticking against the liquid words. "But he was running to it. To me."
Lena's knees weakened.
"Why?"
The mask tilted sideways.
"To make a deal, of course."
He slipped his hand into Alistair's cage—
And pulled out a single page.
Yellowed. Fragile.
Lena stared.
It was her birth certificate.
But where her name should've been—
Nothing.
Just a gaping void, hungry and blank.
---
THE HOLLOW TRUTH
The Collector's voice turned soft. Snake-soft.
"Some stories don't get told, Lena. They get collected."
He held out the page.
"Sign your name. Really sign it this time. And I'll return everything the book stole from you."
Her head swam.
The key in her hand burned even hotter.
All around her, the walls whispered:
"Do it."
Alistair's cage groaned.
The Collector leaned in close.
"Or do you want to find out what happens to Keepers who say no?"
Another snap of his fingers—
And the cage opened.
---
THE LAST OFFER
Alistair fell.
Not onto the floor.
Through it.
Into the void beneath.
His scream kept going, long after he vanished into the dark.
The Collector shrugged.
"Pity. I did enjoy his voice."
He looked at Lena again.
"Your turn."
The key in her hand shifted, twisting.
Its teeth melted into the shape of—
A pen.
The Collector's mask gleamed under invisible light.
"Tick-tock, Keeper."
Lena looked down at the birth certificate.
At the blank space waiting for her name.
Then—
She smiled.
---
THE FINAL GAMBIT
She didn't write her name.
She stabbed it.
The pen-key punched through the page.
The Collector shrieked. His mask split clean down the middle.
From the gap, darkness poured out, his shape unraveling like soaked thread.
"NO! YOU—"
Lena twisted the key deeper.
"I remember now," she whispered.
And the room exploded.
---
THE AFTERMATH
Silence.
Then—breathing.
Lena blinked.
She was back.
Her apartment walls stood solid.
The windows reflected her just like they should.
And in her hand—
The key.
Bent. Broken. Its teeth ruined beyond repair.
But the whispers?
The whispers were louder.
And from the shadows under her bed…
Something scratched.
---