I've always believed libraries are alive.
Not the ghost-in-the-wall kind of alive. More like… ancient temples. Their silence is sacred, and every book you touch feels like opening a vein into someone else's soul.
That's probably why I spend most evenings hiding in the north wing of our university library on the third floor, far from the coffee machine and campus couples pretending to study. It's quiet here. Dusty. Forgotten.
And perfect.
I sit curled up by the window, knees bent against the soft leather of a worn reading chair, completely engrossed in Sherlock Holmes: His Last Bow. The pages are yellowed, the spine cracked, but the words still carry weight. Doyle has this way of slipping cold logic into sentences that read like poetry.
Just as Holmes delivers his final lines, the chair opposite mine creaks.
"I still think you're a freak."
I look up, unsurprised.
Mei Ling leans back in the chair, her sneakers kicked off and her long legs crossed, backpack sagging beside her like it's given up on life. She grins as she pulls her hair into a messy bun. I'm used to her sudden entrances she has this way of making silence feel optional.
"A freak?" I ask, closing the book softly. "That's a new one."
"Mmhm." She pops a piece of gum. "Who the hell reads Sherlock Holmes for fun? At midnight. Alone. In a library no one visits. That's like serial killer energy."
I raise a brow. "Better than TikTok in the bathroom."
She laughs. "Low blow, Xiao Zhen."
I don't reply, just tuck the book onto the shelf beside me.
"Seriously though," she adds, watching me, "you're obsessed with mystery novels. Horror, thrillers, dead people, weird detectives with zero social skills…"
"I love any good writing," I say simply. "Mystery's just the sharpest kind. It demands your brain."
She rolls her eyes. "You need help."
"You need taste."
"You need therapy."
"You need an attention span."
We both smile.
Mei Ling's been trying to 'get to know me better' since our second semester. She never says it directly, but I see it in the way her eyes linger on mine a little too long, in the messages she sends when I don't show up to class, and in the way she always 'accidentally' bumps into me around campus.
And while I don't mind her company… I can't give her what she wants.
I'm not broken or numb. I just… I'm not looking for that. Not with her. Not with anyone, really.
So I stood up. "It's late."
"Leaving already?" Her voice dips.
"Got to finish an assignment." A lie. But a gentle one.
"Right," she says softly, eyes lowering as she stuffs her things into her bag.
I give her a brief nod and head out before the awkwardness catches fire. I hate hurting people, especially someone like Mei Ling, who's never been anything but kind. But pretending would be worse.
The campus is quiet as I walk toward the parking lot. Autumn leaves rustle underfoot, and the air smells of old paper and rain.
---
By the time I reach my apartment, the city has settled into that soft midnight silence I love.
My place is on the 7th floor — a sleek, modern studio with too many windows and not enough furniture. I live alone. By choice. My family offers better, bigger, louder things. But I prefer this.
Mom still texts daily.
Did you eat properly today? Did you take a break from the screen? I miss your face.
She's a writer — and the warmest person I've ever known. Her novels make middle-aged women cry and young girls believe in magic. My father, on the other hand, is a surgeon. Brilliant. Respected. Often absent.
But never cruel.
He never makes me feel unwanted — just unreachable. Like he exists in a realm of schedules and scalpel blades I'll never touch.
Then there are my brothers — the golden boys. Xiao Yuren, the lawyer with a taste for speeches. Xiao Renyu, the high school teacher who somehow makes algebra look cool. They both love me fiercely, spoil me stupid, and never let me forget I'm the "baby" of the family.
I'm nineteen. Currently pursuing a degree in Computer Science.
I like code. It's quiet, logical, and fixable — unlike people.
Dinner is leftover pasta. I eat while watching a documentary on AI evolution and then brush, shower, and do the boring ritual of checking messages I won't reply to.
By 1:30 a.m., I'm in bed.
The city outside is still awake, glowing faintly through the sheer curtains. I stare at the ceiling for a while, thoughts drifting between Sherlock, Mei Ling's words, and the unfinished Python project due next week.
Eventually, sleep finds me.
---
And then darkness finds me.
I don't realize it's a dream until I feel the blood on my hands.
Thick. Sticky. Warm.
I'm standing in a field of bodies. Hundreds of them — men in strange armor, eyes wide, mouths open, throats cut. The sky above is red. Not sunset-red. Dying-red. And all around me, the ground is soaked. Muddy. It squelches beneath my feet.
A sword is in my hand.
My face — reflected faintly in a shattered helmet at my feet — is smeared with blood.
Not mine.
I'm breathing like a beast. Uncontrollably.
And I'm laughing.
Not hysterically. But not normally either. Like something inside me has snapped — or maybe awakened.
I gasp awake.
---
I sit up, heart racing.
The room is cold. My shirt clings to my back with sweat. The time on my phone reads 4:49 a.m.
"Okay, Xiao Zhen," I whisper, rubbing my eyes, "maybe less Sherlock before bed."
The dream still clings to me like cobwebs. I can smell the blood. Hear the crunch of bone beneath boots.
It unsettles me.
I'm not the military type. I can't even run 5 km without wheezing like an asthmatic goat. Me? With a sword? Laughing over corpses?
Ridiculous.
Still, I can't go back to sleep.
I pull on my hoodie, slide on shoes, and step out for a walk.
---
The sky is shifting into blue-grey. The city is still half-asleep — only a few early joggers, delivery vans, and stray cats stirring.
I wander aimlessly, letting the wind clear my head.
And that's when I hear it.
A scream.
Sharp. Sudden. Female.
It comes from a narrow alley — one I don't recognize, tucked between two rusted warehouses on the edge of the industrial quarter.
Something about it… feels wrong.
I step closer.
And freeze.
There's a shadow on the wall.
Not a normal one.
It's moving.
Like smoke, but heavier. Blacker than night. It pulses — like a heart — and then begins to stretch.
Right in front of me, the air twists.
Like a hole. A void. A tear in reality.
The shadow begins to widen. Grow. Stretch until it touches the ground.
I stumble back, but it's too late.
It leaps.
Not walks. Not slithers. Leaps.
Straight at me.
I scream — or try to — but the sound never comes.
The last thing I see is the sky above — splitting.
And the bracelet from my dream.
Two phoenix heads, glowing.
Then darkness swallows me whole.