Lord of Perverted Ladies

The drive to Eastbridge Central Library was quieter than any of us expected.

Detective Hale sat behind the wheel without turning on the radio. Noah occupied the passenger seat while I sat in the back, the brass key resting in my pocket. Every few minutes it vibrated, each pulse stronger than the last, almost like it was responding to something waiting ahead rather than simply pointing toward a destination.

The countdown remained in the corner of my vision.

22:56:41

Twenty-two hours.

Whoever the Second Observer was, they were moving closer.

By the time Hale parked across the street, the library had just opened.

Students drifted through the revolving doors carrying laptops and backpacks. Elderly readers unfolded newspapers in the front garden. A mother helped her daughter return a stack of children’s books.

Nothing about the building suggested it hid impossible corridors or erased histories.

It was one of the oldest public buildings in Eastbridge.

Four stories of weathered sandstone, tall stained-glass windows and marble columns blackened by decades of rain. A bronze plaque beside the entrance proudly declared that the library had served the city for over a century.

People passed that plaque every day.

No one looked at it.

The moment my foot touched the pavement, the brass key grew almost painfully warm.

Detective Hale noticed me flinch.

”The key again?”

I nodded.

”It’s reacting.”

He looked at the building for a long moment.

”I’ve spent half my career believing evidence tells the truth.”

A tired smile crossed his face.

”Now I think places lie.”

We entered together.

The smell hit me first.

Old paper.

Dust.

Leather.

Coffee from the small café near the entrance.

The familiar scent should have been comforting.

Instead, it reminded me of the underground chamber beneath the freight depot.

Exactly the same smell.

Noah must have noticed it too.

”You thinking what I’m thinking?”

”The tunnels.”

He nodded.

”It can’t be a coincidence.”

A receptionist looked up from the information desk.

”Good morning.”

”Can I help you?”

Detective Hale produced his badge.

”We’re following up on an old investigation.”

Her expression immediately became more serious.

”Of course.”

”What do you need?”

”We’d like access to your historical archives.”

She hesitated.

”The archives aren’t open to the public.”

”We have permission.”

Hale handed over a document.

She examined it before nodding.

”I’ll call Mr. Whitmore.”

While she made the call, I wandered toward a large directory map fixed to the wall.

Ground Floor.

First Floor.

Second Floor.

Third Floor.

Archives.

Everything appeared normal.

Then I noticed something.

The numbering skipped.

There was no mention of a basement.

Exactly like the freight depot.

The notebook inside my backpack suddenly shifted.

I quietly unzipped the bag just enough to look inside.

Its pages had opened by themselves.

Fresh words spread slowly across the paper.

Maps only show remembered places.

Before I could read further, footsteps approached.

An elderly man wearing a grey cardigan stopped beside the receptionist.

He looked to be in his late seventies.

Thin.

Neatly combed white hair.

Sharp blue eyes hidden behind thick glasses.

”This is Detective Hale?”

Hale stepped forward.

”I am.”

”I’m Edwin Whitmore.”

”Chief Archivist.”

He shook each of our hands.

When his fingers wrapped around mine, his smile faltered for the briefest moment.

Almost imperceptibly.

But I noticed.

”So...”

He said carefully.

”You’re Adrian.”

I froze.

”I don’t believe we’ve met.”

His smile returned.

”No.”

”I suppose not.”

”But your face seemed familiar.”

A lie.

Not an obvious one.

Just enough hesitation to make me certain.

He knew exactly who I was.

Whitmore led us through the reading rooms toward the rear of the library.

Rows of towering shelves surrounded us.

Students whispered over textbooks.

Researchers copied notes from ancient newspapers.

Everything felt perfectly ordinary.

Yet the deeper we walked...

The quieter the building became.

By the time we reached the archive wing, I realised something strange.

We hadn’t passed a single security camera.

Not one.

Whitmore unlocked a heavy oak door.

”The city’s historical collection.”

Shelves stretched farther than I expected.

Thousands of carefully labelled boxes.

Bound newspapers.

Handwritten journals.

Property records.

Election documents.

Birth certificates.

Over a hundred years of Eastbridge’s history.

Whitmore folded his hands behind his back.

”What exactly are you looking for?”

Hale answered immediately.

”Construction records.”

”May nineteen eighty-nine.”

”The renovation beneath the eastern archive.”

Whitmore’s expression didn’t change.

”There wasn’t any renovation beneath the archives.”

Noah and I exchanged a glance.

Hale removed the newspaper clipping.

”There was.”

Whitmore adjusted his glasses before reading it.

His eyebrows slowly rose.

”...Interesting.”

”You’ve never seen this?”

”No.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

”This article shouldn’t exist.”

Those words echoed through the room.

Shouldn’t exist.

Not couldn’t.

Shouldn’t.

Hale caught it too.

”What do you mean?”

Whitmore carefully returned the clipping.

”Because I supervised the renovation.”

My heartbeat quickened.

”There wasn’t any chamber.”

”There weren’t any underground tunnels.”

”There was damaged flooring.”

”Nothing else.”

He paused.

”Unless...”

His eyes drifted toward me.

”...you’ve found evidence suggesting otherwise.”

Before I could answer, the brass key became scorching hot.

I instinctively pulled it from my pocket.

The metal trembled violently.

Whitmore’s face lost all colour.

”No...”

He whispered.

”That can’t be...”

He stared directly at the key.

”Where did you get that?”

No one answered.

He took a slow step backward.

”I buried it.”

Silence filled the archive.

Whitmore looked horrified by his own words.

He covered his mouth.

”I...”

He frowned deeply.

”I don’t...”

His breathing became uneven.

”I don’t remember saying that.”

The notebook burst open inside my backpack.

Pages flipped wildly.

Blue windows flooded my vision.

______

[Memory Conflict Detected]

External Suppression Active.

A preserved memory has resurfaced.

______

Whitmore grabbed the nearest table to steady himself.

His eyes were unfocused.

”I remember...”

He whispered.

”There was...”

He pressed both hands against his temples.

”...a door.”

Noah stepped forward.

”Mr. Whitmore?”

”I sealed it.”

His breathing quickened.

”Someone told me...”

”...never to let anyone open it again.”

”Who?”

Hale asked quietly.

Whitmore looked up.

Terror spread across his face.

”I don’t know.”

”I can’t remember his name.”

”But...”

Tears welled in his eyes.

”...he looked exactly like me.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody even breathed.

Whitmore suddenly stumbled toward one of the archive shelves.

His trembling hands searched the upper compartments.

”No...”

”It should still be here.”

”It has to be.”

He pulled out one box after another.

Empty.

Another.

Empty.

Another.

Nothing.

”What are you looking for?”

Noah asked.

Whitmore didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached the final shelf and stopped.

His shoulders slowly slumped.

”It’s gone.”

”What is?”

”The ledger.”

”The original archive ledger.”

”It recorded...”

He stopped speaking.

His eyes widened.

He looked over my shoulder.

Not at me.

Behind me.

Very slowly...

I turned around.

At the far end of the archive stood a man.

Tall.

Dark overcoat.

Silver hair.

Lucien.

He wasn’t smiling this time.

His expression was almost... disappointed.

He raised one finger to his lips.

A gesture asking for silence.

Whitmore continued staring.

”You...”

His voice trembled.

”You came back.”

Lucien spoke so softly I almost didn’t hear him.

”I never left.”

Whitmore began crying.

Not loudly.

Just quiet tears rolling down an old man’s face.

”I did everything you asked.”

”I locked the door.”

”I burned the plans.”

”I forgot...”

His voice broke.

”I forgot...”

Lucien looked almost sympathetic.

”I know.”

”You did well.”

Then his eyes met mine.

For the first time since the warehouse...

I felt as though he wasn’t merely looking at me.

He was measuring me.

Studying every thought I hadn’t spoken aloud.

”You’ve inherited inconvenient habits.”

His voice remained calm.

”So did Elias.”

I took an involuntary step forward.

”What are you?”

Lucien smiled faintly.

”Still asking the smallest question.”

He glanced toward the brass key in my hand.

”Be careful where you use it.”

”There are doors that remain closed out of mercy.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question.

A loud crash echoed somewhere above us.

Books fell from distant shelves.

People shouted.

Emergency alarms suddenly began ringing throughout the building.

Whitmore looked toward the ceiling in horror.

”No...”

He whispered.

”Someone else found it.”

The System exploded into view before my eyes.

______

[Critical Story Event]

The Second Observer has entered Eastbridge Central Library.

Narrative Collision Imminent.

Estimated Contact:

00:04:59

Survive.

Remember.

Do not surrender the Historian’s Key.

______

The five-minute countdown began.

When I looked back toward Lucien...

He was already gone.

Only one book remained standing upright on the empty shelf where he had been.

Its cover bore no title.

Across its spine, written in faded gold letters, was a single number.

117.