“Rule number one,” said Markel Hoffman, sliding a cigarette between his fingers but never lighting it. “No one knows who we are. Not the police, not the press, not even the victims. You’re just a consultant—nothing more.”

The morning sun slanted through the half-tinted windshield as their car rolled toward the **Central City Library**, sirens and traffic fading behind them.  

Ed sat beside him, wearing a plain gray coat, no badge, no insignia. Just another face in the crowd.

“Understood,” Ed replied. “But you mentioned the cause was… a book?”

Hoffman exhaled, eyes fixed on the road. “Not just any book. It’s called *The Shifting Tome*—or at least, that’s what it was named in the 1940s when the Foundation first heard about it. It’s an anomaly that adapts its contents to whoever opens it. For one reader, it’s a romance. For another, a manual on forbidden sciences. Whatever it takes to keep you reading.”

“And the cost?” Ed asked quietly.

“Your mind,” Hoffman said flatly. “People lose themselves in it. It rewrites their desires until they can’t tell where the words end and their thoughts begin.”

The SUV stopped in front of the old neoclassical building. Yellow police tape fluttered near the entrance, though there were no officers in sight—A.R.C. had already seen to that. Two plainclothes agents stood by the door, pretending to be city inspectors.

As they stepped inside, the scent of paper and dust hung heavy in the air. Rows upon rows of books stretched into the dim distance. The silence felt unnatural, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Hoffman adjusted his earpiece. “Containment perimeter established. Non-essential staff have been evacuated. Stay alert.”

They moved deeper, flashlights slicing through the gloom. Tables were overturned. Books lay scattered, pages torn and smeared with ink—no, not ink. Blood.

At the far end of the hall, Ed noticed a trembling librarian crouched against a shelf, whispering to herself. “It’s beautiful… it’s beautiful… the words—they’re alive…”

Hoffman knelt beside her and gently closed the half-burned notebook clutched in her hands. The cover shifted for a moment—its title rearranging itself from *Poetry of Autumn* to *The Endless City*. Then it went still.

Ed’s breath caught. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” Hoffman said, his tone grim. “It’s adapting. Which means it’s here.”

They exchanged a look—silent understanding between predator and prey.

“Protocol six,” Hoffman murmured. “No physical contact. No direct reading. We’ll call in R-Division for containment once we locate the core volume.”

As they moved toward the restricted archives, Ed glanced at the walls, noticing faint sigils etched into the marble—protective seals drawn decades ago, maybe by someone who had tried to stop this before.

“Why hide it in a public library?” he asked.

“Because no one would think to look here,” Hoffman said. “The Foundation lost track of the Tome forty years ago. My bet is, someone donated it—unknowingly.”

They reached the inner reading hall.  

A single book lay open on the central table, its pages fluttering though there was no wind. The air around it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

Ed took one cautious step forward, feeling a faint pull in his mind—as if the book was whispering directly to him, showing him memories he’d never lived.

He heard Hoffman’s voice, distant but sharp:  

“Don’t look at it, Ed! Not even a glance!”

Ed blinked, snapping out of the trance. Sweat trickled down his temple.

Hoffman holstered his weapon—not a gun, but a containment emitter. “This thing doesn’t kill you,” he muttered. “It makes you *want* to kill yourself.”

As they prepared the seal, the lights flickered again.  

From somewhere between the shelves, a faint rustle echoed—like a thousand pages turning at once.

Ed’s first mission had just begun.  

And the book… was already awake.