The door creaked open, revealing only darkness.
Ezra hesitated at the threshold, the weight of the unknown pressing against his chest. The air beyond the doorway was thick—not musty, not stale, just… dense. Like stepping into a place where time moved differently.
A single step forward, and the world shifted.
The sounds of the city behind him muffled, then disappeared entirely.
Inside, faint candlelight flickered against the walls. The space was narrow, more of a corridor than a room, lined with bookshelves stacked haphazardly, filled with aged tomes and loose sheets of parchment. The scent of old paper and something faintly metallic—iron? Blood?—lingered in the air.
Ezra stepped forward, his fingers brushing the spines of the books.
No titles. No markings. Books that did not wish to be known.
A voice broke the silence.
"You are early."
Ezra turned sharply.
At the far end of the room, a figure sat at a writing desk.
A man—thin, dressed in dark robes, his face obscured by the flickering candlelight. His hands were ink-stained, fingers tapping lightly against the desk as if keeping time with a rhythm only he could hear.
Ezra's throat tightened. He hadn't heard anyone enter.
And yet, the man spoke as if he had been waiting.
Ezra steadied himself. "Who are you?"
The man lifted his head slightly. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken but sharp—too sharp. Like he could see more than what was in front of him.
"That is not the right question."
Ezra clenched his jaw. He had spent years as a journalist. He knew when someone was playing with him.
"Fine," he said, folding his arms. "What is this place?"
The man's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.
"A wound," he said simply. "A crack where the world forgets to look."
Ezra's pulse quickened. The cracks in the world. The phrase from The Hidden Laws.
"You knew Crowne," Ezra pressed. "You were part of his research."
The man's expression remained unreadable. "Dr. Crowne was… persistent." A pause. "Too persistent."
Ezra narrowed his eyes. "And what happened to him?"
The man exhaled, a slow, measured breath. "He learned a name that was not meant to be remembered."
Something in his voice sent a shiver down Ezra's spine.
"A name?"
The man gestured to the books around him. "Names have weight, Mr. Lockwood. They are not merely labels—they are bindings. To speak a name is to acknowledge it. To acknowledge it is to invite it in."
Ezra swallowed. "And Crowne… invited something in?"
The man leaned forward slightly. The candlelight caught his features, revealing a thin, jagged scar running across his cheek.
"He called it by its forgotten name." His voice was lower now, almost reverent. "And it answered."
A chill spread down Ezra's spine.
The whispers. The vanishing records. The things watching from the dark.
He tightened his grip on his coat. "If you know so much, then tell me—what happens if I keep going?"
The man studied him for a long moment. Then he reached into his robes and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment.
He slid it across the desk.
Ezra hesitated before picking it up. The paper was aged, brittle at the edges.
He unfolded it carefully—
And froze.
A name was written in precise, dark ink.
A name Ezra had never seen before.
And yet—
Something deep in his mind recoiled.
The room felt colder. The candlelight dimmed, the shadows pressing closer.
Ezra's breath came uneven. "What is this?"
The man's voice was quiet.
"A name that does not want to be known."
A whisper curled through the air.
The shadows moved.