The waiting gnawed at them.
The hall had no windows, no doors but the one they had already checked a dozen times, and no sound except the restless shifting of seventy-three strangers who didn't know if they were alive or dead. The glowing number above them had not changed since they first noticed it.
Some clung to the walls, curled like children who wanted to vanish inside themselves. Others paced, their bare feet whispering against the stone floor, circling and circling until their movements set everyone else on edge. A few had tried speaking, even joking, but the air was too heavy for laughter. Every word felt stolen.
The young man sat near the middle of the hall, elbows on his knees, watching. His eyes moved without rest — from the anxious woman who kept wringing the hem of her robe until it frayed, to the broad-shouldered boy who muttered under his breath like he was preparing a fight, to the cluster of five who had taken to whispering together as if secrecy could anchor them.
He said nothing. Silence had always been his shield.
A girl with cropped hair finally snapped. "We can't just sit here," she said, voice sharp. "We'll starve."
That broke the fragile quiet.
"We don't even know if we need to eat!" a man shouted back, though his voice shook. "What if this is… after? What if none of that matters anymore?"
"And what if it does?" another woman countered. "We can't just wait to find out. If we don't act, we're dead anyway."
Dead. The word echoed, too loud. The boy who muttered under his breath stopped pacing and stared at the number 73 above them as though it were a countdown.
The young man kept his eyes down, but he listened. Always listened.
---
It didn't take long for a handful of them to start moving, testing the hall's walls with their palms, knocking to hear if something hollow answered back. Others stayed where they were, too afraid to even stand.
The young man rose quietly when he saw one of the searchers pause near the far wall. A faint seam traced the stone, almost invisible, like an old scar. The searcher pressed their fingers against it and the seam shuddered.
"Here!" the searcher shouted.
The crowd surged as if dragged by a string. The young man held back, hanging at the edges while the group clustered tight around the seam.
It wasn't a door. Not exactly. But the stone gave way, sinking inward, until a shallow alcove yawned before them. Dust drifted, old and gray. Inside, resting upright on the cold surface, was an object none of them could mistake: a book.
Its cover was colorless, blank as if it had never been written. No title, no markings. Just a silent weight in the dark.
Whispers hissed.
"A book…?"
"Is this a trick?"
"Don't touch it."
"It has to mean something."
The young man stepped closer, but did not push into the crowd. His gaze fixed on the book the way a starving man stares at bread — but his expression didn't change. Only his fingers curled tighter at his side.
The tension broke when someone shoved forward, a wiry youth with a too-bright grin. "If none of you will," he said, "then I will."
"Wait—!"
Too late. He snatched the book out of the alcove. The stone sealed itself behind him with a heavy sound, cutting off escape.
The book pulsed faintly in his grip, as though veins of light ran beneath its cover. His grin wavered.
"What's it doing…?"
He opened it.
The hall held its breath.
The first page was blank. But the moment his eyes landed on it, a sharp gleam flickered in the air before him. Metal scraped against stone as something impossible slid into existence — a knife, plain and real, its edge catching the faint glow of the number overhead.
Screams tore through the group. Some stumbled back, others pressed closer, desperate to see.
"It gave him—"
"A weapon—"
"Put it down!"
The youth laughed, shaky but wild. He held the knife high, testing its weight. "You see this? We're not helpless anymore. Whatever this place is, we're not just—"
He cut off with a strangled cry. His knees buckled, the knife nearly slipping from his hand. Blood trickled from his nose, red stark against his pale skin.
"Hey! What's happening?" someone shouted.
The young man's eyes narrowed. He didn't rush forward like the others. He only watched as the youth trembled, clutching the book tighter, until at last the knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He collapsed beside it, gasping, his face gray.
The knife remained. Real.
The group froze. No one dared touch it.
---
The young man finally stepped forward, his shadow cutting across the fallen boy. He crouched, not to help but to see. The youth's eyes rolled back, his breath ragged. Whatever power had given him the weapon had also taken something in return.
The young man reached out — not for the boy, but for the book.
Gasps erupted.
"Don't!"
"It'll kill you too!"
"Leave it!"
He ignored them. His hand hovered above the cover, not touching. He could feel it — a pulse, faint but steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. He pulled back before anyone could stop him.
Someone else seized the knife instead, a broad-shouldered man with trembling hands. He held it as if it might vanish. "We can protect ourselves now," he said hoarsely. "No one touches me. No one."
That was the spark.
The crowd split. Some wanted the knife. Some feared it. Some whispered about more books hidden in the walls. Arguments flared, voices rising like fire feeding on air.
"It gave him what he wanted—"
"No, it nearly killed him—"
"What if we need them to survive?"
"What if they're curses?"
The young man stood, letting the storm of voices wash over him. His eyes returned to the number 73. Still glowing. Still unchanged.
So this was how it would be.
Not just hunger. Not just fear. But suspicion, greed, desperation. Tools that could save them — or destroy them.
The youth on the floor groaned faintly. No one helped him. Their eyes were fixed on the book and the knife.
The young man turned away, his face calm though his mind burned. He wasn't thinking of the knife, or the book.
He was thinking of what it meant.
And what it would cost.
---
By the time the shouting dulled to whispers, no one felt safe. Some huddled tighter, eyes darting to the broad-shouldered man who now held the knife like a throne. Others sat apart, staring at their own hands as though wondering what else the books might conjure.
The youth who had opened the book lay unmoving. Not dead — not yet. But weaker than before, as though something essential had been drained.
Above them, the number 73 glowed on. Silent. Watching.
And every pair of eyes in the hall kept returning to it, wondering what it would show them next.