The Library's silence broke again.
Stone groaned. The atrium's walls shifted, seams yawning open. What had once looked solid now revealed narrow passages stretching outward, like veins branching from a heart.
For the first time since they woke, the survivors glimpsed something other than the endless hall.
Rooms.
If they could be called that.
Bare, windowless, cell-like. Each no larger than a coffin tipped upright. A slab of stone in the center was the only "bed," though it looked harder than the floor they'd been curled on.
Still, the sight drew gasps. Relief. Hope.
Some laughed. Others wept.
"Finally… finally somewhere to rest."
The relief didn't last.
"How many are there?" someone asked.
They counted. Whispers rippled down the line. Not enough.
Seventy-three names on the wall. Barely half as many rooms.
The first sparks of tension lit.
"Pairs then. We'll share."
"With who? You? I don't even know you."
"Better than the floor, isn't it?"
"No. Not if I wake up with a knife in my ribs."
The boy who still hadn't woken moaned faintly where he lay in the atrium. No one volunteered to carry him to a chamber.
The knife-holder smirked, leaned on his blade. "Simple solution. First come, first served."
The cropped-hair girl snapped back. "So you get to decide who freezes on the floor while you stretch out in comfort? That's your plan?"
"Comfort?" He barked a laugh. "Look at it. It's a rock. But at least it's mine."
He shoved past, staking claim to the first chamber. No one dared follow.
What began as relief became negotiations.
Pairs huddled, whispering. Some struck bargains — I'll keep watch if you let me share. Others grew sharp, spitting accusations of favoritism or hidden agendas.
One group tried to draw lots with scraps of torn robe. The knife-holder sneered, flicked his blade across the floor, and scattered them.
"You think luck means anything here?"
The young man lingered at the threshold of one chamber, studying its emptiness. Stone bed. Stone walls. No lock. No door.
A cell disguised as a gift.
He imagined lying there, closing his eyes. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could stand over him, waiting.
Rest wasn't safety. It was exposure.
He stepped back.
Better to stay in the atrium. Better to keep eyes open.
Whispers spread.
"Don't trust anyone."
"They're watching us while we sleep."
"Not everyone's here for the same reason."
The words cut through the crowd like glass. Some froze. Some turned, suspicious, scanning faces.
The thin girl rocked on her heels, smiling faintly, as if she'd expected this moment. "It makes sense. The Library isn't random. We were chosen."
"Chosen for what?" someone snapped.
Her eyes gleamed. "That's the real question, isn't it?"
---
By the time the group settled, the Library had fractured again.
Half retreated into the narrow cells, trying to believe in the lie of walls.
Half stayed in the atrium, backs to stone, eyes darting through the dim glow.
Sleep didn't come. Not real sleep. Just snatches of half-dreams, cut short by fear of the sound of footsteps in the dark.
And above it all, the number burned steady.
73.
Watching. Waiting.