The morning came without light.
The library had no windows, no rising sun, no hint of time passing—only the soft, eternal glow of its shifting lamps. Yet the bodies scattered across the atrium knew morning had come, if only because their muscles ached from stone floors and their eyes burned from half-sleep. No one had truly rested.
Those who'd taken the side chambers emerged pale and brittle, their faces tight as though they'd spent the night listening for knives in the dark. The few who'd stayed in the atrium—choosing to curl up beneath the projection wall instead—were just as hollow-eyed, though they carried themselves with a strange defiance, as if daring the Library itself to harm them.
The air between both groups was brittle. No one had spoken a word yet, but suspicion clung to them like a fog.
The young man—leaner than most, his movements measured, his eyes calculating—sat apart from them, watching. He had barely dozed all night. Each creak of the Library had pulled him awake, his heart pounding, his body braced for something unseen. Even now, he studied the others, not out of malice but survival instinct.
It was then that the knife-holder, a broad-shouldered man with coarse stubble, dragged himself upright. He twirled the blade between his fingers, smirking.
"Sleep well?" he drawled. His voice was hoarse, cracked from thirst. "I didn't. Kept waiting for someone to slip into my room. Funny thing, though. Nobody did. Guess you're all cowards after all."
Several pairs of eyes flicked toward him—some angry, others frightened. No one answered.
The silence was broken instead by a low rumble. Someone's stomach. Then another. A girl pressed her arms across her abdomen, cheeks flushed in shame as her body betrayed her need.
The young man noticed. His throat, too, felt dry as sandpaper. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth whenever he tried to swallow. Yesterday, adrenaline had dulled the hunger and thirst, but now the absence of food and water pressed against all of them like a vice.
He forced himself to speak at last, voice even. "How long can we survive like this?"
It was not a question aimed at anyone in particular, but it spread quickly through the atrium. A thin boy sitting near the steps whispered, "Three days without water. Maybe a week without food. That's what they say."
The knife-holder barked a humorless laugh. "That's if you're lucky. Half of you look ready to drop now."
As if on cue, one of the women swayed on her feet, then collapsed to her knees. Someone rushed to steady her. The moment injected panic into the air like poison.
"What if that number—" a voice hissed, pointing upward. All heads tilted to the wall where the glowing projection remained steady: 73.
Unchanging. Silent. Watching.
"What if it drops when someone dies?" the voice continued. "What if it's counting us?"
Others began murmuring.
"No—it could be time."
"Hours left."
"Or days. Or… or…"
"Or how many books there are," another suggested, voice trembling.
But no matter how they rationalized, the weight of the number pressed down on them all. 73. A ceiling above their heads. A shadow over every breath.
The young man's eyes lingered on it longer than most. He did not join the speculation. Instead, he studied the projection with the same intensity one might study a lock they intended to pick. But even his sharp mind could not divine its meaning. The Library revealed what it wanted when it wanted.
As the whispers grew, the girl with the braid—nervous fingers constantly plucking at her sleeve—sat cross-legged near the edge of the group. She clutched something in her lap, hidden partly beneath her robe. The young man noticed because she held it too tightly, her knuckles white.
Then, as though compelled, she opened it.
A faint flare of light escaped, subtle but sharp enough to make those closest recoil. The object was a book—thin, leather-bound, its cover etched with faint patterns that seemed to shift when looked at too long.
"What is that?" someone demanded.
The girl's eyes went wide. She slammed it shut, hugging it to her chest. "I—I don't know. I just found it. Near the chambers."
Murmurs erupted.
"Another trick?"
"Give it here."
"Don't hide things from us."
The knife-holder stepped forward, blade catching the lamplight. "If it's useful, it belongs to all of us."
"No!" she snapped, surprising even herself. "It's mine."
The young man's gaze sharpened. Not because he desired the book—not yet—but because he recognized the shift in the room. Fear had transformed into hunger, not for food but for advantage. In this place, anything unusual was power.
"Open it again," someone urged.
"Show us what it does."
"Maybe it can… maybe it can give water."
The girl shook her head violently, pressing the book tighter to her chest. Her voice broke: "I don't want to. It—it's dangerous."
The knife-holder took another step, smirk widening. "Then let me hold it. For safekeeping."
The young man finally stood. His voice was calm, but it carried weight. "Leave her. If it kills her, that's her choice. If it saves her, that's her luck. Either way, it's hers."
The knife-holder sneered. "And what makes you the one to decide that?"
"Nothing," the young man replied smoothly. "Just sense. If the Library wanted us all to have it, it would have dropped seventy-three of them on the floor."
The retort silenced the argument, if only briefly. The knife-holder scowled but retreated, twirling the blade idly as though to remind everyone he still carried it.
The girl, trembling, kept the book shut. The others stole glances at her but said no more.
It was then, in the silence that followed, that the hunger returned to the forefront. Stomachs groaned. Lips cracked. A boy licked at the damp stone wall, hoping for moisture, and earned only laughter from the crueler ones.
The day dragged. The Library creaked and sighed like a massive beast in slumber, its shelves endlessly shifting far beyond the atrium. A few wandered close to the hallways but quickly retreated. None dared stray far—yet.
When the lamps dimmed, night came again. If it could even be called night.
The number still blazed: 73.
Whispers started once more.
"Will it ever change?"
"Maybe it only moves if one of us—"
"No. Don't say it."
But the thought had already taken root.
The young man sat against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees. His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused. Across the atrium, the girl still clutched the strange book. Others huddled in groups, whispering their quiet plans, eyes darting toward one another with suspicion.
Sleep would not come easily.
The Library creaked again—low, drawn-out, almost like laughter.