The city roared like a thousand iron lungs, each breath shaped by neon, screens, sirens, and data clouds. Towering glass structures stabbed upward into the midnight sky, reflecting holographic ads onto the cracked pavements below. Every street hummed with the impatient pulse of a world that had forgotten silence.
But nestled between these steel giants—like a fossil wedged between tectonic plates—stood the building that time had refused to unclench.
The Aurelian Public Library.
It rose only three stories high, but carried an ancient dignity taller than skyscrapers. Its stone columns were chipped, its stained-glass windows fractured in spiderweb patterns, and its wooden doors sagged with exhaustion. Moss crawled across its outer edges, and ivy clung desperately to its crumbling walls, as if nature itself feared losing this last sanctuary of paper and ink.
Inside, the air moved like a living creature.
Soft. Fragile.
Like the whispered breath of someone drifting in and out of sleep.
Dust shimmered in the pale moonlight pouring through a broken skylight. Bookshelves stood like old soldiers—injured but unbroken—guarding their quiet kingdom. Some leaned sideways, some bowed forward, some held their spines together with ropes and tape.
The library looked abandoned to the outside world.
But it wasn't alone.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Something stirred in the deepest shadows.
Something ancient.
Something hungry.
Through the silent aisles, drifting like a ghost with a forgotten purpose, moved Varin.
A vampire, yes.
But not the kind sung about in folk tales or painted in horror manga.
He had no thirst for blood.
Only for knowledge.
Clusters of wispy ink floated around him, swirling in delicate spirals. His skin—pale as paper left under moonlight—seemed almost translucent. His hair, long and dark, hung around his shoulders like ink spilled across parchment. His eyes were deep, unreadable, with pupils shaped like tiny quills, sharp and luminous.
Every step he took revealed a pattern of symbols glowing faintly beneath his feet—ancient scribal runes that had fused with his soul centuries ago.
He wasn't walking between shelves.
He was wandering through memories.
He stopped before a row of aging books whose spines sagged like tired backs. He brushed a finger gently against one.
The ink on the page trembled.
The paper fluttered—breathing.
Varin whispered, "Easy, old friend."
Then he leaned in.
Not with fangs, but with touch.
A soft glow pulsed from the page into his fingertips. Paragraphs dimmed slightly. Words shrank in size, weakening, as though giving up their final strength.
Varin inhaled slowly.
It was not a feeding.
It was communion.
Knowledge flowed into him—warm, rich, aging like good wine. Memories of a long-dead author flashed before him. Feelings, ideas, regrets, arguments, philosophies—all rushed into his mind's endless archive.
He released the book with the tenderness of setting down a sleeping child.
A faint mark—the slightest fading of ink—was all that remained.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation.
But then—
A tremor.
A vibration.
A pulse of sickness.
Varin froze.
The shelf to his right… moved.
Not naturally.
Not from age, wind, or structural weakness.
It trembled the way a living organism trembles in pain.
Then a thin streak of silver crept across the wood, crawling like frost—but wrong, technological, pixel-like. It spread in tiny squares, replacing dust with static.
"No," Varin whispered, stepping forward. "Not again."
He placed a hand on the infected wood. A surge of corrupted cold traveled up his arm, and he recoiled, breathing unevenly.
The pixel fungus.
The strange, digital-ridden decay that had begun infecting the library weeks ago.
Books collapsed into electronic dust.
Paragraphs flickered like dying screens.
Ink dissolved into glitch patterns.
Something—someone—was killing the library from the inside.
Varin clenched his jaw.
The enemy was here.
The enemy he couldn't fight by strength alone.
His stomach tightened with hunger—hunger not for books, but for answers.
Then—
Footsteps.
A soft creak of a door.
A beam of warm light swept across the entrance hall.
Someone was entering the library.
Varin melted into the shadows, his form dissolving like smoke.
"Mold, old wood, and coffee. Great. My childhood in one smell."
A girl's voice echoed through the cold silence.
She stepped in, holding a small flashlight in her shaking hand. Her sneakers tapped softly against the marble floor. She was young—no older than seventeen—wearing a patched denim jacket covered in tiny pins of authors, anime characters, and scribbled quotes.
Her name was Mira.
Her brown hair was tied into a messy bun, held by a pencil instead of a clip. Her glasses were cracked on one side—held together with tape. A satchel slung over her shoulder was overflowing with notebooks, folded sticky notes, and various bookmarks.
She moved through the aisles with a mixture of fear and determination.
Her flashlight beam caught the swirling dust.
She froze.
"Okay, Mira," she whispered to herself, "it's just dust… dust that looks suspiciously alive, but still… dust."
She took another step.
Behind her, shadows shifted.
Varin watched silently, perched high above on a thick wooden beam, eyes glimmering like two tiny lanterns. Her presence felt… different. Not threatening. Not careless either. She moved the way readers do—like the space around her mattered, like the silence deserved respect.
She noticed the infected shelf.
"What… is that?"
Her hand reached out—
"Don't touch it."
Varin's voice cut through the darkness.
Mira gasped and spun, dropping her flashlight. Its beam rolled across the floor, illuminating only a sliver of Varin's silhouette.
She squinted.
"Who's there? A security guard? A thief? A squatter?"
"No," Varin said calmly. "None of those."
"Then—wait—are you one of those… paranormal tourism people?" she muttered. "Because if you are, the library is closed and—"
His eyes lit up in the dark.
A faint, glowing quake of quill-shaped pupils.
Mira froze.
"Oh," she whispered. "Not human."
Varin stepped from the shadows, his form materializing like spilling ink rearranging itself into a person.
She gasped again—louder this time—but didn't run.
"Are… are you haunting the books?"
Varin blinked. "Haunting?"
"Or… or guarding them?" she corrected quickly, pushing her glasses up nervously. "You know… like a ghost that… cares?"
Varin tilted his head. Her voice held no fear. Only curiosity. He had met scholars, monks, hunters, and thieves over centuries—but never a child who reacted to a vampire like she was meeting a rare animal.
"I… protect this place," he said finally.
Mira's shoulders relaxed.
"I knew it," she said softly. "Grandma always said the library was alive. And that something ancient lurked here. Everyone else laughed, but I…" She trailed off, looking up at him with genuine wonder. "You're real."
Varin studied her in return.
"So are you," he murmured.
She blinked. "Um… obviously?"
He shook his head. "Most humans who come here now are either scavengers or digitizers. But you… you walk with reverence."
"Digitizers?" she asked.
His expression darkened.
"You'll learn soon enough."
Mira stepped closer to the affected shelf. The silver-pixel fungus crawled steadily, devouring the wood.
"What is this stuff?" she asked.
"Corruption," Varin replied. "A digital disease. Something foreign. Something designed."
"Designed? By who?"
"Those who want to convert everything into data. Those who think paper is obsolete. Those who—"
A loud crack interrupted him.
The infected shelf broke in half.
Books toppled.
Pages dissolved mid-air into glitching dust, vanishing before touching the floor.
Mira's heart wrenched.
"No… no, no, no. These are originals! These are priceless!"
Varin knelt beside her.
"They were priceless," he corrected softly. "Now they are… deleted."
She clenched her fists.
"How long has this been happening?"
"Long enough," he said, bitterness trembling beneath his voice. "But the pace is accelerating."
Mira put a trembling hand on a surviving book.
"They used to bring me here," she whispered. "My grandmother. She said the library was a sanctuary. That stories lived longer when someone believed in them."
Varin's gaze softened.
"She was right."
Mira picked up a half-dissolved book, its cover flickering like a broken hologram.
"Why does this place matter to you?" she asked. "You're a vampire. Shouldn't you… I don't know… live in a castle with crypts and bats?"
Varin's lips twitched.
A faint smile—brief, almost shy.
"I don't drink blood," he said simply.
Mira's eyebrows shot up. "You… don't?"
"No."
"Then what do you eat?"
He hesitated, then whispered:
"Books."
Mira stared at him.
"You… eat books."
"Yes."
"Like… with ketchup or plain?"
Varin closed his eyes. "Not physically."
"Oh."
He touched another book gently. Words swirled up from the page and dissolved into his skin.
"I absorb their knowledge. Their wisdom. Their emotions. Their histories."
Mira's eyes widened.
"Oh. You drink the stories."
He nodded.
"And once I consume them… they live in me. Forever."
"Then… if the library dies…" she said slowly, "you starve."
Varin looked away.
"Yes."
The admission hung heavy between them.
Suddenly—
A low hum echoed through the aisles.
Mira straightened. "What was that?"
Varin's eyes narrowed. "Not good."
A beam of bluish light appeared between shelves. A tiny metallic sphere floated toward them—its surface shifting like liquid chrome.
On its center blinked a red strip of light.
Mira's jaw dropped. "A scanning drone!"
Varin stepped in front of her.
The drone projected a rectangular light, sweeping across books.
It beeped mechanically.
"BEGIN DIGITIZATION," it announced monotonously.
"DELETE ORIGINALS."
Mira's heart pounded.
"They're going to destroy everything."
Varin's voice shifted—deep, ancient, furious.
"No."
His eyes glowed.
"These shelves belong to memory—not machines."
The drone whirred, turning toward them.
Its red strip widened like an eye.
"UNIDENTIFIED ENTITY DETECTED," it announced.
"RUNNING THREAT PROTOCOL."
A flash of light shot toward them—
Varin moved.
So fast Mira lost track.
One moment he was standing beside her—
the next, he was inches from the drone, hand raised like a sword forged from ink.
Electric arcs snapped against his skin.
He didn't flinch.
He whispered a command in an ancient language.
The runic characters spiraled from his palm, wrapping the drone in glowing chains of symbols.
The drone convulsed.
Sparks flew.
Then—
CRACK.
It shattered into shards of light, dissolving into static dust.
Mira stared, speechless.
"You just…"
"Destroyed it," Varin said calmly.
"No," she said, voice trembling. "You protected the library."
Varin didn't respond.
His eyes were fixed on the falling dust.
He knelt, scooping a handful of static in his palm.
"It sent a distress signal," he murmured. "They're coming."
"Who?"
He looked up at her.
"The Digital Empire."
Mira's breath caught.
"You mean DigiCore Dominion?"
Varin nodded slowly.
"They want to convert all physical libraries into cloud servers. But their digitization doesn't preserve. It erases. It rewrites. Once a book becomes a file under their control, it loses its soul."
Mira swallowed hard. "Then we have to stop them."
Varin gazed at her—long, unreadable, ancient.
"'We,'" he repeated softly.
"As if you and I walk the same path."
Mira lifted her chin.
Her voice was quiet but unwavering.
"I'm not running. This library meant everything to my grandmother. And to me. And clearly—it means everything to you."
Varin stared at her for a long time.
Then the air trembled.
A second hum echoed through the ruins.
Varin's expression turned deadly serious.
"Mira," he whispered, "stay behind me."
From the cracked stained-glass window, a cold blue light shone.
The silhouette of a larger drone—sleek, armored, pulsing with scanners—hovered outside.
"BEGIN RECLAMATION," it boomed.
"PREPARE FOR DELETION."
Its red lights scanned the aisles.
Varin's jaw tightened.
His pupils sharpened like blades.
"This," he whispered, "is only the beginning."
And as the drone crashed through the window—
glass exploding like shattered memories—
Varin stepped forward, eyes burning like two furious suns.
The vampire of the library—
the sucker of wisdom—
was ready to fight for the first time in centuries.