Lord of Perverted Ladies

I knew the face.

That was the first thing that frightened me.

Not because I recognized the person standing between the shelves.

Because I didn’t.

My mind insisted that I should.

Something deep inside me reacted before my memory could catch up.

A name hovered at the edge of my thoughts.

I couldn’t reach it.

The stranger lowered the book in his hands.

It was an old volume with a dark red cover.

His clothes were simple.

Black trousers.

White shirt.

A long grey coat.

Nothing unusual.

Yet the entire Reading Room seemed to bend around him.

The shelves closest to him leaned inward.

The candle flames burned toward him.

Even the dust floating through the air moved in his direction.

He closed the book.

The sound echoed through the chamber.

"Adrian Cross."

Hearing my name from his mouth felt wrong.

Not threatening.

Not familiar.

Wrong.

Like hearing someone read your private thoughts aloud.

Noah stepped in front of me.

"Who are you?"

The man looked at him.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he smiled.

"That’s the question everyone asks."

"And none of you ever ask the useful one."

Detective Hale tightened his grip on his flashlight.

"Which is?"

"Why am I reading?"

The man raised the red book slightly.

"I’ve read every version of this story."

"Every beginning."

"Every ending."

"Every mistake."

"Every correction."

His eyes returned to me.

"But yours..."

He paused.

"...is the first one that refuses to behave."

The Editor stepped forward.

"You shouldn’t have access to this room."

The man laughed softly.

"Neither should you."

The Editor stopped.

His smile widened.

"Yet here we are."

Whitmore stared at the shelves.

"These books..."

"They’re real?"

The man looked toward him.

"Real enough."

"What does that mean?"

"They contain stories."

"Stories of people?"

"Sometimes."

"Places?"

"Sometimes."

"Events?"

"Always."

Whitmore frowned.

"That’s not an answer."

"It is."

The man walked slowly between the shelves.

As he passed each book, the titles changed.

Names appeared.

Then disappeared.

Some books grew thicker.

Others became thin enough to resemble pamphlets.

One title caught my eye.

Elias Ashcroft.

Another.

Lucien Vale.

Another.

Adrian Cross.

My body went rigid.

My book was near the end of the shelf.

It was much thicker than the others.

Hundreds of pages.

Maybe thousands.

The man noticed where I was looking.

"Yes."

"That’s yours."

"How long has it been there?"

"Longer than you."

The answer made my stomach tighten.

"How?"

"Because the book doesn’t record your life."

He stopped beside the shelf.

"It records every possibility of your life."

The Editor’s expression changed.

"That shouldn’t be possible."

"It wasn’t."

He smiled.

"Then you arrived."

I stepped toward my book.

The man’s hand moved slightly.

I stopped.

"Don’t."

"Why?"

"Because you’ll read something you’re not ready to remember."

"I’ve been hearing that a lot."

"People usually say that before doing exactly what they’re warned against."

I reached toward the book anyway.

My fingers touched the spine.

The world changed.

For one second...

I saw myself sitting in the academy cafeteria.

Another version of me stood across the room.

He was laughing with Ryan.

A different version walked through a forest.

Another was lying in a hospital bed.

Another was standing on a rooftop.

Another was dead.

Another wore a black coat.

Another held the Historian’s Notebook.

Another sat in the empty chair.

The visions flashed past faster and faster.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Each one slightly different.

Then I saw one that made everything stop.

A version of me stood in front of the Author.

The Author’s face was visible.

I couldn’t see it clearly.

But the version of me was holding a pen.

And the Author was kneeling.

The vision disappeared.

I pulled my hand away.

My breathing had become uneven.

"What was that?"

The man didn’t answer.

He looked toward the book.

Then toward me.

"One possibility."

"That’s all?"

"For now."

I stared at him.

"You said you’ve read every version."

"Yes."

"Then tell me how this ends."

He smiled.

"That’s the one thing I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

"Because the ending hasn’t been written."

"Yet?"

"Not by anyone."

The room became quiet.

The Historian’s Notebook opened in my hands.

A sentence appeared.

He is telling the truth.

Then another.

For once.

I looked at the man.

"You can’t see my ending?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you aren’t finished."

The answer should have relieved me.

Instead, it made me more nervous.

The man walked toward the center of the room.

"My name is Elias."

Whitmore nearly dropped his glasses.

"No."

The man looked at him.

"Not that Elias."

He tapped the red book against his palm.

"There are many."

Whitmore stared.

"Then who are you?"

"Elias."

"That’s enough."

The Editor looked furious.

"You shouldn’t use that name."

"Why?"

"Because he earned it."

The man smiled.

"And so did I."

I looked between them.

"You’re another version of Elias?"

"Not exactly."

He turned toward me.

"Think of me as the version who stayed behind to read."

"The First Reader."

The words left my mouth before I could think.

He nodded.

"Now you understand."

The room trembled.

A loud bang came from behind the door.

Noah turned.

"They’re here."

The white figures.

The cleaners had reached the Reading Room.

The man didn’t seem concerned.

"They won’t enter."

"Why?"

"Because this room belongs to the Reader."

Another bang.

The door shook.

A thin crack appeared along the frame.

The Editor immediately moved toward it.

"If they break through..."

"They won’t."

The First Reader looked at her.

"They’ve never been able to."

The crack widened.

Everyone froze.

He stared at the door.

"...Until now."

The confidence vanished from his voice.

The door shook again.

A white hand slipped through the crack.

Then another.

The Reading Room reacted immediately.

Every book flew from its shelf.

Thousands of volumes filled the air.

Pages opened.

Words poured from them like streams of black ink.

The white figures recoiled.

The man raised his red book.

"Stay behind me."

The Editor looked at him.

"You can’t fight them."

"I don’t need to."

He opened the book.

The pages were blank.

Completely blank.

He held it toward the doorway.

The white figures stopped.

Then...

They began disappearing.

Not attacking.

Not retreating.

Simply disappearing.

The man closed the book.

"See?"

Noah stared.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"They were never supposed to be here."

"Then why did they come?"

He looked directly at me.

"Because someone told them where you were."

My stomach dropped.

"Who?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked toward the shelves.

A single book had fallen onto the floor.

Its cover was black.

No title.

No name.

The man walked toward it.

He picked it up.

His expression changed.

"That’s not possible."

The Editor approached.

"What?"

He opened the book.

Every page was blank.

Then ink appeared.

One sentence.

The Reader has been reading the wrong story.

The First Reader slowly closed the book.

His hands were shaking.

"What?"

I asked.

He looked at me.

"The person you’ve been following..."

"Lucien."

"Draft Zero."

"The Author."

"Even the System."

His eyes hardened.

"None of them are the main problem."

"Then who is?"

He looked toward the ceiling.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then...

A sound echoed through the Reading Room.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

A pen writing somewhere above us.

The First Reader’s face went pale.

"Someone is writing again."

The Historian’s Notebook immediately opened.

A single sentence appeared.

The Reader is no longer observing.

Another line followed.

The Reader has entered the story.

Then the final sentence appeared.

And the story has noticed him.

The First Reader slowly looked at me.

"You need to leave."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"That’s not helpful."

"It doesn’t matter."

He pointed toward the shelves.

"Find the book with no title."

"Then open it."

"What happens?"

He stared at me.

"You’ll find out who has been writing your story."

The scratching sound grew louder.

Closer.

The shelves began moving.

Books slammed shut.

The floor trembled.

Then the lights went out.

In complete darkness...

A voice whispered from somewhere behind me.

"Adrian."

I turned.

Nobody was there.

The voice came again.

This time...

It was mine.

"Don’t open the book."

The First Reader whispered,

"Don’t listen to it."

The voice laughed.

And somewhere in the darkness...

A pen continued writing.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!