Lord of Perverted Ladies

The Story laughed.

Not like a person.

Not like a monster.

It sounded like thousands of people laughing at the same joke from different rooms, different years, different lives.

The sound passed through the Reading Room and shook every shelf.

Books flew open.

Pages ripped themselves free and spun through the air.

The empty chair behind me cracked straight down the middle.

I stared at the sentence I’d written.

I don’t remember who I was before this story.

The ink continued spreading.

It crawled across the page and reached the edges.

Then it stopped.

Nothing happened.

For several seconds, there was only silence.

The First Reader stared at the sentence.

"You actually wrote it."

"I did."

"Why?"

"I don’t know."

He laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

Because he was relieved.

"That’s exactly why."

The Historian’s Notebook opened by itself.

A new line appeared.

Independent statement accepted.

Another followed.

Memory restriction bypassed.

Then—

Searching for pre-narrative memory.

My stomach dropped.

"What does that mean?"

The First Reader’s expression changed.

"It means you just gave the Archive permission to look for something you’ve never remembered."

The room went completely still.

Every open book shut at once.

The sound echoed like a single enormous clap.

Then all the candles went out.

Darkness.

Again.

But this time...

I wasn’t afraid.

Something had changed.

I could feel it.

The darkness wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full of memories.

Not mine.

At first.

A little girl running through a field.

A soldier standing beside a burning city.

An old man writing a letter.

A woman waiting at a train station.

Thousands of fragments.

They appeared around me and disappeared before I could understand them.

Then one stayed.

A room.

Small.

White walls.

A wooden table.

Someone sitting across from me.

I couldn’t see their face.

They were holding a book.

"You need to remember one thing."

The voice was calm.

"Stories don’t begin when the first sentence is written."

The memory vanished.

Another appeared.

A hallway.

I was walking.

Younger.

Much younger.

Someone held my hand.

I couldn’t see them.

"Don’t look back."

The memory vanished.

Another.

A bedroom.

Rain against a window.

Someone whispered my name.

"Adrian."

The memory vanished.

I opened my eyes.

The Reading Room had returned.

The First Reader was standing several metres away.

He looked concerned.

"What did you see?"

"I don’t know."

"Try."

I closed my eyes again.

The images were already disappearing.

A field.

A hallway.

A table.

A voice.

Nothing connected.

Except one detail.

Every memory had the same sound in the background.

A pen.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

I opened my eyes.

"The pen."

The First Reader nodded slowly.

"I heard it too."

"You did?"

"Everyone did."

The Editor’s voice came from behind us.

We turned.

She was standing beside the shelves.

Noah was with her.

Detective Hale and Whitmore were there too.

They looked confused.

"How did you get here?"

Noah pointed toward the floor.

"We don’t know."

"One second we were gone."

"The next we were standing here."

The Editor looked at the sentence I’d written.

Her expression changed immediately.

"You wrote that."

"Yes."

She walked closer.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn’t remember."

The Editor stared at the page for several seconds.

Then she looked at me.

"That was the right answer."

The First Reader nodded.

"I told him."

The Editor shook her head.

"No."

"He didn’t answer the question."

"He rejected it."

"What question?"

"The Story asked him to remember."

She pointed toward the book.

"He refused to provide a memory."

The First Reader went silent.

The Editor continued.

"That’s why the Archive opened the older layer."

"What older layer?"

She looked at me.

"The part that existed before Adrian Cross."

The name felt strange.

Not wrong.

Just...

Incomplete.

"Before me?"

"Before the version of you that you remember."

The Historian’s Notebook began writing.

Pre-Narrative Identity

Accessing...

The words flickered.

Then disappeared.

The System remained offline.

No blue windows.

No familiar notifications.

For once...

I was completely on my own.

The First Reader walked toward the empty chair.

The crack running through it had sealed.

He touched the backrest.

"It wants you to sit."

"I know."

"If you do..."

"I know."

"You’ll remember."

I looked at him.

"And if I don’t?"

"You’ll have to find another way."

"Is there one?"

He smiled.

"There always is."

"That’s what makes stories interesting."

Before I could answer, the chair moved.

It slid across the floor by itself.

Slowly.

It stopped directly in front of me.

The seat faced the nameless book.

The book opened.

One page.

Two.

Three.

Then stopped.

A single sentence appeared.

Sit.

The Editor immediately shook her head.

"Don’t."

The First Reader disagreed.

"Do."

They looked at each other.

Neither spoke.

I realized something.

They weren’t arguing about whether I should sit.

They were arguing about what would happen if I did.

The First Reader finally turned toward me.

"I’ve spent centuries avoiding that chair."

"Why?"

"Because I knew what I’d remember."

"What?"

He looked away.

"My first life."

The words stunned me.

"You had one?"

"Everyone did."

"Then why don’t you remember?"

"Because the Story didn’t need me to."

He touched the empty chair.

"I was a reader once."

"Then I became a witness."

"Then a historian."

"And eventually..."

He smiled bitterly.

"...I became part of the story."

I stared at him.

"And that’s what you’re afraid I’ll become?"

"No."

"That’s what I’m afraid you’ll discover."

Before I could ask what he meant...

The chair moved again.

This time it stopped behind the Editor.

She froze.

The seat touched the back of her knees.

She looked down.

The First Reader’s expression changed.

"No."

The Editor slowly turned toward him.

"What?"

"The chair chooses."

"It doesn’t obey."

The chair pushed gently.

The Editor stumbled forward.

I caught her arm.

She looked at me.

For the first time...

I saw fear in her eyes.

"Adrian."

"What?"

"Don’t let me sit."

The chair moved again.

I pulled her away.

It followed.

Every step.

Every movement.

The First Reader suddenly shouted,

"Stop!"

The chair froze.

The entire Reading Room shook.

The nameless book slammed shut.

Then...

A voice echoed through the room.

The Story.

"One seat."

The voice was soft.

"One memory."

The shelves trembled.

"One witness."

The voice became louder.

"Choose."

The Editor looked at me.

"No."

She shook her head.

"Don’t choose me."

The First Reader stepped forward.

"Choose yourself."

Noah looked between them.

"What the hell is happening?"

Nobody answered.

The Story spoke again.

"One must remember."

The room began changing.

The shelves disappeared.

The books vanished.

The Reading Room transformed into the classroom.

The same classroom from the First Chapter.

The empty desk.

The blackboard.

The sunlight.

The attendance register.

Everything returned.

But this time...

There was one difference.

The classroom wasn’t empty.

A younger version of me sat at the final desk.

Maybe eight years old.

Maybe younger.

He was holding a fountain pen.

Across from him sat the same faceless teacher.

The teacher opened the attendance register.

"Adrian Cross."

The child raised his head.

"Present."

My heart stopped.

That memory hadn’t existed.

I had never remembered this room.

Never remembered this teacher.

Never remembered sitting there.

The teacher smiled.

"Good."

The younger me looked down at the desk.

"What happens now?"

The teacher answered.

"Now you choose what you’ll forget."

The room went silent.

I stared at my younger self.

He looked confused.

Scared.

But not surprised.

As if he’d been expecting the question.

The teacher placed three objects on the desk.

A photograph.

A key.

A book.

"One memory will remain."

"Two will disappear."

The younger me stared at them.

"What happens if I don’t choose?"

The teacher smiled.

"Then someone else chooses for you."

The memory shook.

The walls cracked.

The younger me looked directly at me.

Not through the teacher.

Not through the memory.

Directly at me.

His eyes widened.

"You’re late."

I couldn’t breathe.

The child stood.

He walked toward me.

The entire classroom froze.

He stopped only inches away.

Then whispered—

"I’ve been waiting for you to remember."

The world shattered.

I woke on the floor of the Reading Room.

Noah was kneeling beside me.

"Adrian!"

I pushed myself upright.

My head was pounding.

The Editor stood nearby.

The First Reader was staring at the nameless book.

It was open again.

The final page had changed.

A sentence appeared in black ink.

The memory before the story has been found.

Below it...

A second sentence appeared.

Now remember why you chose to forget.

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