Lord of Perverted Ladies

I stared at the final sentence until the words began to blur.

Now remember why you chose to forget.

My head was still pounding.

The classroom was gone.

The wooden desks had disappeared.

The impossible teacher had vanished.

But the memory remained.

That child.

That room.

Those three objects.

And the question.

What happens if I don’t choose?

I pressed a hand against my forehead.

"I remember the room."

The First Reader stood a few metres away.

"But?"

"I don’t remember choosing."

He nodded.

"That’s the part they removed."

"Who?"

"The ones who were there."

The Editor stepped closer.

"Don’t force it."

I looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because memories protected by the Archive don’t like being dragged out."

"What happens?"

"They fight."

A sharp pain suddenly shot through my head.

I grabbed the edge of the nearest table.

For a moment, the Reading Room disappeared again.

I saw the three objects.

The photograph.

The key.

The book.

The child version of me sat before them.

His hands were trembling.

The teacher waited patiently.

"Choose."

The child looked at the photograph first.

I couldn’t see the picture clearly.

Every time I tried, the image blurred.

Then the key.

Old brass.

Almost identical to the Historian’s Key.

Then the book.

Black cover.

Silver line.

The same symbol that appeared on the Reader’s book.

The child reached for the photograph.

The memory snapped away.

I gasped.

Noah caught my shoulder.

"Adrian!"

"I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine."

"I’m remembering."

The First Reader looked toward me.

"Don’t rush."

"I saw the objects."

"Which one did you choose?"

"I don’t know."

The Historian’s Notebook opened.

A sentence appeared.

The choice was made before the memory began.

I stared at it.

"What does that mean?"

The Editor answered quietly.

"You didn’t choose in that room."

"What?"

"You had already chosen."

"Then why was I there?"

"To forget the choice."

The room became silent.

The First Reader slowly walked toward the notebook.

"That changes things."

"How?"

"The Story isn’t trying to make him remember what happened."

He looked at me.

"It’s trying to make him remember why."

A low rumble moved through the walls.

The shelves shifted.

Books began sliding from their places.

Not falling.

Moving.

Thousands of books rearranged themselves.

Names disappeared from their spines.

New titles formed.

One after another.

THE FIRST REFUSAL

THE FIRST DEATH

THE FIRST WITNESS

THE FIRST LIE

Then...

THE FIRST CHOICE

That book slid from the highest shelf.

It fell directly into my hands.

The cover was warm.

I didn’t open it.

Not yet.

The First Reader watched me carefully.

"That book wasn’t there before."

"Then why did it appear now?"

"Because you’ve remembered enough."

The Editor shook her head.

"Or because it wants him to."

I looked at her.

"You don’t trust the book."

"I don’t trust anything that appears exactly when we need it."

"Fair."

Noah looked toward the shelves.

"Can we maybe leave before another impossible thing happens?"

A loud crack echoed overhead.

He sighed.

"Right."

"Of course not."

The ceiling began opening.

Not collapsing.

Opening.

A circular section of darkness appeared above us.

Beyond it was the Archive.

But it wasn’t the same Archive we’d entered.

The shelves were broken.

White emptiness had consumed entire sections.

Black ink flowed through the corridors.

Something was moving between the shelves.

The cleaners.

But there were far fewer now.

And they weren’t wandering.

They were searching.

The First Reader looked upward.

"They’re looking for the original."

"The notebook?"

"Yes."

The Editor immediately moved toward it.

"We can’t let them take it."

The First Reader shook his head.

"They aren’t looking for the notebook."

He pointed toward me.

"They’re looking for the person who can use it."

Everyone became quiet.

The original notebook remained on its pedestal.

The cover opened slightly.

Then closed.

Almost like a heartbeat.

I walked toward it.

The First Reader didn’t stop me.

The Editor did.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Before you touch it..."

She looked directly into my eyes.

"Ask yourself one thing."

"What?"

"Do you actually want to remember?"

I didn’t answer immediately.

That question had been following me since the beginning.

At first, I thought memory was something you simply recovered.

Something lost.

Something stolen.

But now I understood.

Memory could be a burden.

A weapon.

A trap.

Maybe forgetting had been the only reason I was still alive.

I looked toward the original notebook.

"I don’t know."

The Editor nodded.

"Good."

"Why is that good?"

"Because certainty is exactly what this place wants from you."

The First Reader smiled faintly.

"She’s right."

I looked at the three of them.

Nobody had the answer.

For once...

That felt strangely reassuring.

I reached toward the notebook.

The moment my fingers touched the cover—

The room vanished.

Again.

This time there was no classroom.

No Archive.

No darkness.

I was standing in a hospital corridor.

White walls.

Fluorescent lights.

Rain hitting the windows.

People walked past me.

Doctors.

Nurses.

Visitors.

None looked at me.

I looked down.

I was wearing ordinary clothes.

Not my academy uniform.

Not the clothes I’d worn since arriving here.

A black shirt.

Jeans.

A cheap watch around my wrist.

My heart began pounding.

"This..."

I whispered.

"...isn’t this world."

Someone walked past me.

I recognized the face.

My face.

Older.

Tired.

He didn’t notice me.

He walked toward a hospital room.

I followed.

The door was slightly open.

Inside...

A younger version of myself sat beside a hospital bed.

His head was lowered.

Someone lay beneath the blanket.

I couldn’t see their face.

A doctor stood beside the bed.

"I’m sorry."

The younger me didn’t respond.

The doctor left.

The room became quiet.

I watched myself sit there.

Minutes passed.

Then hours.

Eventually...

He took something from his pocket.

A small brass key.

My breath caught.

The Historian’s Key.

He placed it on the bedside table.

Then opened a black book.

The same book.

The one now resting in my hands.

My younger self began writing.

I couldn’t hear what he said.

But I could read the first line.

I don’t want to remember this.

My chest tightened.

He kept writing.

If I remember, I’ll come back.

The pen stopped.

He stared at the sleeping figure on the bed.

Then wrote another line.

If I forget, maybe I can become someone else.

The room blurred.

I stepped closer.

The figure beneath the blanket moved.

A hand slipped from beneath the sheets.

An old hand.

Weak.

Shaking.

The fingers reached toward the brass key.

My younger self grabbed it.

The hand closed around his wrist.

I heard the voice.

Barely audible.

"Don’t come back."

My younger self froze.

"Please."

"Forget."

The word echoed through the room.

"Forget me."

The memory shattered.

I fell backward.

The Reading Room returned.

I was on my knees.

Noah was beside me.

"Adrian!"

I pushed his hand away.

"I saw..."

I couldn’t finish.

The First Reader already understood.

"You remembered."

I looked at him.

"That was my life."

"Yes."

"Before the academy."

"Yes."

"Before this world."

The First Reader nodded.

"No."

I froze.

He corrected himself.

"Before this version of you."

The room went silent.

I stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

He looked toward the original notebook.

"You were never supposed to remember that life."

"Why?"

"Because you weren’t supposed to return."

"Return from where?"

The First Reader didn’t answer.

The Editor did.

"From the first story."

I looked at her.

"What first story?"

She slowly approached.

"The one that existed before Adrian Cross."

My head started hurting again.

Fragments returned.

The hospital.

The key.

The book.

The voice.

The choice.

The three objects.

The child.

Everything began connecting.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

The cover had changed.

There was now a name written across it.

Not Adrian Cross.

Another name.

A name I had never seen.

Yet the moment I read it...

I knew it was mine.

The First Reader looked at the name.

His expression changed completely.

"No."

The Editor whispered something I couldn’t hear.

Noah looked confused.

"What?"

The First Reader took one step backward.

"He remembered the name."

The room trembled.

The original notebook slammed shut.

Every candle went out.

The System suddenly returned.

One blue window appeared.

Only one.

______

[Identity Conflict Resolved]

Current Identity:

Adrian Cross

Previous Identity:

[REDACTED]

Narrative Status:

Returning

______

A second window appeared beneath it.

______

[Warning]

The previous identity has been recognized.

External observer detected.

______

I looked toward the doorway.

Someone was standing there.

Not a white figure.

Not the stranger.

Not the First Reader.

A woman.

Long dark hair.

A familiar face.

A face I had seen before.

Not in this world.

In the memory.

She smiled.

And spoke the name written on the book.

The name I had just remembered.

The name that should have been impossible.

Then she said—

"Finally."

"You’re back."

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