Lord of Perverted Ladies

The sentence stayed in my head.

You won’t be able to remain Adrian Cross.

I looked at the woman.

"Then what will I become?"

She didn’t answer.

The First Reader did.

"Yourself."

That answer somehow felt worse.

I looked down at my hands.

They were still mine.

Same fingers.

Same scars.

Same faint mark near my thumb.

Nothing had changed.

Yet somewhere beneath all of that was another identity.

Someone who had apparently lived through things I couldn’t remember.

Someone who had chosen to erase himself.

Someone who had walked through the Archive before I ever knew it existed.

And now that person was coming back.

The crack in the floor widened.

Black light poured upward, illuminating the room from below.

The bookshelves shook.

Several books fell into the opening and disappeared without making a sound.

Noah stepped away from the edge.

"That’s getting worse."

"Yes."

The Editor looked toward the woman.

"Can you stop it?"

"No."

"Can you slow it?"

"Maybe."

"That’s not reassuring."

"I wasn’t trying to reassure you."

The woman turned toward the broken floor.

"We have to move."

"Where?"

"Down."

The First Reader immediately shook his head.

"No."

She looked at him.

"We don’t have another route."

"There has to be."

"There isn’t."

"The Scriptorium—"

"Is already being erased."

That silenced him.

I looked between them.

"What happened to the others?"

"The writers?"

The woman nodded.

"The Scriptorium is no longer stable."

"Then the First Historian..."

"He’ll survive."

She paused.

"Probably."

That wasn’t the answer I wanted.

But there wasn’t time to argue.

The black light grew brighter.

A staircase slowly formed inside the crack.

Stone steps.

Descending into darkness.

The same staircase we’d entered earlier.

Except this one was different.

The steps were covered in writing.

Thousands of sentences.

Some were crossed out.

Some were incomplete.

Some were written in languages I couldn’t recognize.

And some...

Were written in my handwriting.

I crouched beside the first step.

There was a sentence scratched into the stone.

I came back once.

Another step.

I left something behind.

Another.

I promised I wouldn’t return.

Another.

I lied.

My throat tightened.

The woman watched me.

"You wrote those."

"I don’t remember."

"I know."

The First Reader looked down the staircase.

"That’s where he left the first draft."

I looked at him.

"The first draft of what?"

"Yourself."

The answer made no sense.

Until I saw the next sentence.

I don’t know who I was anymore.

I stood.

"We’re going."

The Editor nodded.

Noah sighed.

"Of course we are."

Detective Hale checked his flashlight.

"I’ve stopped asking why."

Whitmore gave a tired smile.

"Probably for the best."

The woman stepped onto the first stair.

The moment her foot touched it, every sentence on the staircase shifted.

Words moved like living insects.

Some disappeared.

Others formed new sentences.

She remembers.

She forgot.

She lied.

She waited.

The woman ignored them.

I followed.

The others came behind me.

The descent was quiet at first.

No voices.

No footsteps beyond our own.

Only the sound of writing somewhere far below.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

It was the same rhythm we’d heard in the Scriptorium.

But now...

It sounded closer.

After several dozen steps, Noah suddenly stopped.

"Wait."

We turned.

He was staring at the wall.

"What?"

He pointed.

There was a small photograph embedded inside the stone.

An old photograph.

Black and white.

Five people stood outside a building.

The image was faded, but their faces were still visible.

I recognized one.

The First Reader.

Younger.

Much younger.

Beside him stood the woman.

The other three were strangers.

Except...

One of them was me.

Not Adrian.

The other me.

The person from the hospital.

The photograph fell from the wall.

I caught it.

The woman immediately looked away.

"You knew."

She didn’t answer.

"Who are the others?"

"People who helped you."

"Where are they now?"

She remained silent.

The First Reader finally answered.

"Two were erased."

"The third became the Author."

I stared at him.

The woman closed her eyes.

"That’s why we can’t go back."

My grip tightened around the photograph.

"Because the Author knows me."

"No."

She shook her head.

"Because you know the Author."

The staircase trembled.

A section of wall opened.

Behind it was another room.

This one was small.

A desk sat in the center.

On the desk...

A black book.

The same one I’d seen in the hospital memory.

I stepped inside.

Nobody stopped me.

The book opened automatically.

The first page contained a sentence.

If you’re reading this, then the reset failed.

My heart skipped.

The next line appeared.

That’s okay.

Then another.

It means they couldn’t erase you completely.

I looked at the woman.

"Who wrote this?"

She answered quietly.

"You."

I stared at the page.

Another sentence appeared.

If you don’t remember me, don’t trust anyone who claims they do.

The woman went completely still.

The First Reader frowned.

"That’s not what you wrote."

She looked at him.

"What?"

"You wrote something else."

"I remember."

"No."

He pointed toward the page.

"This version didn’t exist."

The woman stepped closer.

"Someone changed it."

The book slammed shut.

A voice came from behind us.

"Of course I did."

Everyone froze.

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

Lucien.

He stepped out from the darkness at the end of the staircase.

His clothes were torn.

There was dried blood along his cheek.

But he was smiling.

The woman immediately reached for something beneath her coat.

The First Reader stepped between them.

"Lucien."

"Still alive."

He smiled.

"Disappointed?"

"No."

The First Reader looked relieved.

"Surprised."

Lucien glanced toward me.

"Hello, Adrian."

I stared at him.

"You knew."

"I knew enough."

"You knew about my previous identity."

"I knew there was something buried."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because you weren’t ready."

I laughed bitterly.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it’s true."

Lucien stepped closer.

The woman moved between us.

"Don’t."

Lucien looked at her.

"You still hate me."

"Yes."

"Good."

His smile faded.

"It means you remember."

The First Reader looked toward the book.

"What did you change?"

Lucien’s expression became serious.

"The warning."

"The original said something different."

"What?"

Lucien looked directly at me.

If you’re reading this, then the reset worked.

Silence.

My stomach dropped.

"That’s what you wrote?"

"Yes."

"Then why does it say it failed?"

Lucien glanced toward the woman.

"Because someone rewrote it."

She shook her head.

"Not me."

"Then who?"

Lucien didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked toward the staircase.

The writing on the walls had stopped moving.

Every sentence had become still.

Then...

A new sentence appeared across every step simultaneously.

HE IS HERE.

Lucien’s expression changed.

The woman whispered,

"No."

The First Reader looked toward me.

"Who?"

Before anyone could answer...

The entire staircase went dark.

A voice rose from somewhere below.

Calm.

Familiar.

Patient.

The same voice I’d heard in the hospital.

The same voice that had told me to forget.

"You took long enough."

The woman went pale.

Lucien stepped backward.

The First Reader whispered a name.

A name I had never heard before.

A name that somehow made my chest tighten.

"He’s awake."

The black light beneath us flared.

A figure slowly emerged from the darkness below.

Not walking.

Climbing.

One step at a time.

His hand appeared first.

Then his arm.

Then his face.

My face.

Older.

Scarred.

Exhausted.

He looked exactly like the person I’d seen in the hospital memory.

He stopped halfway up the staircase.

His eyes met mine.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then he smiled.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

Just knowingly.

"You’re wearing my life."

I couldn’t breathe.

He climbed one more step.

"And I’m here to take it back."

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