Lord of Perverted Ladies

I stopped breathing.

My father was sitting in the chair.

Behind him stood another version of me.

Not the Adrian I’d met before.

Not the one from the hospital.

This one looked younger.

Maybe thirteen.

The same age as the photograph.

He stood silently in the kitchen doorway, staring at me.

My father smiled.

"Come inside."

Nobody moved.

The old woman beside me whispered,

"Don’t."

My father looked toward her.

"You always were afraid of this place."

She didn’t answer.

I kept my eyes on him.

"Dad."

"Yes?"

"Are you real?"

His smile faded.

"That’s the wrong question."

I almost laughed.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

He looked at me.

"Then perhaps you should start asking better ones."

I stepped closer to the doorway.

Noah grabbed my shoulder.

"Adrian."

"I know."

"You don’t have to go in."

"I know."

But I did anyway.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the corridor behind me disappeared.

The others were gone.

The old woman.

Noah.

Ryan.

Everyone.

I stood inside my childhood home.

Except it wasn’t my childhood home.

It was a copy.

The walls were too clean.

The furniture was missing.

There were no photographs.

No clocks.

No signs that anyone had ever lived here.

Only my father.

And the younger version of me.

My father pointed toward the empty chair opposite him.

"Sit."

I didn’t.

"Where is my father?"

He smiled.

"You’re looking at him."

"No."

I shook my head.

"You’re not him."

His expression became sad.

"You’re right."

"Then what are you?"

"A memory."

"Whose?"

"Yours."

I looked toward the younger Adrian.

"And him?"

My father didn’t answer.

The younger me finally spoke.

"You don’t remember me."

His voice was quiet.

Almost emotionless.

I stared at him.

"I remember the photograph."

"That’s not the same."

"No."

"You remember what happened to you."

"Not what happened before."

He stepped out of the kitchen.

"I remember."

I looked at him.

"What?"

"Everything."

He walked toward us.

"The day we found the door."

"The day Father showed us the Scriptorium."

"The day we met the Observer."

"The day we created the first Story."

My heart tightened.

"You were there."

"Yes."

"Why don’t I remember?"

"Because you asked me to forget."

I frowned.

"Why?"

The younger me looked at our father.

"Because one of us had to stay."

My father lowered his head.

"And one had to leave."

I understood.

The split.

The original Adrian.

The Writer.

The character.

The replacement.

It wasn’t one event.

It had happened over years.

We had been dividing ourselves.

Piece by piece.

Until neither of us knew which one was the original.

I looked at the younger version.

"What happened to you?"

He smiled.

"I stayed."

"Here?"

"Here."

"How long?"

"Since the first time you left."

I stared at him.

"Then you’re the one who lived my childhood."

"No."

He shook his head.

"You did."

"I don’t understand."

"You were both of us."

He touched his chest.

"I kept the memories."

Then he pointed toward me.

"You kept the life."

The distinction was simple.

And somehow devastating.

"You gave me everything you couldn’t carry."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because someone had to."

I looked at my father.

"Did you know?"

"Yes."

"Did you help us?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn’t you stop it?"

He looked at me.

"Because there was nothing to stop."

"You were children."

"Not when it happened."

"What happened?"

He stood.

The room changed.

The walls became transparent.

I saw the old Scriptorium.

Not the ruined underground chamber.

The original.

It was enormous.

Hundreds of people worked inside.

Books filled every wall.

Symbols covered the floors.

At the center stood a black door.

My younger self stood beside it.

My father was behind him.

And beside them...

The person from the hospital.

They looked younger.

Happy.

Alive.

The person I remembered.

They were holding my hand.

I heard my younger voice.

"Are you sure?"

They smiled.

"No."

"Then why are we doing this?"

"Because someone has to ask."

My father stepped forward.

"You don’t have to."

I looked at him.

"I want to."

The black door opened.

White light poured out.

And something spoke.

Not the Witness.

Not the Observer.

Something quieter.

"What do you seek?"

My younger self answered.

"An ending where nobody dies."

The room went silent.

The voice responded.

"Impossible."

My younger self clenched his fists.

"Then I’ll make it possible."

The memory shifted.

The person from the hospital grabbed my arm.

"Don’t."

"I have to."

"You don’t."

"I promised."

"What did you promise?"

I looked at my younger self.

He turned toward them.

"I promised I’d bring you back."

My chest tightened.

The memory ended.

I returned to the empty house.

The younger Adrian was staring at me.

"You remember now."

"Yes."

"Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"You didn’t create the Story because you wanted power."

"No."

"You created it because you wanted to save them."

"The person from the hospital."

He nodded.

"But you couldn’t."

"Why?"

"Because they were already dead."

I froze.

"No."

"They died before the first Story."

"That’s not true."

"It is."

"The hospital."

"The memories."

"The person I met."

"They were all echoes."

My father spoke.

"The person you loved died before you ever entered the Story."

I stared at him.

"Then who have I been talking to?"

"Her memory."

"The Observer preserved it."

"Why?"

"Because you refused to let go."

I looked toward the younger Adrian.

"And he?"

"He kept the memory alive."

"So all this..."

"Was built around grief."

The word hit me harder than anything else.

Grief.

Not destiny.

Not prophecy.

Not some grand cosmic purpose.

Grief.

I had built an entire reality because I couldn’t accept that someone was gone.

I sat down.

For the first time since this began, I didn’t know what to say.

The younger Adrian approached.

"You wanted to save everyone."

"Yes."

"But you couldn’t."

"Yes."

"So you changed the rules."

"Yes."

"You gave everyone choices."

"Yes."

"And now?"

I looked at him.

"Now I don’t know what to do."

He smiled.

"Good."

"Why?"

"Because that’s the first honest thing you’ve said."

The house trembled.

The walls began cracking.

My father looked toward the ceiling.

"They’re coming."

"Who?"

"The Witness."

The younger Adrian shook his head.

"No."

"It’s not."

"Then who?"

He looked at me.

"The Observer."

I stood.

"What do they want?"

"To take back what you stole."

"What did I steal?"

He pointed toward my chest.

"Choice."

The front door opened.

The person from the hospital stood outside.

My heart stopped.

They looked exactly as I remembered.

But this time, I didn’t move toward them.

"You’re not real."

They smiled.

"I know."

"You’re a memory."

"Yes."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you’re ready."

"Ready for what?"

They stepped inside.

"To let me go."

The room became silent.

I stared at them.

All the years.

All the memories.

Everything I’d built.

Everything I’d lost.

All the impossible worlds.

All because I couldn’t accept this moment.

They walked toward me.

"I was never waiting for you."

"I was waiting for you to stop looking."

I swallowed.

"Did you ever love me?"

Their eyes softened.

"Yes."

"Then why did you leave?"

"I didn’t."

"You died."

"Yes."

"I tried to bring you back."

"I know."

"I failed."

"No."

They touched my cheek.

"You succeeded."

I stared at them.

"Then why aren’t you alive?"

"Because saving someone doesn’t always mean making them stay."

The words settled inside me.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time...

I stopped fighting.

The memory smiled.

"Goodbye, Adrian."

I opened my eyes.

They were gone.

The house was empty.

No father.

No younger Adrian.

No memory.

Just me.

Then a door appeared in the wall.

Not black.

Not white.

Ordinary.

A note was attached.

I pulled it free.

My father’s handwriting.

You finally let her go.

Below it:

Now you can find me.

I stared.

Another line appeared.

The man you met at home wasn’t me.

My blood went cold.

Then—

I’m alive.

I stepped toward the door.

A final sentence appeared.

And I know who killed the original Adrian.

The door opened.

Beyond it was the underground Scriptorium.

Noah and the others were waiting.

They looked at me.

Noah immediately noticed my expression.

"What happened?"

I looked at the empty room behind me.

"She was never coming back."

He didn’t ask who.

He understood.

Then I showed him the note.

His face changed.

"Your father is alive?"

"Apparently."

Ryan stepped closer.

"Where?"

I turned the paper over.

There was a map.

A single location marked beneath Alisster.

Not the hospital.

Not the Scriptorium.

Somewhere else.

A place I had never heard of.

THE OLD TRAINING GROUNDS.

Marcus looked at the map.

"I know this place."

I looked at him.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

He pointed toward the northern edge of the city.

"About fifteen kilometres from here."

"What’s there?"

Marcus looked uneasy.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"An abandoned military facility."

I folded the map.

"Then that’s where we’re going."

The old woman stepped forward.

"You shouldn’t."

I looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because your father didn’t leave that map for you to find him."

"Then why?"

She looked at the empty doorway.

"He left it so you could find what he was protecting."

I frowned.

"What?"

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she looked toward the underground chamber.

At the black door.

"The first Story wasn’t created to save the dead."

She paused.

"It was created to contain something."

I looked toward the darkness.

"What?"

The old woman whispered,

"The thing that killed the original Adrian."

The lights went out.

Somewhere beneath the Scriptorium...

Something knocked three times.

And this time...

The sound came from inside the black door.

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