Rain tapped against the library windows like a restless whisper.
At ten past ten, St. Catherines Institute was asleep. Classrooms dimmed, dorms sealed, security lights blinking in soft blue patterns across the main courtyard. But the northern wing—the old library—still held a pulse of warm light.
Elias Ward knelt beside the last row of shelves, scrubbing at a stubborn stain older than the varnish on the floor. The rag was coarse, the water cold. His hands had gone red from work, but he didn't stop.
He never did.
He didn't wear earbuds like the others. No music, no distractions. Other work-study students drifted through night shifts on autopilot, dead-eyed and muttering. But Elias moved with purpose—measured, quiet, methodical.
That's what kept him here.
That's what kept him in school.
He wrung out the cloth for the twentieth time and leaned back, spine popping. The warmth from the overhead lights barely reached the lower stacks. His breath misted.
"Still scrubbing floors, Ward?"
The voice belonged to Mrs. Callan, the head librarian. She shuffled around the corner with a flashlight and the same tired sigh as always.
"You should get going. Weather like this? Cracks right through the bones."
"Ten more minutes," Elias murmured.
She looked at him a moment—sympathy, mixed with a kind of quiet defeat—then nodded and walked off. The lights overhead began to shut down behind her, one row at a time.
Elias rose to his feet, grabbed the bucket, and made his way down the west hall.
He liked the west hall. It was narrow, forgotten, and always cold. At its end stood a locked iron door, untouched for years. Faded Latin curled across the archway like a whisper from another time: Non Libris, Sed Veritate.
Not by books, but by truth.
He knelt at the base of the door, cloth in hand.
Then—a sound.
A thud. Not a footstep. Not a dropped book.
Bone hitting wood.
He straightened. Another sound. Louder this time—followed by a short, sharp cry. A girl's voice, choked off.
Elias didn't hesitate.
He moved down the side hall toward the study room. The door was cracked open. Inside, fluorescent lights flickered over overturned chairs.
Two boys were standing over a girl—one gripping her hair, the other shouting something indistinct and furious.
"You think you're better than us? Freak!"
Then came a slap.
Elias didn't yell.
He just moved.
He grabbed the first boy by the collar and shoved him hard into the wall. The second turned, swung—
Elias ducked and drove his elbow into the boy's chin. He crumpled, gasping, and hit the floor.
Both stared at him—stunned.
They hadn't expected him to fight.
Elias, the silent one. The cleaning boy. The nobody.
"Leave," he said.
His voice was calm. Cold.
The first boy wiped blood from his lip and glared. "You're dead, Ward. You don't even know who you just touched."
They left. Fast.
The girl didn't speak.
She was crouched near the back wall, one hand pressed to her mouth. Blood at the corner of her lips. Hair disheveled. She stared at Elias for a moment—too long, too silently.
He offered her a tissue from his pocket.
She didn't take it.
Instead, she rose, straightened her uniform, and walked past him without a word.
No thank you.
No name.
Just the soft click of her heels fading down the hall.
Elias stood there for a while.
Then remembered—his cleaning bucket. Still sitting in the archive corridor, past the sealed gate.
The automatic locks had already engaged.
He was trapped.
Behind him, the old iron door let out a creak.
And slowly—without anyone touching it—it closed.
Click.
Darkness.