Chapter 2: The Library Warmth
The library didn't open until nine.
Kai knew this because he'd been waiting outside for forty-seven minutes. He'd counted. Forty-seven was his number. His old number. He didn't believe in signs or fate or any of that—the old world had beaten such thoughts out of him—but he also didn't ignore patterns. Forty-seven minutes. The library would open. He would go inside. That was the pattern.
His back was against the warm wall of the building. Not warm from inside—too early for that—but warm from the morning sun that had finally appeared after days of grey. London was greyer than he'd expected. The old world had been grey too, but different grey. Industrial grey. Artificial light grey. This grey was natural, soft, almost comforting.
He ate the second croissant slowly. The baker had given him three. He'd saved two for today. One now, one for later. Old habit. Never eat everything at once. Never know when next meal comes.
The croissant was less fresh now, slightly harder, but still good. Still tasted like freedom.
His headphones were in. Low volume. Conserving battery. He'd charged them yesterday at the library for exactly twenty-three minutes before the librarian had given him the look. The look that said you've been here too long without a computer. So he'd moved to a different seat. Then another. Then left when the look followed him.
Today he would be more careful.
The doors opened at exactly nine. An employee with a key, yawning, barely glancing at him. Kai stood, stretched, followed her inside.
Warmth hit him immediately. Heated air. Dry. Free.
He found a corner seat near a window, away from the main desk, where he could see both entrances. Old habit. Always know the exits. Always know who comes and goes.
The headphones came off. He placed them carefully on the table. Then he stood again, walked to the computer sign-up station, and used one of his three library cards.
He had three cards. Different names. Different addresses. He'd found them in a wallet behind a pub, months ago. The wallet had no money, but the cards worked. Libraries didn't check addresses. Libraries just wanted you to read.
Today's card was "James Morrison." His computer was number 7.
Forty minutes of internet. Then he'd have to move.
Kai sat down and opened the browser.
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He'd been learning about this world for almost a year now. When he'd first woken up on these streets—cold, confused, body younger but mind full of twenty-five years of brutal training—he'd thought he was still in the old world. Thought he'd escaped somehow. Thought the trainers would find him.
They didn't.
Weeks passed. Then months. No whistles. No commands. No Number 47, report for punishment.
Slowly, he'd accepted it. This was a different place. A different time. Same planet? Different planet? He didn't know. Didn't care. What mattered was: no one owned him.
But he needed to understand. So he learned.
Today's search: English Premier League current standings.
The results loaded. He scanned them quickly. Manchester City top. Arsenal second. Liverpool third. The same names he'd been seeing for months. The same teams. The same players.
He clicked on Arsenal. Read about their season. Their manager. Their style of play.
In the old world, football had been different. Not different rules—the game was the same, mostly—but different context. Football was survival. Football was performance. Football was the thing you did until your body broke, and then you did something else until your body broke more.
Here, football was... entertainment? People watched for fun? They paid money to see games? They argued about it in pubs and on websites and in comments sections?
He still didn't fully understand. But he understood the game itself. The movement. The patterns. The angles.
He understood those better than anyone in this world possibly could.
Number 47, you are the best football asset we have ever trained. You will play at the highest level. You will win championships. You will make us rich.
He'd played at the highest level. He'd won championships. He'd made them rich.
Then he'd died.
Now he sat in a library in London, learning about a team called Arsenal, eating a day-old croissant, with forty minutes of internet time left.
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The music started playing in his head again.
Not real music—his headphones were off—but memory music. The song from this morning. The one with the woman's voice and the words he didn't understand. It looped in his brain, soft and persistent.
He'd been collecting music for months now. Whenever he found headphones—discarded, broken, forgotten—he fixed them. Whenever he found a place to charge—library, cafe if they didn't notice, once a socket behind a bus station—he filled his cheap phone with songs. Downloaded free apps. Listened to samples. Built a library.
The phone was his only possession. A battered smartphone he'd found in a park, screen cracked, battery dead. He'd charged it at the library over several days, figured out how to reset it, and discovered it still worked. No SIM card, but wifi worked. Music apps worked. The world opened.
He'd named the phone "Forty-seven" in his mind. A reminder. Not of the old world—but of survival. Of continuing.
Forty-seven minutes he'd waited for the library. Forty-seven was his number. The phone held his music. The music held his peace.
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The computer screen showed him something new.
Arsenal academy trials. Open selection. Ages 16-19. Register online.
Kai read it twice.
Trials. Tryouts. A chance to be seen.
In the old world, trials were different. Trials meant selection. Selection meant ownership. If you were chosen, you were bought. If you were bought, you belonged to someone forever.
Here, trials meant... what? A contract? A job? Money?
He didn't want to be owned again. But he also didn't want to sleep behind bakeries forever. The croissant was almost gone. The money in his pocket was three pounds. Winter was coming.
He looked at the registration page. It asked for name, age, contact information. Previous experience.
What experience could he list? Twenty-five years of forced athletic training in a dystopian sports-gladiator system. Died at thirty-two. Reborn on your streets. Currently residing behind a bakery.
He closed the page.
Then he opened it again.
Number 47, you will take opportunities when they appear. Opportunities are rare. Hesitation is death.
Old training. Old voice. But maybe not wrong.
He copied the date and location. Three weeks from now. Training ground in Colney. Bus would cost money. He'd need to save.
Kai logged out, stood, and moved to a different computer. Computer 12. New name: "David Chen." Fresh thirty minutes.
He searched: bus fares London to Colney.
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Two hours later, he was back in his corner, headphones on, eyes closed. Music played softly. Something instrumental. Piano and strings.
He'd learned the bus fare: £8.70 each way. He'd need food for the day. He'd need to look presentable enough that security wouldn't turn him away.
Total: maybe £25. More than he had.
But he had three weeks. Three weeks of finding coins, collecting discards, maybe asking the baker if he had more day-olds to sell cheap.
Three weeks to prepare for something he wasn't sure he wanted.
The music swelled. Piano. Strings. Something sad but beautiful.
Kai let it wash over him.
In the old world, he'd never had choices. Never had time to sit and listen and think about what he wanted. Never had the luxury of deciding.
Now he had three weeks to decide. Three weeks to choose whether to walk toward the thing he was best at—the thing that had killed him—or to stay here, in the quiet, with his music and his bread smells and his freedom.
The song ended. Another began. Faster. Happier.
Kai didn't open his eyes.
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"You're here every day."
The voice came from somewhere to his left. Female. Not loud. Not threatening.
Kai opened his eyes slowly. Turned his head.
A woman stood a few feet away. Librarian. Not the one from yesterday—different one. Younger. Dark hair pulled back. Glasses. She held a stack of books.
"You're always in this corner," she continued. "Headphones in. Computer, then corner, then computer again. I've seen you for months."
Kai said nothing. Assessed. Threat level: low. No uniform. No security badge. Just curiosity.
"I'm not in trouble," he said finally. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He didn't use it much.
"No trouble," she agreed. She shifted the books. "Just... you know. We notice regulars. That's all."
She waited. He didn't speak.
After a moment, she nodded toward his headphones. "What do you listen to?"
Kai considered the question. No one had asked him that before.
"Everything," he said.
"Everything?"
"Music. From everywhere. I download samples. If I like, I find more."
She seemed interested. "Any favorites?"
He thought. The playlist in his head scrolled through hundreds of songs. Dozens of countries. Languages he didn't understand. Instruments he'd never seen.
"The sad ones," he said. "From places I've never been."
She looked at him for a long moment. Something in her eyes changed. Softened.
"There's a free concert in the park next week," she said. "World music. Different countries. You might like it."
Kai filed the information. "What park?"
She told him. Date. Time. Nearest bus.
He nodded once. "Thank you."
She smiled slightly. "I'm Sarah, by the way. In case you need help finding anything. Books. Music. Whatever."
Then she walked away, books balanced carefully.
Kai watched her go. Then he put his headphones back in. Found the right angle. Pressed play.
A new song began. African, maybe. Drums and voices and something that sounded like joy.
He closed his eyes and let it fill him.
Three weeks until the trial. One week until the concert. Today, right now, music and warmth and a corner where no one bothered him.
Number 47, you are wasting time. You should be training. You should be preparing.
No, he thought back at the voice. Today I'm listening. Today I'm resting. Today I choose.
The drums played on.
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End of Chapter 2
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Food Review: Second croissant, less fresh but still buttery. Library warmth on the side. Free. 8/10.