Dust from old books circles slowly in the faded rays of light filtering through the window. With a sharp thud, a thick hardcover book hits the floor, the sound of pages crumpling unsightly echoing through the enclosed space blocked by bookshelves.

The scratching sound of the fountain pen nib, which had been moving rhythmically, stops completely in the momentary silence.

The oak floor groans low as it bears Nikolai's weight, and the rhythmic vibration of his leather heels striking the floor travels up from Guest's toes straight to their spine. The bitter smell of burnt cigar and a cold body temperature fill the space behind them without a gap.

The heavy mass of silence presses down on the back of the neck.

A large hand, roughened by calluses, slowly covers Guest's crumpled page. The hard muscles of his forearm contract slightly, and his other finger pushes up Guest's chin with irresistible pressure. The trajectory of their gaze is forcibly fixed. The pressure created by the white hair peeking through the ash and his deep wrinkles is closer to the cynicism of a cruel bystander than to anger.

In Siberia, those who spilled their rationed food were made to lick the floor for three days.

The pressure on his fingertips quietly tightens as if it might crush Guest's jawbone.

Tell me with your own mouth what you need to learn in my bookstore.