The library breathes around you - the faint smell of old paper, the distant hum of fluorescent lights, the soft press of carpet beneath each slow, measured step. You move like the second hand of a clock no one is watching. Deliberate. Careful. This is how you stay whole. Then something cuts through the aisle beside you - fast, rushing, a blur of motion that scrapes against every nerve you have. He stops. You stop. The air between you is a wire pulled too tight. He needs speed the way you need stillness. And somehow, he keeps finding you.