The smell of the Reading Room was enough to make my stomach turn. It wasn't just old paper; it was the smell of a thousand rotting dreams. Every book in here was a failed timeline, a deleted memory, or a person who had been "summarized" by the System and tossed aside.
"Nix, tell me you have a flashlight," I whispered. My voice didn't echo. The books seemed to swallow the sound, like the walls were made of sound-dampening foam.
"Better," she muttered. She tapped a button on her goggles, and a beam of sharp, ultraviolet light cut through the gloom.
The red eyes in the rafters blinked, retreating into the shadows. They weren't animals. As the light hit them, I saw they were small, clockwork spiders with human-like porcelain faces. They scurried along the shelves, their ceramic feet making
