The librarian.

The Revelation

The evening sun was already melting into the horizon when Desmond pulled into the familiar street. The hum of the engine softened as he slowed, his eyes instinctively finding the two-storey house that had always meant home. He guided the car into the compound with careful hands, easing it between the worn tire tracks that had carved a faint pattern into the concrete.

With a quiet sigh, he shifted the gear to neutral and let the car roll the last few inches, parking it gently as though not to disturb the silence that seemed to hang in the air. The engine purred once, then died, leaving only the faint whisper of cicadas outside. Desmond rested his palms on the steering wheel for a moment, staring through the windshield at the dim porch light flickering to life, and felt the weight of return settle on him. He stepped out of his car, mind replaying the day’s chaos. Just yesterday he had been the regular weird student who didn’t give a damn. Now he was wanted, hunted, and reluctantly entangled in a search for a lost truth—dragged into it by a girl who smeared his quiet existence with her chaotic fingerprints.

He hadn’t expected his life to shift so violently. Not that he had expected anything at all. Still, the thrill of it all was starting to sour. What he wanted now was closure—a way out, and a return to normalcy.

Desmond took the stairs two at a time, the cold steel rail biting under his palms. But at the landing, he froze. The door was locked. Precautions, he thought. A necessary step in times like this. He pressed the bell once, then again, cautiously. Silence answered him. His thoughts began darkening toward the worst possibilities.

He reached for his phone to call Luna, but stopped himself. If they’d been taken, a call would only draw danger straight to him. With a sigh, he jogged back down the stairwell, intent on retrieving the spare keys from his car.

That was when he heard it—the low growl of an engine, smooth as silk. A Rolls-Royce Phantom rolled into view, its polished body glinting under the streetlights. From within blasted the heavy bass of Nicki Minaj and Chris Brown’s Right By Your Side. The luxury machine glided to a perfect stop beside his car, and the doors swung open.

Out stepped Luna and Goldie, weighed down with shopping bags like returning royalty. Luna sported oversized party glasses; Goldie, now dressed head to toe in designer gear, flashed three freshly installed silver teeth with a grin that nearly blinded Desmond.

“Desmond!” Luna called, holding up souvenirs like trophies.

“You won’t believe these sneakers, man,” Goldie added, eyes sparkling. “They’re to die for!”

Desmond stared at him as though he were a specimen in a lab—an i***t carefully preserved behind glass.

They started up the stairs, but Desmond cut them short with a raised hand.

“Now what?” Luna groaned. “Don’t tell me shopping’s become a crime too.”

He shot her a sarcastic glare. “Unintelligible doesn’t even cover it.”

“Were you followed?” His voice was sharp now, deliberate.

Goldie barked a laugh. “No way! Who’d follow us? We were just vibing—oh, and did I tell you Luna—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, smug face.” Desmond’s interruption sliced the air. Goldie’s smile collapsed, leaving him staring in wounded silence.

“You shouldn’t talk to him like that,” Luna snapped, climbing another step.

“Stop.” His command was low, deadly.

She turned, defiant. “Or what? You’ll throw me out?”

“No,” Desmond said evenly. “I’ll return you to your father.”

That made her freeze. Something flickered behind her glasses. “My father?”

“Yes, Luna. While you were busy parading around with bags and toys, I had time to look into your past.” His eyes pinned her in place.

Her lips trembled with fury. “You vile creature.”

“Better vile than reckless. Because that’s what you’ve been. Reckless.”

“What, like you’re my jailer?”

“Maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

“You hateful, loathsome soul.” Her voice rose, trembling with heat.

“Maybe. But I didn’t drag the enemy to my doorstep.”

“Can you guys just calm down?” Goldie tried to mediate, but Luna whipped around.

“Shut the f**k up, Goldie!” she barked. Then to Desmond: “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Always calculating, always cold. But you’re just as blind as my father. You think a few pieces of information give you power over me? f**k you, Desmond. You and your stone heart. You’re nothing but a callous fraud—and I’m done with your self-righteous charade.”

She yanked the Phantom’s door open, but Desmond moved.

In a blur, he gripped the balustrade, vaulted the rail, and dropped two stories through the night air. He landed with a bone-jarring thud on the hood of the Range Rover, the metal groaning under the impact. Luna and Goldie froze, paralyzed by the impossible scene.

Desmond slid off the dented hood, strode forward, and seized Luna’s wrist before she could climb inside the car.

“I’m sorry, witch,” he said, voice low and burning. “But I can’t let you leave now.”

-----

The three shadows huddled together in Goldie’s rundown apartment, where half his wardrobe seemed to have migrated into the sitting room. Desmond had suggested the move; the shabby hideout was, ironically, their best bet for safety.

He positioned Luna and Goldie on a couch beside the window while he kept pacing, pulling the curtain aside every few minutes as though expecting someone to appear out of the night. On the fifteenth check, he finally turned back to them.

“Okay, Luna,” he said, perching on the arm of a chair, eyes locked on her slender frame. “It’s time. I need you to spill everything that happened that night. And when I say everything, I mean everything. No detail left behind.”

Luna folded her arms, defiance in her tone. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” Desmond replied calmly, unblinking, “the only thing standing between you and one phone call to your father… is me.”

Her chest rose with a heavy sigh. She looked away, defeated.

“I was on the road. Alone. Frightened. I thought of calling Nathan—my guard, my help—but I changed my mind. For once, I wanted space. Freedom. A moment outside the suffocating safety of my family’s wealth. So I kept walking. Just breathing. Then I heard it—a truck. Loud, heavy. My instincts screamed. I hid behind a tree.

“It was dark, but I counted them. Seven men. They jumped down from the vehicle like shadows peeling off the night. One thug went to the back and dragged someone out. Their prisoner. His hands chained, his ankles shackled. He wasn’t allowed to walk—just pulled along the dirt like baggage.”

She paused, her throat tight. Goldie leaned forward with a bottle of water, but she pushed it away.

“They dragged him down the path. And… I don’t know what got into me. Curiosity, maybe. I followed them. Quietly. They didn’t notice me—too busy laughing, joking about what horrors they had in store for him. The man couldn’t even fight back.

“They reached the house. That house.” She flicked her gaze toward Desmond. “The same place I later saw you.”

Goldie perked up. “Wait—you two had met before now?”

Desmond ignored him, expression carved from stone. “Go on.”

“I couldn’t risk the door—it creaked like it was begging to give me away. So I crept to the broken window. That’s where… I saw it. The worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.” Her voice faltered. Her eyes glassed over, lips trembling.

Goldie reached out instinctively, but Desmond’s glare froze him mid-motion. Without a word, Desmond pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and held it out.

“Continue,” he ordered.

Luna sniffed, pushing the handkerchief away. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Her gaze locked on him, stubborn but fragile.

“They started mocking the prisoner at first, jeering, trying to break him. But he stayed quiet. Silent. Then… one of them brought out a hammer. And nails.

“And they grabbed his hands.”

Her voice cracked. Fear seeped into every word, as though she were reliving the nightmare

Oh God!" Goldie began.

"Then they placed it on the arm of the chair..." Luna’s voice cracked. She sniffed, her scowls dissolving into muffled sobs as tears streaked down her cheeks.

"What did they want from him?" Desmond asked, watching her carefully from behind the mask, his eyes sharp with suspicion.

"Information," she whispered, batting her eyes at him.

"What kind of information?"

"I don’t know," she muttered.

"You don’t know… or you won’t tell?" Desmond pressed, his gaze drilling into her.

"Slow down, Des. Can’t you see she’s trying to recover from the memory?" Goldie intervened, but Desmond ignored him.

"Luna, I know this is hard. But I need you to tell me everything you remember from that night. Nothing left out," he said in a low, calm voice.

"I don’t know what they wanted from him… but whatever it was, they scraped it out of him piece by piece, until nothing of him was left." Her words trembled with horror. Desmond sighed and turned away. She knew more than she was saying—obvious enough.

"I think the lady’s had enough," Goldie protested.

"So they killed him?" Desmond asked, spinning back toward Luna.

"I said the lady has—" Goldie rose, but Desmond silenced him with a raised finger.

"If you don’t hold your tongue, lad, you’ll end up a stranger in your own home."

Goldie swallowed hard, shaken, and sank back into his seat. Desmond returned to Luna.

"After nailing his hands to the armchair in five places, and pinning his legs to the ground, they set his hair alight. They watched him writhe and scream until he was nothing but a charred husk."

"Oh Jesus!" Goldie gasped, his eyes wide. "You saw all that?"

"Who was this man?" Desmond pressed.

"How the f**k am I supposed to know?" Luna snapped, anger breaking through her grief. "Haven’t I told you enough?"

"Don’t give me that crap, Luna. I’m certain you know exactly who he is. Question is—how are you connected?"

"I don’t know what the f**k you’re talking about!" she shouted, rising to her feet. "I’ve had enough of your bullshit. I did what you asked—now I’m leaving!"

She made for the door, but Desmond stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“When you mentioned the man, your whole countenance shifted—just slightly, but enough. A flicker of recognition crossed your face; your pupils dilated, your breath caught. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t shock. This was deeper. You know him. And he… he’s the reason we’re being hunted.”

"Hunted?" Goldie shrieked. "Who’s hunting us?"

"How do you do that?" Luna asked, gobsmacked.

"Do what?" Goldie looked lost.

"You need to tell me, Luna," Desmond whispered. "You’re not the only one in danger here."

She sank back down, shoulders trembling.

"He was…" she sniffed. "He was my father’s friend." Her words broke into sobs. Goldie reached for her shoulder, gently holding her hand.

"I’m sorry, Luna. I’m so sorry."

"He was one of the Helms."

Her eyes, red and wet, lifted to Desmond’s.

"Yes," she admitted with another sniff. "He was a senator."

"Good God!" Goldie exclaimed. "The man you saw die was a high seat-holder?"

"That makes sense," Desmond murmured. "You witnessed the murder of a rival. Which makes you…"

"An accessory to murder." Her voice wavered as she wiped at her tears. "I didn’t know what to do."

"You could have gone to your father," Desmond suggested.

"No!" she whimpered. "If he finds out—"

"They’ll kill him too," Desmond finished, nodding grimly. If there was anything he despised, it was the senseless slaughter born from the seats of power. He knew that world too well.

"What are you guys even talking about?" Goldie burst out. "All these killings—I don’t understand!"

"We can’t stay here," Desmond said sharply. "They’ll be looking for us."

"Who’s they?" Goldie started to ask—when the low growl of engines cut him off. Two SUVs glided to a halt outside the building.

Desmond pushed the curtain aside just enough to see. His jaw tightened.

"Goldie," he said firmly, "you have a car, right?"

----

Alkaza stepped out of the car with measured grace, his men already encircling the building like shadows tightening around prey. Whoever this boy was, there would be no escape for him today. The call had come from his superiors barely an hour ago. The order was simple: neutralize and contain.

Alkaza was a fierce but tactical man, one who had long ago learned to trust his instincts. Instinct was survival’s truest weapon, whether you stood as predator or prey. His services were always summoned whenever compromise seeped into the institution — that ancient structure built on blood and power. In it, there was no middle ground: you were either eating, or waiting to be eaten.

For Alkaza, usefulness was his shield. As long as he remained indispensable, he could escape becoming either. And yet, a question always gnawed at him: would luck eventually fail, and in the middle of the hunt he find himself devoured? The thought made him blink, a shiver passing through him. The terror of imagining what it meant to be decapitated alive could freeze blood in the veins of any sane man — or drive a mad one to crave death as mercy.

Not today. He lifted his eyes to the narrow block tucked between the taller storeys, where his men — clad in matte-black tactical uniforms, Kevlar vests strapped tight, faces hidden beneath visors, carbines slung against their chests — were already breaching the doors with silent precision. They looked like a swarm of faceless wraiths. What threat could a mere university kid ever pose?

Inside, the sweep was already concluding. His men moved with disciplined efficiency, some murmuring into radios, reporting to the higher echelons. But the boy and his guest had vanished before the strike.

Alkaza stepped into the living room, taking a slow survey of the space. Whoever this boy was, he was meticulous. The place was neat to the point of obsession. His eyes drifted to a table — a modern, glass-topped piece with chrome legs polished to a mirror sheen — positioned beside a settee upholstered in black leather, sleek and angular, its cushions swallowing light. A book lay on the table, stacked neatly atop law textbooks, its spine stamped with the name Mallory.

He picked it up, flipping through its pages. The handwriting inside was sharp, deliberate. A diary. Is this boy a professor? he wondered. What a waste of brains that would be.

“Sir.”

The voice broke the spell. He turned slightly, realizing he had been too absorbed in the pages.

“Sir,” the captain repeated — Moses, ever so formal.

“What is it, Moses?” Alkaza asked, eyes narrowing.

“Orders from the Tower. We are to withdraw, so as not to compromise the mission.”

Alkaza gave a short, cold laugh. “The mission is already compromised. The boy is clever — too clever. There’s no way he'd return here now"

“But, sir—”

“It’s alright, Moses,” Alkaza interrupted with a faint grin. He had always admired the captain’s conscientious loyalty, though it bordered on suffocating. “We’ll take our leave. After all…” He lifted the book. “…I didn’t leave empty-handed.”

He turned toward the door, Moses stepping aside to give him room. Alkaza’s boots clicked softly against the polished floor as he strode out, the book still in his grip.

Beyond the blurred pane of the side window, unseen by him, a small battered Honda eased out from the alley between Desmond’s and Goldie’s buildings. Its paint was dulled with age, its headlights dim with neglect. The car slipped onto the road like a shadow fleeing the scene, its silhouette etched against the molten glow of the setting sun. Gold and crimson light spilled across the horizon, wrapping the escape in perfect camouflage.

----

The car threaded down the street, its crew silent, each lost in thought. Desmond checked the side mirror, scanning for tails, and exhaled in relief when he saw none. Beside him, Goldie rested his head against the seat’s backrest, eyes vacant, mind adrift.

Earlier, Desmond had dropped Luna with her private bodyguard—the man she insisted only answered to her. Before leaving, she had turned and said, “You know I didn’t bring this on you, Desmond… you brought it on yourself.” Then she was gone, leaving him with words he couldn’t quite unravel. What mattered was the unease that clung to him like smoke. Something was wrong. And if there was one thing Desmond excelled at, it was fixing problems—his own, or someone else’s.

Now he drove along Cross Over Street, a road linking him to the man known only as Scissors. Desmond had never cared why the man carried such a ridiculous name. What mattered was that before leaving the man from the elevator—then the toilet—he had stripped him of his phone and found Scissors’ number saved inside. Multiple calls between the two suggested trust. Desmond had run the number through his computer, peeling back its layers, tracing IP logs and cross-referencing data until a real name and location surfaced. The machine had done the digging; he had simply connected the dots.

That trail now led him here. To Albert.

He turned onto a narrow street where old houses lined either side, their paint peeling, their windows shuttered against the day’s last light. The evening air smelled faintly of damp wood and rusting iron. Desmond slowed, scanning the addresses, then eased the Honda to a stop in front of a squat bungalow with a cracked porch light. He killed the engine and turned to Goldie.

“I need you to stay here, okay?”

Goldie blinked. “Why can’t I go home again?”

Desmond studied him, shaping the lie on his tongue. “Because I need your help. And your house is probably swarming with—”

“Assassins and killers,” Goldie finished for him, swallowing hard. “Okay… but what exactly do I do?”

“Be my lookout. I’m paying a friend a visit.”

Goldie frowned. “But can’t I follow you? I’m… I’m very nice around friends.”

“No, Goldie. You can’t.”

With that, Desmond slammed the car door shut, the sound cracking the quiet street like a warning shot.

---

The door creaked open after the third knock, revealing Desmond’s faceless face in the frame. From inside, heavy bass thumped through the walls — music blaring from a stereo in one of the rooms.

“Who the hell are you?” A woman stood before him, strung in a bikini, scowl stitched across her face.

“Albert in?”

“Uh. No! And I need you to turn around and leave, fuckface.” She snapped, already irritated.

Desmond pushed the door wide, slipping inside with no resistance. She shoved at him, but he was immovable.

“Scissors! Someone’s trying to rob us!” she screamed, hysteria cracking her voice. Her nails flashed toward his face — Desmond slapped her arm aside, then slammed her head into the wall. The impact folded her to the ground where she writhed in pain, groaning.

From the back, a fat, bald man in a singlet and shorts burst from a room with a shotgun. He leveled it — the barrel yawning like a black mouth.

The gun roared. Desmond dove, rolling behind a sofa. The blast ripped through wood and plaster, tearing the doorway in half. The bald man c****d to reload, but Desmond launched at him like lightning, closing the space before he could steady his aim. They collided, the gun firing wild into the ceiling.

Desmond twisted, came up on his feet, and snapped a roundhouse kick into the man’s ribs. He crumpled, groaning.

“Stay down.”

Desmond dusted his jacket, dragged the man by the arm into the room he’d come from. It smelled faintly of sweat, fried food, and stale beer. A sagging bed stood pushed to one corner; clothes and wrappers littered the floor. Desmond grabbed a chair, sat the man on it, and bound him using an extension cord stripped from the wall — tight around wrists and ankles until the wood creaked.

He turned the stereo volume up louder on his way back — bass swallowing the air, drowning out what was about to unfold. His “dark matters” always worked best behind noise.

The woman was in the living room, fumbling with her phone, voice shaking as she muttered into it.

“You don’t want to do that.”

She spun, panic in her eyes. “Stay away from me!” she shrieked, holding the phone like a shield.

Desmond picked up the shotgun lying on the floor. He cradled it lazily, then smiled. “Give it to me… and we won’t have to open wounds.”

Her trembling fingers surrendered the phone. He tossed her a handkerchief.

She tried to wipe her tears, but he stopped her. “Not for that. For your eyes.”

“My… eyes?”

“Yeah. Blindfold.”

“Oh.” With shaky hands, she tied it around her face, knotting it at the back. Desmond guided her toward the room where the man now sat bound to the chair.

Albert looked up, sneering despite the ropes biting into his flesh. “What do you want?”

“Oh, a lot actually.” Desmond stepped in close, eye level now.

“Who sent you?”

“What?”

“Stop the drama. I checked your details. You don’t own any business, no licenses, no official income. So how do you pay bills, rent, and afford…” He gestured toward the blindfolded woman. “…her? Let me save us both the eternity of guessing. You’re a hitman.”

Albert flinched at the word. Desmond saw it. He smiled thinly. “So, back to my first question: Who sent you?”

“I don’t know the f**k you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you will.”

Desmond crouched by the wall socket, unscrewed the plug cover, and yanked out two live wires meant for phone charging. He dragged the chair closer, holding the frayed ends up to Albert’s face.

“Y’know, I’m a law student. Nowhere close to electrical studies. But I do know this—” he tapped the wires together, sparks spitting in the dim light, “—zaps like crazy.”

“Please let him go!...We know nothing” the woman sobbed through the blindfold.

“Maybe you don’t know, my love,” Desmond said, eyes fixed on Albert. “But he does.”

He pressed the wire to Albert’s finger. Electricity surged. Albert screamed, body jerking violently, knuckles white against the bindings. His face twisted in agony, teeth clamping hard as the current rattled him.

Desmond released him, watching the man slump, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving.

“Ready to talk now?”

“I… I swear—I don’t know…I'm in the dark honestly” Albert gasped, dread hanging on each word.

Desmond touched the wires together again. “Guess we’ll have to bring you into the light then”

Albert convulsed when the charge hit him again, back arching, legs kicking against the cords. His body shook as if a puppet yanked by cruel strings, then collapsed in rigid silence, breath ragged.

"So?"

"I can't.." he sobbed silent his mouth sagging with drool

"Guess we'll just have to give you a little motivation then"

Desmond left him trembling and walked calmly to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet, filled a cup with water from the tap, and returned. By then, Albert’s head hung low, whispering in hushes with the woman, who sniffled and begged between sobs.

“You see,” Desmond said, setting the cup down, “I’m not this kind of person. But when you force my hand, I don’t have much of a choice.” He dipped Albert’s hand in the water.

Albert’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, poor Albert. You know exactly what I’m doing.”

Desmond sparked the wires. Albert flinched, terror etched on his face.

“Please don’t!” the woman cried.

“Shall we begin?” Desmond asked, wires poised.

“Wait!” Albert broke, his voice raw. “I’ll talk. But know this — we’re both dead after this revelation.”

“Oh, I don’t care.” Desmond leaned in, grin sharp. “It’s all a game to me.”

Albert’s jaw trembled. “His name is Alkaza. He works for the Helms. I’m just one of his agents — easily disposable. So you see, friend…” He swallowed hard. “I’m a dead man talking. And so are you.”

Desmond paused, letting the words sink. Someone from the Helms had marked him. That changed everything.

He stood, coiling the wires slowly. “We’ll see about that, Albert… won’t we?”