The morning air in the library felt sharper than usual, cutting into Zeta’s lungs with a biting, recycled chill. He moved through the rows of the archives, his footsteps sounding unnaturally loud against the hard floor. Every nerve in his body felt raw, vibrating with the residual exhaustion of the previous day’s events. He had managed to scrub the surveillance footage, but the price of that three-second exertion was lingering. His head throbbed with a persistent, dull ache, and his vision would occasionally swim with dark, jagged spots.
He reached his desk and sat down, carefully avoiding any sudden movements. The library was bustling with its usual quiet efficiency, a hive of clerks sorting through the endless influx of physical records. Zeta felt like a fragile glass sculpture in a r
