Dr. Julius Aster sat in the back seat of the cab, the monotony of passing streets doing little to quiet the storm in his mind. Five years—it had been five years since his colleague, Laurens Moreau, vanished without a trace. Five years since the Bureau had classified his work. Aster could still hear Moreau's voice discussing theories that danced on the edge of impossibility. The man had been brilliant, but the last experiment had cost him everything.

  The cab jolted over a rough patch in the road, pulling Aster from his thoughts. He adjusted his glasses, staring out at the bustling streets of Delhi. He barely noticed the people weaving through traffic, the cacophony of honking horns, or the rich aroma of street food wafting through the air. His focus was singular: Site 032. Somewhere amidst this chaos lay the entrance to the Eternal Hall of Knowledge.

  The Bureau had not made the journey easy. Climbing the ranks had been a painstaking process, marked by grueling trials and endless bureaucracy. But the pursuit of Moreau’s lost work had kept him going. Aster knew what he sought was dangerous, perhaps forbidden, but he also believed that knowledge was worth the risk.

  The cab slowed near a seemingly unremarkable building. This was it—Site 032, the gateway to secrets that had eluded him for half a decade. He paid the driver and stepped out, the midday sun beating down on him. Yet, the weight of his anticipation felt heavier still.

  The transition was jarring. One moment, Aster was navigating Delhi—the clamor of street vendors, the screech of motorbikes weaving through traffic, the smells of spices and exhaust mingling in the air. The next, he was stepping into the sterile silence of Site 032.

  The entrance was a squat, unremarkable building, its weathered exterior giving no hint of what lay beneath. Inside, the world seemed to compress into something smaller, colder. The walls were featureless, painted a pale gray that absorbed the fluorescent light overhead. A single security checkpoint stood, manned by two Bureau operatives whose expressions were as blank as the walls around them. Their black uniforms bore no insignias, only the stark efficiency of authority.

  Aster handed over his identification badge, a motion practiced from years of navigating the Bureau’s labyrinthine facilities. The operative scanned it without a word, the beep of the machine the only sound in the quiet hall. Beyond the checkpoint, a narrow corridor stretched forward, giving way to an even more oppressive environment. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and recycled ventilation—a far cry from the vibrant streets he just left behind.

  Site 032 had been designed to strip away distraction, emotion, humanity itself. The building felt more like a machine than a space for people, every corner calculated to enforce submission. Aster walked briskly, his footsteps echoing against the metal floor. He passed closed doors marked only with numerical codes, each one hiding secrets the public could never hope to access. The walls seemed to close in as he descended deeper, lights flickering slightly as if the building itself resisted his intrusion.

  Finally, he reached the elevator. Its brushed steel doors reflected his own image back at him—a gaunt, tired man whose obsession had etched itself into every line in his face. He took a deep breath and pressed his palm against the scanner. The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a space no larger than a closet.

  As he began his descent, Aster felt the weight of the journey settle on him. Site 032 was not just any facility—it was the gateway to the Eternal Hall of Knowledge. Yet, in its cold, unfeeling architecture, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were leaving something behind. Perhaps it was the noise, the color, the life of the outside world. Or perhaps it was a part of himself.

  The corridors below twisted and turned in a way that defied logic, sharp angles and irregular patterns, disorienting even Aster, who had memorized the schematics during his preparation. The walls bore no markings, no signs, as if deliberately designed to erase any sense of direction. The oppressive silence of Site 032 followed him.

  His pace slowed as he tried to steady his breathing. He knew the labyrinth wasn’t merely an architectural deterrent. Many aspirants had lost their nerve long before reaching its end, turned back by the creeping sense of isolation and dread. But his desire burned brighter than his fear. Step by step, he pressed forward, each turn bringing him closer to the one place where answers could be found.

  When the final hallway revealed itself, it was with little fanfare—a simple metal door flanked by two Bureau guards. Their presence a reminder of the stakes; the Hall was a privilege granted only to the most trusted, and even then, under strict supervision. The guards wore tactical gear, their faces impassive. Without a word, one handed him a heavy satchel. Inside were the essentials: rations, water, a compact sleeping bag. The supplies were meager, a token gesture of support for what the Bureau deemed “limited exploration.” But Aster wasn’t planning a sanctioned expedition.

  The second guard stepped aside and placed his hand on a scanner by the door. A series of mechanical clicks echoed, followed by the low rumble of gears. The metal door slid open, revealing a warm golden light that spilled into the hallway. Aster blinked against the sudden shift, his heart racing as he stepped beyond the door.

  The change in atmosphere was immediate. Where the facility had been cold and calculated, the library was alive with warmth and grandeur. Towering shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, their dark wooden frames lined with books of every imaginable size, shape, and color. Chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling far above, their light soft and inviting. The air was rich with the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood, a comforting contrast to the sterile antiseptic of Site 032. Yet, beneath the library’s welcoming facade, Aster felt an undercurrent of something unspoken—an eerie awareness, as if the Hall itself was watching him.

  His gaze moved toward the center aisle, where the shelves parted to create a wide avenue of polished marble flooring. It seemed to stretch infinitely. The satchel weighed heavy on his shoulder, a reminder of the limited time he’d been allotted. But he had no intention of following the Bureau’s guidelines. Somewhere within this vast expanse lay the book he had sought for years—the key to Dr. Moreau’s lost experiment.

  As he ventured forward, the sheer scale of the Hall began to overwhelm him. Every direction presented new shelves, new books, and yet, an unshakable feeling of déjà vu lingered. Was it the library’s infinite design, or something more sinister? Aster pushed the thought aside. He had come too far to turn back now.

  ***

  The first day in the Eternal Hall of Knowledge passed in a haze of wonder and frustration. Aster wandered the endless aisles, his eyes scanning the spines of books whose titles ranged from the mundane to the unfathomable. Some were familiar—a treatise on quantum mechanics, a biography of a forgotten king—but others defied explanation. One shelf contained a series of volumes titled Histories of the Unborn, written in a language he couldn’t identify, its script twisting and curling like living tendrils. Another held a tome labeled The Anatomy of Shadows, bound in a material that felt neither leather nor cloth.

  Though he was surrounded by knowledge beyond imagination, Aster found himself restless. For every peculiar discovery, the absence of Moreau’s work weighed heavier on him. He had expected clues, trails leading to the lost experiment, but the library offered no sign of his former colleague. The Hall’s grandeur began to feel overwhelming—a vast, unyielding labyrinth that refused to yield its secrets.

  At one point, he paused in front of a shelf marked Speculative Histories. The volumes were pristine, their covers gleaming. He pulled one out—a heavy book embossed with intricate patterns. Opening it revealed a detailed account of a world similar to his own, yet distinctly different. Cities bore unfamiliar names, empires rose and fell in ways that deviated sharply from recorded history. The final chapter described an event eerily akin to the 1982 Sandstorm but with one key difference: the creature beneath the desert had risen, plunging the world into chaos. His breath caught as he read, the parallel sending chills down his spine. Was the Hall predicting possibilities, or recording alternate realities?

  His journey took him deeper, past the infinite aisles of the Eternal Hall. Occasionally, he came across signs of others who had entered the Hall before him—a half-empty water bottle abandoned on a table, a sleeping mat rolled out beneath a shelf. Yet, the Hall’s vastness swallowed these traces, leaving Aster feeling more isolated with each step. He knew he had limited time, the supplies barely enough for exploration, but his obsession drove him forward.

  As the light of the chandeliers softened into the amber glow of evening, Aster stood before a towering shelf labeled Forbidden Sciences. His fingers hesitated, the weight of the satchel reminding him of his dwindling resources. If Moreau’s work was anywhere, this felt like the place. Yet, the unspoken rules of the Hall lingered—no book could be taken. Aster pushed the thought aside and pulled the nearest volume free, its pages crackling faintly. The words within shimmered, unfamiliar equations and diagrams unfolding before him. He knew he was close.

  But the Hall felt alive, watching him. Aster glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see 'The Librarian' standing in the shadows. There was nothing but silence, yet the sensation refused to leave him.

  The second day in the Eternal Hall of Knowledge began with an uneasy stillness that only deepened as the hours dragged on. Aster roamed the towering aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of countless books. His search was relentless, but the Hall seemed determined to deny him the answers he sought. Every volume he pulled from the shelves contained tantalizing fragments of knowledge—ancient texts, lost histories, even glimpses of impossible worlds—but none bore the name Laurens Moreau.

  The Hall’s silence had begun to creep under his skin. At first, it had seemed serene, a reprieve from the Bureau’s corridors. Now, it felt oppressive, suffocating. The absence of sound amplified every rustle of pages, every creak of the floor beneath his boots. Even his own breathing seemed too loud, an intrusion in a place where time itself felt suspended.

  He slammed one of the books shut, the noise echoing through the endless aisles. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to focus. The library held infinite knowledge—Moreau’s work had to be here. But for every step forward, the Hall seemed to push him further into its labyrinth. His satchel, already lighter from dwindling supplies, felt heavier with each passing hour.

  And then he heard it: footsteps. Faint, deliberate, and coming from somewhere beyond the shelves. Aster froze, his heart leaping to his throat. He scanned the aisle, his eyes darting between the shadows cast by the glow of the chandeliers. "Hello?" His voice was swallowed by the vastness of the Hall. No response.

  The footsteps continued, steady but unhurried, as if whoever—or whatever—was moving through the library wanted to be heard. Aster’s grip tightened on the strap of his satchel. The Bureau had never spoken of others exploring the Hall alongside him. Was it a fellow researcher? A remnant of someone who had stayed too long? Or perhaps something else entirely?

  He followed the sound, his instincts torn between curiosity and caution. The aisles seemed to stretch longer as he moved, the shelves towering higher, their contents growing stranger. One book he passed appeared to shift its title as he glanced at it, the letters melting into new words that he couldn’t decipher. Another glowed faintly, as if pulsing with its own heartbeat.

  But the footsteps remained distant, always just out of reach. Aster quickened his pace, frustration mounting. If someone else was here, perhaps they had seen the book he sought—or worse, taken it. He turned a corner sharply, only to find nothing but more shelves, their endless rows mocking him.

  "Who's there?" he called again, his voice sharper now, laced with unease.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The silence that followed was absolute, more suffocating than before. Aster’s pulse thundered in his ears, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on him. He was alone—wasn’t he? Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Hall was alive, watching.

  By the third day, Aster was beginning to lose hope. The sparse rations dwindled with every passing hour, and the taste of stale water lingered bitterly on his tongue. Hunger gnawed at his concentration, exhaustion dulled his senses, and still, Moreau’s work remained maddeningly out of reach. The library’s vastness had become a cruel mockery of his efforts—a labyrinth of boundless knowledge that withheld the one truth he needed.

  He slumped against a towering shelf, letting the weight of his satchel fall to the floor. His hands trembled as he unwrapped the last of his food—a piece of dry, crumbling bread. Aster bit into it without thought, chewing mechanically. The silence pressed in around him, heavier now, almost suffocating. Even the warm glow of the chandeliers above had grown dimmer, their light no longer comforting.

  The footsteps returned, faint and deliberate. Aster froze mid-bite, his pulse quickening. He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint their source, but the sound seemed to move freely, defying the library’s order. They echoed faintly down aisles he couldn’t see, just far enough to remain elusive but close enough to unsettle him.

  He had tried to dismiss them at first. "The Hall is playing tricks on you," he told himself. "It’s the isolation, or maybe the hunger." But the footsteps didn’t disappear. They belonged to someone—or something—that had no interest in revealing itself. Aster thought back to the Bureau’s warnings, the unspoken rules whispered among researchers. None had mentioned this, the haunting presence that followed without malice. Without reason.

  His frustration boiled over. He stood abruptly, his voice cracking against the stillness. "What do you want?!" The words echoed down the endless rows of books, swallowed by the vastness. The footsteps stopped.

  For a moment, the silence returned more oppressive than before. Aster’s breaths came shallow and quick, his chest tightening with a mix of fear and anger. He slammed his fist against the nearest shelf, the vibration rattling the books. Dust fell from the upper levels, catching the faint light as it drifted down like ash. The Hall remained still, impassive, indifferent to his outburst.

  "Is this your idea of a test?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. He grabbed his satchel and slung it over his shoulder, his movements jerky with exhaustion and impatience. "Fine. I’ll play your game."

  Pushing forward, he forced himself deeper into the Hall, past rows of bookshelves that seemed to grow taller and more imposing. The presence lingered, silent but palpable. Aster’s mind raced with questions—was it watching him, judging him, or simply waiting for him to fail? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he refused to slow down. He wouldn’t give the Hall—or whatever haunted it—the satisfaction.

  Yet doubt crept in, unbidden and relentless. Has Moreau’s work ever been here at all? Or had the Bureau lied, sending him on an impossible quest to chase ghosts? Aster clenched his jaw, shoving the thought away. He couldn’t afford doubt, not now. He had sacrificed too much, burned too many bridges. The answers were here. They had to be.

  As the hours wore on, his steps became slower, heavier. The weight of the satchel, the absence of food, the omnipresent silence—they clawed at his willpower, dragging him down. He reached out to steady himself against a shelf, his vision swimming. "Just a little further," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. "Just a little further."

  But deep down, Aster knew his time was running out.

  The fourth day dawned with another air of inevitability. Aster’s body felt heavier than ever, the exhaustion gnawing at his every step. The dwindling supplies in his satchel mocked him, a constant reminder that his time was running out. His faith wavered with each passing hour, the endless labyrinth of books offering no solace. The footsteps had returned during the night, faint yet persistent, but by now, he was too drained to care. His obsession remained, but it was a flickering flame, on the brink of being extinguished.

  Then, amidst the monotonous rows of shelves, he found it—a biography. The book itself was unassuming, its cover plain, its binding frayed. But the name on the spine stopped him cold: Dr. Emilio Vernet—An Account of Work and Life. Aster’s fingers trembled as he pulled it free, the weight of the volume strange in his hands. Vernet had been one of Moreau’s closest collaborators. If there were any trace of Moreau left in the Bureau’s records, it would be here.

  He opened the book gingerly, as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly. The pages were aged, the text meticulously typed and strangely intimate, as though the author had lived every word. It detailed Vernet’s early life, his rise through the Bureau’s ranks, and his contributions to key supernatural research. Aster’s heart raced as he reached a section titled The Disappearance of Dr. Laurens Moreau. The text was vague, hinting at the secrecy surrounding Moreau’s last experiment, but one line stood out—a statement from Vernet himself:

  "I was fortunate to have known Laurens and to have worked closely with him in those final months. His vision was extraordinary, though perhaps too bold for the Bureau to fully understand. Even now, I wonder what truly became of him, though I’ve long since learned not to ask such questions."

  The words sent a jolt through Aster, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. Vernet was still alive. He had to be. If anyone could shed light on Moreau’s work, it would be him. For the first time in days, a spark of hope flickered within Aster. The Hall had given him a clue.

  He slammed the book shut, clutching it tightly as he straightened. His legs ached, his body screamed for rest, but his mind was resolute. There was still a chance, a glimmer of the answers he had sought for so long. The Hall’s oppressive presence lingered, its unseen watcher still haunting his every step, but Aster no longer cared. He would not falter.

  Driven by this newfound determination, Aster pressed deeper into the library, venturing into aisles he hadn’t dared approach before. The shelves seemed to loom larger, the air growing heavier with each step. Somewhere in this endless expanse, the truth awaited. And he would find it—no matter the cost.

  By the fifth day, the rations were gone. Aster had eaten his last scrap of bread the night before, and the water bottle in his satchel was as empty as his stomach. His steps were unsteady now, his vision blurring at the edges, but he pressed onward, the fire of his obsession burning away any thoughts of turning back. The Hall loomed around him, indifferent to his struggle, its endless aisles a silent audience to his fading strength.

  His breath came in shallow gasps as he reached yet another towering shelf. His fingers hesitated, trembling, before brushing against the spines of the books. The titles blurred together, a tapestry of knowledge just out of reach. Still, he persisted, pulling volume after volume, scanning each cover and page for the name he had chased for years.

  And then, he found it. A thick, leather-bound tome nestled between two slimmer books, its spine embossed with gold lettering that seemed to glow faintly in the warm light. Laurens Moreau—A Life. Aster’s heart stopped. For a moment, he simply stared, unable to believe that the object of his obsession was finally within his grasp. He reached out with shaking hands, pulling the book free from the shelf. It was heavier than he expected, its weight a cruel reminder of his dwindling time and strength.

  The cover was pristine, untouched by the dust that seemed to settle on everything else. Aster ran his fingers over the name, his mind racing. Inside this book lay the answers he had sought, the key to Moreau’s last experiment. But as he turned the volume in his hands, another thought crept in—its thickness. The book was massive, far larger than anything he could hope to read in a single sitting. Worse, it felt like it's growing with every passing minute. And he had no supplies left.

  His stomach twisted, hunger giving way to a cold, sinking dread. He couldn’t stay here, not like this, not when his body was already on the brink of collapse. The Hall, with its infinite wonders, now felt like a prison, its endless rows mocking his ambition.

  But Aster didn’t allow it to linger. Clutching the book tightly against his chest, he made his decision. He would return to the entrance—to sustenance, to safety—and then he would read. He would uncover Moreau’s secrets and learn the truth that the Bureau had tried so desperately to bury. This was his moment, and he refused to let it slip away.

  The journey back through the Hall was slow, each step heavier than the last. The library seemed to stretch even further now, its labyrinthine passages conspiring to keep him within its depths. The unseen presence followed him still, its footsteps faint but persistent, like a shadow haunting his every move. But Aster didn’t look back.

  When he finally reached a clearing between the shelves, he sank to the floor, the book still clutched to his chest. He adjusted the dim light of a nearby chandelier, its glow casting long shadows over the intricate designs on the cover. With trembling fingers, he opened the tome, the pages whispering faintly as they parted. And as he began to read, the oppressive silence of the Hall seemed to shift, the presence retreating into the depths, leaving Aster alone with the words of Laurens Moreau.

  The sixth day was a blur of pain and desperation. Aster’s body moved on sheer willpower, each step a monumental effort as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The weight of the book in his arms felt unbearable now, as though the Hall itself sought to anchor him in its depths. Hunger clawed at his insides, a relentless reminder of how far he had pushed beyond his limits.

  His thoughts spiraled into fragments, oscillating between fleeting triumph and suffocating dread. He had found the book—Moreau’s biography—but at what cost? The entrance was still so far away, each aisle blending into the next in an endless haze. The oppressive silence of the Hall bore down on him. Would he collapse here, another forgotten soul lost among the shelves?

  The footsteps returned, as they had every day before. This time, they were softer, more distant, as though the unseen presence was no longer interested in him. Or perhaps it was simply waiting, biding its time. Aster shivered, his grip tightening on the book. He refused to succumb—not when he was so close.

  And then, through the dim haze of his fading strength, he saw it: the familiar outline of the entrance. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks, his breath hitching in his chest. Relief surged through him, overwhelming in its intensity, yet it was tinged with fear. The door loomed ahead, tantalizingly close, but still just out of reach.

  His knees buckled as the last reserves of his energy gave out. Aster collapsed to the cold marble floor, clutching the book tightly to his chest as though it might disappear if he let go. The edges of his vision darkened, exhaustion pulling at him like a heavy tide. His pulse slowed, each beat echoing in his ears like the distant ticking of a clock.

  The entrance was there. He could see it, almost feel the cold air of the facility beyond. "Just a little more," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. But his body betrayed him, sagging into the floor as sleep overtook him. The book rested in his arms, its weight both a burden and a comfort. As Aster drifted into unconsciousness, the light from the chandeliers above seemed to dim slightly, as if the Hall was acknowledging his struggle.

  The entrance was in sight. He had almost made it.

  The seventh day greeted Julius Aster with a wave of aching pain and exhaustion. He lay sprawled on the cold floor, his breath shallow, his limbs leaden. The book—Moreau’s biography—was still clutched in his arms, though now it felt heavier than ever, its weight amplified by the toll his body had endured. The entrance stood in sight, its steel doors a beacon of salvation. Aster gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, but the fire of his resolve flickered one last time.

  Step by agonizing step, he pushed himself forward, each movement a battle against the frailty of his own body. The guards at the entrance came into view, their black uniforms stark against the sterile gray of the facility. Aster’s vision blurred, but he could see one of them moving toward him, offering a hand of assistance. The other handed him a ration pack and a bottle of water, their concern evident. Relief surged through him, his desperation momentarily eased.

  Then they saw the book.

  He watched as their expressions hardened, the worry replaced by cold understanding. The guards exchanged a knowing glance, and almost imperceptibly, their hands moved to their weapons. Aster staggered backward, clutching the book tighter against his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could escape, he felt it—a cold, unyielding grip around his ankle.

  His breath hitched as he glanced down, his heart lurching in terror. A hand, pale and impossibly slender, emerged from the depths of the library, its fingers curling around his foot with unnatural precision. Beyond it, a figure loomed in the distance, barely visible in the amber glow of the Hall's chandeliers. The guards reacted immediately, raising their weapons as they opened fire, but the bullets seemed to vanish before they reached their target.

  Aster screamed, thrashing against the grip with every ounce of strength he had left. His nails clawed at the marble floor, his cries echoing through the entrance as he fought to break free. The guards shouted commands, their voices drowned by the chaos, but their efforts were futile. The figure in the shadows began to pull, the cold hand dragging Aster inch by inch back into the library’s depths.

  "No! No, please!" Aster’s voice cracked with desperation. His fingers bled as he scraped at the floor, his body convulsing in protest. But the Hall showed no mercy. Its doors began to move, the heavy steel grinding shut with a finality that echoed in his soul. The guards rushed forward, but they stopped short as the doors slammed shut with a deafening clang, sealing the library once again.

  For a moment, the entrance stood silent, untouched by the events that had just transpired. The guards stared at the door, their weapons still raised, their faces pale. Slowly, they lowered their guns, exchanging glances that carried the weight of what they had witnessed. When one of them moved to open the doors again, they found nothing. The library’s entrance was pristine Julius Aster was gone.

  And with him, the book he had risked everything to steal.