The library was absolutely gilded in the rich, amber glow of the setting sun. Those long, slanted golden rays hit the spines of the open books scattered across the large oak table, illuminating the finely-milled paper and highlighting the haphazard array of loose papers and pens. It was that quintessential, comforting quiet of a student's refuge just before closing time.
The sole occupant of this sunlit pocket was a young man in his early twenties, Johan von Berlichingen. He was currently leaned way back in his sturdy wooden chair, the light catching his skin and giving him an almost ethereal, golden aura. His features were quite striking: a handsome face with a defined jawline, framed by the artful disarray of his messy wolf cut. With a sudden, decisive movement, Johan leaned forward, his focus fixed on gathering the length of his hair. His fingers deftly worked the strands into a loose, functional bun at the nape of his neck.
"We really do have to close now, dear," came the gentle, melodious voice from the counter.
The Librarian, a woman in her mid-forties with an air of enduring beauty, didn't look up, instead meticulously arranging a stack of archival boxes. Her hair, a distinguished mix of grey and black, was pulled back neatly.
Johan rose from his seat, the wooden legs of the chair scraping lightly against the floorboards. He reached for his attire—a long, heavy black overcoat—which, truth be told, made him look older than his years.
"You look like an old man, dear," the librarian remarked, a warm, gentle smile evident in her tone, though she still hadn't raised her gaze.
"I guess..." Johan replied, his voice noncommittal, matching her lack of attention as he began to stuff his materials into his satchel.
Once packed, Johan swiftly departed the silence of the library for the early evening chill. He was a student at Copenhagen University in Denmark, though his lineage was firmly German. His grandfather, he knew, had been a soldier during the Second World War who had made the difficult decision to betray the regime and escape to Denmark. Johan's own father had passed away when he was a mere six years old. Now, he was studying Criminology at the university, and the main library had clearly become his sanctuary for study.
Outside, the air was cooling rapidly as the sun descended towards the horizon, painting the sky in deep violets and oranges. Johan walked along the paved pathway cutting through the university grounds towards the main bus station. Darkness was quickly swallowing the last vestiges of daylight. He paused, withdrawing a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat and lighting it with a practiced hand.
He reached the bus stop, leaning against the cold, clear glass of the shelter's advertising board near the worn wooden bench. He watched the smoke curl upwards from his mouth, a translucent grey plume dissolving into the crisp, cold air. The gentle, biting wind played with the long strands of hair that had escaped his loose bun.
Perhaps I should finally get it cut? I really do look rather antiquated with this overcoat and the long hair. I can't face being mistaken for a professor again. Honestly, how dense were those people to make that assumption?
Just as he was absorbed in this contemplative thought, a sudden, jarring sound echoed:
THUD
A sharp, surprising jolt of pain shot through Johan's hip. He hadn't seen it coming; his concentration had been miles away. He looked up, having landed awkwardly on his hip, to see a girl on the pavement in the very same position, having evidently collided with him at speed.
"I am so sorry!" the girl exclaimed immediately, their eyes meeting for a brief, startled moment.
Johan quickly pushed himself up, managing a slight, dismissive wave of his hand to signal that he was perfectly unharmed. The girl, too, scrambled to her feet.
"I'm truly sorry, I should have been paying attention to where I was going," she insisted, her tone genuinely contrite.
Without a verbal reply, Johan stooped to retrieve his bag, which had been flung a short distance. However, the girl was quicker. She snatched up his satchel and presented it to him with a swift, almost formal bow of apology.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked, her concern palpable, reflected in the vibrant blue of her eyes.
She was a young woman, likely the same age as Johan, dressed in practical jeans, sturdy black boots, and a well-worn leather jacket. Her rich brown hair fell naturally, framing a beautiful face, and her eyes were a darker, intense shade of brown.
"I'm quite fine, thank you," Johan responded, taking the bag from her hand. His tone was utterly non-chalant, devoid of any genuine feeling or warmth, as if the incident barely registered. "Just watch your step next time," he added, before turning his back to her, once more leaning against the glass board, gazing out at the road.
The girl did not move. Instead, she settled silently beside him. A stretch of almost ten minutes passed in an atmosphere of mutual, deathly silence—a silence which she finally chose to break.
"So, do you go to the University?" she ventured, a tentative note in her voice.
"Hm," Johan replied, offering nothing more, not glancing at her, nor allowing a flicker of expression to cross his face.
"What is your major, then?" she pressed on.
Johan paused, drawing out the silence before relenting. "Criminology."
"Oh, same here! That's incredible. I haven't seen you around before," she said, her voice registering a mix of surprise, interest, and confusion.
"We're in the same lecture hall," Johan corrected her flatly.
A look of genuine shock washed over the girl's face, causing her to instinctively stumble back a step. "Really!?"
Johan simply nodded, finally turning his head slowly to face her. His blue eyes were cold and perfectly calm, utterly unreadable.
"Well, it's nice to meet you then!" she chirped, recovering quickly.
"Same here," he acknowledged.
"Your name?"
"Johan."
"I'm Lyora," she said, extending a hand towards him for a handshake.
Johan accepted her hand, performing the handshake without any indication that he found the interaction remotely engaging or interesting. He promptly turned back to the road, pulling out another cigarette. Moments later, the bus destined for Lyora's route pulled up.
"Aren't you coming?" the girl asked, turning back from the open bus doors.
"Not my route," Johan replied, lighting his cigarette.
"See you tomorrow!" she called out, waving brightly as she stepped onto the bus.
The bus pulled away, its tail lights slowly fading into the distance.
I sincerely hope we don't, and if we do, for the love of God, please just keep quiet before I'm forced to say it to your face.
-------
The next day, in the echoing cavern of the university lecture hall, Johan was seated, his hair still neatly confined in a bun. He was deeply engrossed in his current reading material, Unfair by Adam Benforado. His transparent glass spectacle frames lent an air of intellectualism, somehow managing to enhance the chiselled lines of his already handsome face.
The vast hall was filled with the usual background noise—a low, constant hum of whispers and chatter. This low din was abruptly shattered when a professor strode in, his face grave.
"Everyone, listen up! We have some very sad news. Gather round, please," the professor announced, his voice shouting to be heard.
As the students reluctantly settled down and took their seats, the professor stood on the podium, gripping the edges. "Last night, a truly tragic incident took place. I regret to inform you that your coursemate, Lyora, was killed. She was stabbed."
The news ripped through the hall like a sudden, brutal wind. The reactions were manifold: some students sat frozen in shock, unable to utter a sound, while three girls near the front immediately collapsed to their knees, dissolving into racking sobs.
"She was my best friend!" one girl wailed, tears streaming down her face.
Johan, however, remained outwardly impassive. He merely tightened his grip on the hard spine of his book.
How? What on earth happened? Could I have somehow prevented this? Should I have just boarded that bus? Did I do absolutely nothing that mattered? I was only talking to her yesterday—an alive, vibrant person who now no longer walks among the living. What the hell am I meant to do with this?
He stared blankly at the text in his book, a maelstrom of conflicting, terrifying emotions swirling beneath his utterly expressionless façade.
"That is genuinely upsetting," a deep, smooth voice travelled across the small gap separating him from the next seat. It was a voice possessed of a rather unsettling charm.
Johan turned his head to the right. Sitting barely a metre away was a guy with an elegant, composed posture. He had long, dark brown hair styled with a fashionable quiff and a smirk that seemed perfectly tailored for his face.
The guy was also in his early twenties. He was the only person Johan had ever exchanged more than a few cursory words with at the university, though these interactions rarely extended beyond a basic 'hello.' This limited acquaintance was largely due to their shared preference for the last row, the secluded corner of the lecture hall that most students avoided.
"You look rather tense, are you alright?" the guy inquired, his eyes sharp.
"Yes..." Johan replied, turning back to face the front, his hand instinctively rising to massage his forehead in a gesture of hidden stress.
"Well, don't fret about it," the guy continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. "You couldn't have done anything about it anyway, could you?"
Johan spun back immediately, his cold composure momentarily fracturing. "What?"
"Nothing, friend," the guy said, widening his smirk slightly. "Your name?"
"Johan..."
"Vincent. Nice to meet you."
"Same here," Johan managed, before turning back once more, resting his head heavily on his arm.
My fucking head….
-------
Two days later, a funeral service was held for Lyora. Johan had been vehemently against attending, but his mother had insisted that he should, at the very least, pay his respects to a fellow coursemate, regardless of their brief acquaintance.
Johan stood several yards away from the main cluster of mourners, his presence solitary and detached. He leaned against the rough bark of a large, old tree, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers. He watched the crowd without expression, his mind an intentional blank slate.
"How have you been?" Vincent asked, strolling up and breaking the silence.
"Fine," Johan replied, not looking at him.
"So, have the police made contact with you yet?" Vincent's tone was unnervingly casual.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Well, I have my reasons, which I can't exactly divulge at the moment."
"Then piss off."
"Rude, my dear," Vincent commented, undeterred, leaning against the opposite side of the tree trunk. "Do you want to know something interesting?"
"What?"
"I'll tell you," Vincent said, a playful yet intensely serious glint entering his eyes, "but only if you agree to a rather magical deal with me. It will bind you to one specific task that I shall set you." He followed this proposition with a small, chilling laugh.
Johan remained silent for a beat, then pushed himself off the tree. He walked across the small distance separating them, choosing not to face Vincent as he delivered his final word, a small, dark smirk playing briefly on his lips. "Piss off, you motherfucker. You're annoying."
Vincent said nothing, his unsettling smile not once vanishing, but his eyes suddenly went blank, all trace of emotion draining from them. Johan walked away, leaving the graveyard behind him and heading towards home.
After a brief walk to the bus station Johan found himself back at the bus stop, leaning against the same glass board where the collision had occurred the night before Lyora's death.
Damn, this place feels so strangely charged now.
Could I actually have saved her if I'd simply gotten onto that bus?
Perhaps I should stop pretending that her death wasn't somehow my fault. The police will inevitably come looking for me once they discover I was the last person to speak to Lyora before she died.
Johan rubbed his forehead, a headache blooming from the sheer stress, when he was cut short by a sudden, piercing scream.
"What!" he exclaimed, instinctively straightening up and whipping his head around in the direction of the sound, his eyes wide with sudden alertness.
A moment later, he heard similar screams from different directions, separated by mere seconds. He turned frantically, trying to locate the source, but the sounds soon morphed into a cacophony of whispers and the phantom sounds of hurried footsteps that seemed to surround him. He was utterly alone. The bus stand was deserted. The streets were empty, and he seemed to be the only living soul for as far as his gaze could stretch. The sounds—the echoes of screams, the insidious whispers, and the spectral footsteps—closed in, pressing from all sides.
"AHHHH!" Johan screamed, collapsing to the ground and violently clamping his hands over his ears. He was rolling on the cold pavement, the onslaught of voices utterly consuming his sanity, tearing his nerves apart. He writhed like a child having a breakdown, utterly overwhelmed.
SNAP.
The noise ceased instantly. Everything was silent. Johan slowly pushed himself up, breathing heavily, drenched in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs. The sound of his own desperate panting was the only thing audible. After a few seconds, he bent to retrieve his phone, which had fallen when he did. The instant his fingers made contact with the cold glass screen, the voices returned with a vengeance.
Simultaneously, the reality around him began to fragment and fall away. The bus shelter, the solid buildings, the road, the central dividers—everything started to break apart and descend into an endless, terrifying void. And then, so did he.
He shouted as he plummeted into the chasm, the voices battering him mercilessly. As he fell, blood forcefully gushed from his mouth, and a primal, overwhelming wave of fear caused him to rake his fingers into his own chest, the intensity of the freefall causing unbearable gooseflesh. His vision failed him, and everything went profoundly dark.
-------
When Johan's eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw were rows of cold, grey headstones. He looked around wildly, then down at his clothes—they were perfectly fine, unmarked by blood or damage. His face and hair were likewise untouched. He looked up and saw, just a few yards away, his coursemates mourning Lyora. He was back at the graveyard.
He stumbled backwards, his back striking the familiar, rough bark of the tree he had been leaning against earlier.
"You really should smile more often, just like you did back there," Vincent said, his voice calm and unnervingly close. He was sitting comfortably on a nearby grave, his legs dangling, his hands braced behind him on the cool gravestone. "You look quite good when you do."