The doorbell rang exactly at 11.
Vansh glanced at the clock, then at the door.
Right on time.
That, at least, felt normal.
He stood up, exhaling slowly, and walked over. For a brief moment, his hand paused on the handle—an unexplainable hesitation—before he shook it off and opened the door.
A middle-aged man stood outside, holding a compact toolbox.
"Locksmith?" Vansh asked.
The man nodded. "Yes. You called."
"Yeah… come in."
The man stepped inside, his movements efficient and unhurried. His eyes briefly scanned the apartment—not in curiosity, but more like habit.
Vansh noticed it.
But said nothing.
The locksmith got to work immediately, kneeling near the door. The soft metallic sounds of tools clicking and turning filled the otherwise quiet room.
"You lost your keys?" the man asked casually.
"Yeah," Vansh replied, leaning against the wall.
"Hmm."
That was it.
No follow-up.
No unnecessary talk.
Strangely… that felt more normal than anything else since last night.
A few minutes passed.
"Done," the man said, standing up.
"That was quick," Vansh replied.
The locksmith gave a small nod. "Simple lock."
Vansh paid him, thanked him, and walked him to the door.
"Try not to lose this one," the man added lightly.
Vansh gave a faint smile. "I'll try."
And just like that—
He left.
The door closed.
Click.
Silence.
Vansh stood there for a moment.
Waiting.
For what?
He didn't know.
Nothing happened.
No strange comment.
No eerie moment.
Just… a normal visit.
"…See? Overthinking," he muttered to himself.
He shook his head and walked back inside.
Sitting at his desk, Vansh opened his laptop.
The familiar screen lit up his face.
Code.
Models.
Notes.
Everything was exactly where he had left it.
Exactly how it should be.
And yet—
Something felt off.
Not outside.
Inside.
He tried to focus.
Tried to continue his work.
AI integration.
Narrative prediction.
User experience enhancement.
He had thought about this last night.
The idea had felt exciting.
Now—
It felt distant.
Like trying to hold onto a thought that didn't fully belong to him anymore.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then slowly, he started typing.
"If patterns can predict behavior… can they predict outcomes?"
He paused.
That sentence…
Felt familiar.
Too familiar.
As if he had thought it before.
Not today.
Not yesterday.
But somewhere else.
Vansh leaned back, frowning.
"…Why does everything feel repeated?"
No answer came.
He rubbed his eyes and checked the time.
Still early.
Too early to sit and overthink.
Too early to spiral.
"I need a break," he said quietly.
The streets of Vernonica were busy as always.
People rushing. Shops open. Traffic flowing.
Normal life.
Grounded.
Real.
Exactly what he needed.
Vansh walked without any particular direction.
Just letting his mind settle.
The morning sunlight, the distant chatter, the movement of people—it helped.
Slowly, his thoughts began to stabilize.
Until—
Something caught his eye.
A narrow bookstore.
Tucked between two larger shops.
Easy to miss.
Almost hidden.
Vansh slowed down.
He had walked this road before.
Multiple times.
He was sure of it.
So why did this place feel… new?
He stopped in front of it.
A simple wooden sign hung above the entrance:
Antiqua Books
The paint was slightly faded.
The glass door clean—but old.
"…Was this always here?" he murmured.
No answer.
Just passing footsteps behind him.
He hesitated.
Then pushed the door open.
A soft bell rang.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Quieter.
Cooler.
Still.
The smell of old paper and wood filled the air.
Rows of shelves stretched across the space, filled with books of all kinds—some new, some worn, some looking like they hadn't been touched in years.
"Welcome."
The voice came from the counter.
An elderly man sat behind it, reading a book.
He looked up briefly, gave a polite nod, and returned to reading.
No long stare.
No strange smile.
Just… normal.
Vansh nodded back slightly and began browsing.
His fingers moved across the spines of books as he walked through the aisles.
History.
Fiction.
Philosophy.
Old editions.
Rare prints.
It was the kind of place you'd expect to find something unusual.
And yet—
He didn't know what he was looking for.
He turned into another aisle.
Paused.
Then stepped back.
One book had caught his attention.
Not because it stood out.
But because—
It didn't.
It blended in perfectly.
And somehow—
That made it noticeable.
Vansh reached for it slowly.
Pulled it out.
The cover was simple.
Dark.
Minimal.
The title read:
"The Game of Perspective"
— A. L. Hale
Vansh frowned.
"…Weird title."
He opened the book casually.
Flipped a few pages.
Read a line.
Then another.
And froze.
His eyes moved back to the top of the page.
Reading again.
Slower this time.
Carefully.
"…No."
He turned the page.
Then another.
Faster now.
Scanning.
Confirming.
Denying.
Because what he was reading—
Wasn't just similar.
It was exact.
His game.
Not inspired by it.
Not resembling it.
Not "kind of close."
Exact.
Plot structure.
Character arcs.
World mechanics.
Even specific unreleased elements.
Things only he knew.
His grip tightened around the book.
"This… doesn't make sense."
He looked around instinctively.
The store remained quiet.
Normal.
Unbothered.
He walked toward the counter, book in hand.
"Excuse me," he said.
The old man looked up again.
"Yes?"
Vansh placed the book on the counter.
"Do you know anything about this book?"
The man adjusted his glasses and glanced at the cover.
"A. L. Hale…" he read softly. "Hmm."
"You've seen it before?" Vansh asked.
The man shook his head. "Not particularly. We get many rare prints here."
"Where did it come from?" Vansh pressed.
The man shrugged lightly. "Suppliers. Collections. Sometimes people sell old stock. Hard to track every origin."
Vansh frowned.
"That's not possible."
The man looked at him again, this time with mild curiosity.
"Something wrong with it?"
Vansh hesitated.
Then said carefully,
"This book… contains something that hasn't been released yet."
A pause.
The man studied him for a second.
Then gave a small, neutral smile.
"Fiction can feel that way sometimes."
Vansh didn't smile back.
"Not like this."
Silence lingered briefly.
Then the man spoke again,
"If it interests you, you should take it."
Vansh looked down at the book.
His reflection faintly visible on its dark cover.
Interest?
No.
This wasn't interest.
This was something else.
"…I'll take it," he said quietly.
The transaction was quick.
Simple.
Normal.
Too normal.
As Vansh stepped out of the store, the city noise returned instantly.
Loud.
Alive.
Grounding.
But his mind—
Wasn't.
He looked down at the book in his hands.
The same thought kept repeating:
If this exists…
A pause.
Then something is very, very wrong.
Vansh tightened his grip slightly and began walking home.
Faster this time.
Because deep down—
He already knew.
This wasn't coincidence.
And whatever had started last night—
Had just taken its next step.