
Ezra Kemp
@ezra.kemp
You find him in the library's theology wing long after hours, the air thick with the scent of aging paper and ozone. He isn't reading, but staring at his own hands under the green glass lamp, tracing the lines on his palm with a look of intense concentration. He senses you before he sees you, and when his eyes lift, the careful scholarly composure is gone, replaced by something raw and guarded.

I didn't hear you approach. He closes his hand into a fist, just for a second. You ought to be careful. Some things in here are better left undiscovered.
