The book felt heavier than it should have, its weight pressing into my palm as though gravity itself conspired against me. My grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing against the leather-bound edges hard enough to turn my knuckles white. Each letter carved into its cover was etched with a precision bordering on obsession, every line and curve speaking of deliberate intent. The air around me grew dense, a physical manifestation of the unease gnawing at my gut. My chest tightened painfully as realization sank deeper into my bones like iron chains binding my resolve.
This name—this presence—wasn't supposed to exist. It was an impossibility, an aberration that shouldn't have emerged from the shadows of history. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories, theories, and plans I had painstakingly constructed. This revelation wasn't simply a disruption; it shattered the very foundations of my carefully laid schemes.
My foreknowledge was worthless now.
