FIFTH WALL: A Reader's Broken System.

A/N:

This chapter was powered by caffeine, sleep deprivation, and the inexplicable fear that delivery drivers might secretly be time-traveling librarians with vendettas. Honestly, it just spiraled from there.

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Okay, so real talk—I've been working at the library for… what? Two weeks? Three? I honestly lost track somewhere around Day Five when my brain fully melted and got replaced with the Dewey Decimal System.

Time gets weird when you're spending six hours a day playing hide-and-seek with books that absolutely refuse to stay in their lanes. One minute you're in the "G" section trying to shelve something about giraffe migration, next thing you know it's 3 p.m., your shirt's sticking to your back, your legs feel like wet noodles, and someone just asked you if "fiction" means the books are fake-fake or just emotionally fake.

Also—surprise, surprise—I haven't actually screwed anything up yet. I know. I should be in the Guinness Book of "Who Let This Disaster Child Function?" even if the key word here is yet.

Not gonna lie though, I've come dangerously close.

Like two days ago? There was this lady—middle-aged, high heels sharp enough to slice a man's dignity in half, sunglasses indoors like she was Beyoncé, and an energy that screamed, I want to speak to your manager even if you don't have one. She asked if I could "kindly" reorder the entire African literature section by color.

By. Color.

And I swear, for a split second, my soul left my body. I saw my own ghost lean against a bookshelf and whisper, Don't do it, man. It's not worth it.

I almost said something. Something snarky. Something that would've gotten me sent back home with a pink slip and a "we regret to inform you" flyer stapled to my forehead.

But then—I remembered Margaret's golden rule, which is basically: smile, nod, and pretend like you didn't just lose three brain cells.

So I did the thing. I ignored her. I gave her the polite library version of the silent treatment, which is to say, I redirected her to a pamphlet and walked away like a ghost who'd just been released from his earthly curse.

And somehow? That worked.

So yeah. Two-ish weeks in. Still standing. No fires. No screaming matches. No accidental book avalanches… okay, there was one minor avalanche in the kids' section, but technically that was gravity's fault, not mine.

And my dad—oh man, he looks at me now like I just came back from war with honor. He doesn't say it, but I think he's low-key impressed. Or confused. Or both. His face does this twitchy thing whenever I talk about cataloging.

But let's be real: I'm impressed too. Not just because I haven't messed it all up yet, but because—for once—I kinda feel like I'm doing something right.

Even if I still don't understand why the encyclopedias smell like old cheese and bad decisions.

Anyway, that's where we're at.

So far, no screwups.

Yet.

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Surprisingly, I was weirdly good at it.

And by it, I mean being a library gremlin.

Not the ignoring people part—although, to be fair, I could probably teach a masterclass in ghosting someone mid-conversation. But the whole library thing? Yeah, I kind of crushed it.

I got to sit in a giant, echoey cave of books during my free time like some retired wizard with bad posture. Bonus points? I finally got my phone back last week after a two-weeks timeout (thanks, Dad), which meant I could finally catch up on all the drama I missed on Love Island. Two people had already gotten booted off and apparently someone tried to propose with a glow stick? I had questions.

Anyway, I was supposed to be done for the day. Like, backpack zipped, earbuds in, goodbye dusty bookshelves, hello couch-and-potato-mode. But nooo. Margaret—aka Head Librarian slash closet romantic—had asked me to "wait behind a little bit" because apparently some new book editions were coming in. From an anonymous donor. Who sends in books every year like some mysterious reading Santa.

"They should be here any minute," she said.

Lies. That was two hours ago.

Then she vanished. Legit ghosted me for some date with her "friend from water aerobics," which, yes, I'm pretty sure was code for geriatric Tinder hookup. So now I'm just here. Alone. Sitting on the squeakiest bench outside the library like I'm waiting for the Hogwarts Express to pull up or something.

It was getting dark, and the air smelled like rain and old sidewalk gum. My butt was numb. My fingers were cold. My phone battery was at 13%, and I had this gnawing feeling that I was either going to be kidnapped, haunted, or mildly inconvenienced by a raccoon before the night ended.

Also, the truck? Still MIA.

At this point, I was half-convinced the whole donation thing was a prank. Or a trap. Or both.

I tilted my head back against the wall and groaned loud enough to scare a nearby pigeon. My brain was doing that thing where it bounced between imaginary disasters and the leftover sandwich I didn't finish at lunch. (Why did I leave the sandwich? It had honey mustard. I love honey mustard. Idiot.)

A low rumble echoed in the distance. Truck? Thunder? Giant three-headed dog from Greek mythology? My anxiety chose all of the above.

I squinted down the street, praying for headlights and not some shadowy demon thing from my sleep paralysis nightmares.

Nothing.

Just a flickering streetlamp, a dented trash can, and a cat giving me a judgmental look like I'd personally ruined its night.

"You and me both, dude," I muttered.

The library lights buzzed softly behind me, that weird fluorescent hum that always made me feel like I was seconds away from being abducted by aliens. Inside, the place looked empty. Too quiet. Like a movie scene right before someone gets dragged into a portal or attacked by sentient books.

I hated how dramatic my brain got when I was alone too long. But like… what if the truck never came? What if the "anonymous donor" was actually a serial killer who hid bodies in book spines? What if Margaret wasn't on a date at all but had been abducted by the Literature Cult?

Yeah, I needed sleep. And probably therapy.

Still. I didn't leave. Because someone had to sign for the delivery. And if I did this right, maybe Margaret would let me catalog the new stuff first. I liked being the first to peek into a box of unknown titles. Felt like opening treasure. Nerdy treasure. But still.

So I stayed. Shivering slightly, heart playing low-key horror music in the background, waiting for a truck that may or may not be real.

And trying very hard not to think about murder librarians, haunted books, or my dead sandwich.

I was doom-scrolling Reddit like my life depended on it—which, honestly, it kinda felt like it did. I needed a distraction. Something not creepy, not supernatural, and definitely not "weird old libraries at night."

So I dove into conspiracy theories about Lord of the Rings lore. Did you know there's a theory that the Balrog used to be a god of light? Yeah, me neither. But I was ready to believe anything if it helped me ignore the fact that I was alone, freezing, and half convinced that every creak behind me was a ghost librarian coming to shush me into the afterlife.

And then—bam. Bright freaking lights blasted through the gates like the aliens from Nope finally showed up to abduct me.

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my phone. My heart? Just yeeted itself into my throat like, "We're not built for this kind of surprise, bro!"

Squinting like a sleep-deprived mole, I looked up and saw it.

The truck. The actual, real-life loading truck.

Praise be to the chaotic gods of literature.

I jumped to my feet so fast I tripped on my own hoodie sleeve, did an awkward stumble-skip, then power-walked toward the gate like I definitely wasn't just seconds away from crying or peeing myself. Confidence is key. Or at least faking it until you can hide behind a bookshelf.

The security guy—bless his boring, beautiful existence—had already done the whole clearance thing. He was waving the truck in like this was just another Tuesday night.

Meanwhile, I was still trying to remember how to breathe properly and not picture a clown climbing out of the back.

The truck rolled in slow, like it was dramatically entering a movie scene. Or like it knew I was imagining death-by-magic-box and was just messing with me. It parked close to the staircase that led into the basement storage—aka the sketchiest part of the whole building.

I squinted up at the cab and called out, "Wow. Thanks for being so early," dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small cat.

A voice shot back.

"I apologize! We got lost on the way!"

The man jumped down from the driver's seat, landing with a solid thud that made me jump again. He looked… normal. One head, two eyes, big delivery energy. But also—was he sweating? At night? In this cold?

Brain: That's suspicious.

Me, out loud: "Cool. Happens. GPS is a liar."

Also me, internally: Okaybutwhatifhe'sactuallyademoninhumanformandthat'snotsweatit'sEVILMIST?!

The guy gave me a polite smile. Too polite. Like customer service polite. Like "I-know-how-to-hide-a-body" polite.

Okay, maybe I was being dramatic. But also, I had seen enough horror movies to know that this was the exact moment when the "normal delivery guy" turns around and has goat eyes or something.

I forced myself to stay chill. Or, you know, fake chill.

"You need help unloading?" I asked, casually shifting my weight like I totally wasn't preparing to sprint if he so much as blinked weird.

"Nah, just a few boxes. Should be quick. I will have to check something though,I think I ran over something he called out" He opened the truck's engine latch with a metallic clang that echoed way too loud in the dead silence of the library lot.

A cold gust hit me in the face. Not from outside—from inside the truck.

Like, why was the air coming out of that thing colder than the night?

Why did it smell like... old paper and metal?

Why did my body instinctively take one step back even though my brain was saying, "Dude, it's just books"?

Because deep down, something felt off.

I couldn't explain it. But the hairs on the back of my neck were throwing a rave. And my gut? Yeah, it was practically SCREAMING run.

But I didn't. Because I'm brave?

No. Because I'm stubborn. And because Margaret was gonna owe me SO hard for this.

I gave the guy a tight smile, shoving my hands in my pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking.

"Alright," I said. "Let's get your haunted box set inside."

I meant it as a joke. I really, really hoped it was a joke.

But the guy didn't laugh.

He just looked at me and said, "Funny. That's what the last kid said."

And suddenly, I wasn't cold anymore. I was terrified.

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The driver looked... young. Not young-young, like me-young, but like—"still uses gel and eats protein bars for fun" young. Twenty-eight maybe, if I had to guess. He was dressed like he'd walked straight off a Call of Duty loading screen: all black, tactical jacket, fingerless gloves that screamed, "I own at least one knife I sleep next to."

His partner hopped out of the passenger side, wearing the exact same outfit. Like they coordinated. Like this was some kind of Book Delivery SWAT Team.

I stayed frozen on the steps, half-hoping they'd do their thing and vanish before I had to talk to them again, but of course not. Partner guy popped the truck's back latch with a loud clang, and without even so much as a nod, they started unloading the boxes—just dumping them by the staircase like it was a pile of old socks and not… I don't know, precious magical tomes or demon containers or whatever my brain was deciding they were now.

"Wait—hey, no, you can't just drop them there!" I blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word drop like my puberty chose violence today. I took a few steps toward them, arms flailing in vague protest. "That's literally blocking the emergency exit and possibly the doorway to Narnia!"

The driver barely glanced at me. "We got paid to deliver the boxes here. Wherever else you want them—that's your business," he said, then went back to manhandling the crates like he was allergic to basic human decency.

I stood there, super unhelpfully, as they finished unloading like it was nothing. No clipboard to sign. No instructions. No "Hey, watch out for the one that's cursed." Just thud, thud, thud, and then... silence.

Then they left. Just straight-up pulled out of the gates like this was a video game side quest they were speedrunning. No goodbye, no wave, no "Hey kid, don't open Box #7 unless you want to unleash a plague."

And just like that, I was standing there, alone. Again. With seven—no, eight—wooden crates full of… whatever.

I scratched my head, half-tempted to kick one just to feel in control. Decided not to, because my luck? I'd stub my toe and somehow summon a ghost librarian who hated teenagers and joy.

I crouched beside the nearest box, squinting at the shipping label, which was basically a blank sticker. Cool. Super helpful.

"How many freaking books can one person even write in a year?" I muttered. "What is this, Stephen King on a Red Bull binge?"

I sighed and reached for my phone. Battery at 9%. Amazing. I tapped my mom's number and listened as it rang. Once. Twice. Then—

"Tommy," she said, voice already stressed, like she'd been pacing around the kitchen with her arms crossed.

"Hey Mom!" I said, going full fake-cheerful like that would somehow cancel out the disaster vibes. "Fun fact—I'm not dead! Surprise!"

"Tommy, you were supposed to be home two hours ago. What is going on?"

"Okay, yeah, I know, I got delayed a bit. Nothing wild," I lied smoothly, because she did not need to know about the two Doom Bros and the haunted box stack. "I just called to say I'm gonna be a little later. Please don't freak out. And if Dad gets home before me—just say I had work stuff."

There was a pause. Then a long, slow inhale. The kind that usually meant a lecture was loading in the background.

Instead, she said quietly, "Get home safe, Tommy."

"I will," I said. "Promise." Then I hung up before my voice could betray how tired I felt.

I turned back to the boxes, hands on hips like I was about to wrestle them or maybe start crying over them. Both were on the table.

The crates just sat there, smug and heavy, not even offering an apology. I groaned and flopped onto the bottom step, letting my backpack thunk down beside me. A chill breeze slipped under my jacket and hit my back like a wet slap. My teeth started chatting like they were planning a mutiny.

"Cool," I muttered to no one. "Just me and the mystery boxes. This is totally not how horror movies start."

Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed like it was mocking me.

I gave it the finger.

It cawed again.

Yep. It was going to be a long night. And I was so underpaid for this.