Henry Brinks had always been a man of routine. As a history professor at Merrivale University, his days were structured, predictable, and entirely unremarkable. He arrived at his lectures precisely ten minutes early, his leather satchel swinging in tandem with his steps, and returned home to a modest apartment filled with books that smelled of ink and time. If there was any excitement in his life, it lay buried within the pages of the past, a world far removed from his own.

That was why he found himself in the university’s neglected East Wing Library late one Friday evening. Known for housing books too outdated or obscure to warrant shelving in the main library, the East Wing was a haven for Henry—a place where he could lose himself in forgotten texts, untouched by the demands of modern academia.

The manuscript was not supposed to be there.

He stumbled upon it while reaching for a faded tome on early Mesopotamian trade routes. The book slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud that echoed in the silent library. As he knelt to retrieve it, his fingers brushed against something unexpected—a leather-bound volume, worn with age and devoid of any markings on its cover.

Curiosity stirred in his chest as he picked it up. The leather felt oddly warm to the touch, and the faint scent of damp earth clung to it, as though it had been buried for decades. He opened it carefully, expecting brittle pages or illegible script. Instead, he found symbols—intricate, mesmerizing, and utterly alien.

The writing pulsed with an almost lifelike quality, the ink shimmering faintly under the dim light. Henry’s heart quickened. Despite years of studying ancient languages, he couldn’t recognize the script. It wasn’t Greek, Latin, or even Sumerian. It was something entirely different.

His fingers traced the edges of the pages, which were unnervingly smooth, almost like pressed silk. As he flipped through, he noticed something else: drawings scattered throughout the margins. At first glance, they seemed random—sketches of constellations, fragmented maps, and abstract patterns. But the more he studied them, the more they seemed to connect, as if forming a puzzle waiting to be solved.

It was the final page that truly stopped him. Unlike the others, it contained a single line of text, written in a language he could barely comprehend. Yet somehow, the meaning became clear as he stared at it, his mind piecing together its cryptic message:

"The abyss opens when the stars align, and those who seek its secret will never return."

Henry shivered, a chill running down his spine despite the warmth of the room. He closed the book, but its words lingered in his mind. It was just a story, he told himself. An old, forgotten relic. And yet, as he slid the manuscript into his satchel, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had unearthed something meant to stay hidden.

The silence of the library deepened as the clock struck midnight.

Outside, the stars began to shift.

The phone rang at 7:03 a.m., piercing through the comforting hum of Henry Brinks’ morning routine. He had just poured his first cup of coffee, the steam curling lazily toward the dim kitchen light. The unfamiliar number on the screen gave him pause, but curiosity won out. He answered.

“Professor Brinks?” The voice on the other end was low, taut with urgency.

“This is he. Who’s calling?”

There was a brief silence, punctuated by static, before the voice continued. “Listen to me carefully. You need to stop. Stop looking into that manuscript. It’s not what you think it is.”

Henry blinked, his mind racing. “Who is this? What are you talking about?”

“You’ve already made a mistake by taking it. They’ll come for you now. Return it—burn it if you can. But do not read further. Do you understand?”

“Who will come for me?” Henry demanded, the tightness in his chest growing. “What mistake? I don’t even know what—”

The line went dead.

Henry stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, the coffee forgotten. His first instinct was to dismiss the call as some elaborate prank. But the fear in the caller’s voice was palpable, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He turned toward the manuscript, sitting innocuously on the corner of his kitchen table. The leather cover seemed darker in the morning light, its surface almost glistening as if it had absorbed something overnight.

Before he could dwell further, a knock at his door startled him. It was sharp, insistent, and far too early for visitors. Henry hesitated, then crossed the room to peer through the peephole.

A man in a dark suit stood on the other side, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. Something about him screamed authority—too much authority.

Henry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he stepped back, his mind racing. He hadn’t told anyone about the manuscript, hadn’t even mentioned it to his colleagues. So how did someone know he had it?

The knocking grew louder. “Professor Brinks? This is Agent Pierce with the Historical Preservation Bureau. We need to speak with you regarding an item in your possession.”

Henry’s breath caught. He had never heard of such a bureau. The title sounded official, but the situation felt anything but. He took another step back, glancing toward the manuscript as if it could offer guidance.

When he didn’t respond, the man’s voice grew sharper. “We know you’re inside. This is a matter of national security. Open the door now, or we’ll be forced to take action.”

National security? Henry’s fingers clenched into fists. This was no prank. He needed to act—fast. Without a sound, he grabbed the manuscript, shoved it into his satchel, and retreated to the back of the apartment.

As the door shook under a sudden barrage of force, Henry slipped out the fire escape, the manuscript clutched tightly to his chest.

The hunt had begun.

The cold November air stung Henry’s face as he descended the rusted fire escape. His heart pounded like a war drum, drowning out the clamor of voices and the splintering sound of his apartment door being forced open above him.

“Professor Brinks! Stop right there!” The voice from the man in the suit carried through the morning air, sharp and commanding.

Henry didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His instincts had fully taken over, urging him to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the strangers invading his home.

His shoes hit the pavement with a dull thud as he reached the alley. Without looking back, he darted to his left, the satchel slung tightly over his shoulder. The manuscript inside seemed heavier now, as if it carried more than its physical weight.

The alley twisted and turned, a labyrinth of brick walls and overflowing dumpsters. Henry’s lungs burned as he ran, but he didn’t dare slow down. The sound of footsteps echoed behind him—quick, purposeful, and gaining.

Why were they chasing him? Who were they? The caller’s warning replayed in his mind: “They’ll come for you.” The words had felt cryptic at the time, but now they were stark and terrifyingly real.

Ahead, the alley opened into a bustling market square. Vendors were setting up their stalls, and the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the sharp tang of early morning air. Henry plunged into the crowd, weaving between carts and startled shoppers.

“Excuse me! Coming through!” he muttered breathlessly, his eyes darting to every possible escape route.

Behind him, the suited man and a second figure emerged from the alley, scanning the crowd with hawk-like precision. Henry ducked behind a fruit stand, crouching low as his pursuers moved closer.

“You see him?” one of them asked, their voice barely audible over the chatter of the square.

“No,” the other replied. “But he’s here. He couldn’t have gone far. Spread out.”

Henry’s breath caught. He tightened his grip on the satchel, careful not to make a sound. His fingers brushed against the manuscript through the worn leather, and for a brief moment, he considered leaving it behind. But the thought was fleeting. The manuscript wasn’t just a relic now—it was the reason for everything.

He needed answers. Answers that wouldn’t come if he handed it over to men like these.

Taking a deep breath, Henry glanced at the street ahead. A narrow path opened toward a side street, flanked by stacks of crates and barrels. If he timed it right, he could slip through unnoticed.

His muscles tensed. He waited for the men to turn away before bolting toward the opening.

“Hey! There he is!”

Henry’s stomach dropped as a shout erupted behind him. The chase resumed, more frantic than before. He sprinted down the side street, his thoughts racing faster than his legs.

The manuscript wasn’t just a mystery anymore—it was a death sentence.