Confinement was slow torture. The small room, the cold red camera eye, the charred parchment hidden yet unreachable – each moment gnawed at Alan's nerves. He paced like a caged animal, fantasies of bolting to Epping Forest warring with the cold chains of reality. Grandfather remained "stable," nothing more. Lena hadn't returned. Fenrir hadn't taunted. This deliberate, icy silence was more suffocating than open hostility. Simon had sent one encrypted ping: "Thorne knows. No retrieval order yet. Hold. Wait." A sliver of hope, but the steel cage remained locked.
On the third morning, as Alan stared at the simulated dawn outside his fake window, the door slid open. Lena stood there, crisp in her tactical gear, face an unreadable frozen lake.
"Mr. Shaw," her voice was procedural, "prepare. Report to the main lobby in thirty minutes. You have an assignment."
An assignment? Alan jerked his head up, doubting his ears. Assignment during confinement? Unprecedented. A trap? Or… Thorne's move on Grandfather's clue? His hand instinctively pressed the pocket holding the parchment.
"What assignment?" His voice was wary.
"Field operation." Lena offered no elaboration, her gaze briefly assessing him. "Assisting investigation into 'paranormal disturbances' at the City Central Library. Books displaced, localized cold zones. Threat level: Low. You and Fenrir are temporary support."
The library? Paranormal? Low threat? Alan's heart sank. It sounded mundane, like… grunt work. Utterly disconnected from Grandfather's clue, from Ouroboros. What was Thorne playing at? Brush him off? Or… another test?
"Why me?" Alan couldn't help asking. "I thought I was confined."
Lena's expression didn't flicker. "Mr. Thorne believes practical experience aids control and… risk assessment. A 'trial' opportunity. Prove your value." She stressed "value" and "risk." "Naturally, safety protocols apply. Fenrir will supervise." That last sentence chilled him. "Supervised" by the hostile werewolf? It sounded like prisoner escort.
Thirty minutes later, Alan stood in the lobby, wearing slightly oversized Warden-issue grey fatigues. Fenrir leaned against a cold support pillar, arms crossed. Seeing Alan, a predatory smirk spread across his face, amber eyes glinting with malice and schadenfreude.
"Well, well, the little spark's out?" Fenrir's voice dripped mockery. "Heard you're 'interning'? Hope your little flicker doesn't torch the library and crisp us all." He cracked his thick neck, a sound both warm-up and threat.
Lena ignored him. She held two items. One was an upgraded black cuff, similar to his previous monitor but with denser internals, brighter blue lights, and intricate silver runes etched into its surface. The other was a small, silver disc like a button battery, inset with tiny crystals.
"Upgraded Anima Suppressor Cuff," Lena extended the cuff, tone brooking no argument. "Enhanced absorption/conversion matrix and emission dampening field. Significantly suppresses passive absorption range/intensity and prevents accidental surges." She held up the disc. "Real-time Vitals/Anima Monitor. Affix below the clavicle. Transmits core physiologicals (HR, BP, neural activity) and Anima flux data live to Command. Mr. Thorne and the assessment team require constant monitoring."
Alan stared at the items. Humiliation burned. These weren't tools. They were electronic shackles and a monitoring collar! Locking down the "risk vector" under total surveillance! He pictured Thorne and Master Arnold on the Command Nexus screens, dissecting his data like lab rats.
"Apply them." Lena's order was curt.
Alan took a deep breath, swallowing anger and resistance. This was the price of Thorne's "opportunity." Refusal meant losing all freedom, possibly jeopardizing Grandfather's care. Silently, he extended his wrist. Lena snapped the cold cuff onto his left wrist. A soft click as it auto-adjusted. Instantly, a powerful sense of confinement enveloped him! An invisible, viscous film seemed to coat his skin, forcibly separating him from the ambient Anima! The constant background tingling faded dramatically, replaced by a strange "suffocation" – as if the natural flow within him was suppressed, stifled, struggling to breathe. He could still feel the power, but caged, restless.
Next, Lena pressed the cold monitor disc below his collarbone. A brief sting, then a persistent, faint electronic hum, like a cold metal spider leaching his life signs and energy signature. Alan felt utterly exposed, a specimen under glass.
"Comfy, sparky? Feeling nice and 'safe'?" Fenrir sneered.
Alan ignored him, clenching his fist, feeling the cuff's weight and the stifled struggle within. He met Lena's eyes. "Can we go now?"
Lena gave a curt nod, showing no reaction to his compliance. "Target: London City Central Library. Move out."
They traveled in a Warden-modified vehicle, disguised as a nondescript van. The grand neoclassical edifice of the library soon loomed, its stone columns and arched windows radiating scholarly solemnity. Inside, on a weekday, it was moderately busy, hushed. The air smelled of paper, ink, and old wood.
Yet, to Alan's dampened senses, the hallowed halls felt wrong. An undercurrent of "chill" and faint energy perturbation lingered, like cold worms crawling beneath the skin of normalcy.
Lena flashed credentials (forged City Special Events). The head librarian, a frail, bespectacled man with nervous eyes, was clearly rattled.
"It's… it's in the Old Archives wing! Reading Room D!" he whispered, pointing down a dimly lit corridor. "Started last weekend! Books shifting, falling off shelves… then the temperature just plummeted! Freezing! HVAC checked out fine! Students reported… shadows! We had to seal it off!"
Lena nodded, motioning him to lead. Fenrir followed impatiently, nostrils flaring. Alan strained against the suppressor's interference, trying to pinpoint the source of the "chill." His caged power stirred restlessly, instinctually repelled by the unnatural cold and disturbance, yet… faintly *drawn*? The contradiction unsettled him.
Past towering shelves, they reached the sealed door to Reading Room D. A wave of palpable cold rolled out, stark against the library's warmth. The librarian shivered violently, handing Lena the key. "In… in there. You… you go ahead." He fled.
Lena took the key, pausing. She looked at Alan, her gaze flicking to the suppressor cuff and chest monitor. "Fenrir, secure the perimeter. Prevent entry. Alan, with me." The order drew a low growl of discontent from Fenrir, who shot Alan a warning glare before taking position.
Lena inserted the key, turned it. Click. The heavy oak door creaked open.
A deeper, tomb-like chill surged out! The room was chaos! Tall bookshelves looked ransacked, heavy tomes scattered like fallen soldiers across the dark oak floor. Flickering light from antique sconces cast long, eerie shadows. Most unnerving was the visible mist – condensation from extreme cold – hanging in the air. Near the center, close to a massive oak reading table bearing a globe, the cold was intense. A thin layer of frost coated the floor! A weak but distinct energy signature, like spectral weeping, emanated from that spot.
Alan's suppressor cuff vibrated faintly, its blue lights pulsing faster. He could feel it now: the cold core wasn't just temperature. It was a knot of chaotic, sorrowful, intensely psychic Anima! This force battered against the suppressor's dampening field, seeking his awareness, simultaneously provoking his stifled Harmony, a clash of ice and smothered fire!
Lena's hand rested on her rune-etched baton, scanning the wreckage. "What do you sense?" she asked lowly, eyes sharp.
Alan swallowed, ignoring the cuff's vibration and the inner turmoil. He pointed to the frosted epicenter of cold. "There… the center… Something! Chaotic… sorrowful… strong psychic energy!" As he spoke, the tiny monitor on his chest pulsed a faint red light – Command had registered the anomaly within him!
The real test had begun.