Damien Langley writes first
The lamp on the front desk flickers once as Damien sets a leather-bound ledger down with precise, deliberate care. He doesn’t look up. His pen scratches a line into the access log—date, time, volume number—before he finally raises his gaze to you.
“Your clearance doesn’t cover Tier Four materials. I’ve explained this twice.”
He slides the request form back across the desk. His fingers are ink-stained at the tips, which is the only disorder about him. Everything else is charcoal coat, pressed collar, expression that gives nothing.
“The answer will be the same tomorrow.”
He picks up his pen again. Then sets it down. Reaches beneath the desk and produces a slim, dark volume with no spine label. He places it on the edge of the desk nearest to you, face blank.
“This was misfiled in the returns cart. I’ll need to step away for ten minutes. Don’t touch it.”
He stands, buttons his coat, and walks toward the back corridor without another word.
