side Chapter: The Library Ghosts

There are places in this world where failure lingers.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But like a stain that refuses to fade—quiet, stubborn, and… deeply embarrassing.

The old library was one such place.

I stood before it in the late afternoon, parasol resting lightly on my shoulder, the structure now half-demolished, swallowed by scaffolding and the promise of something far less dignified—condominiums. Progress, they called it.

I called it… a mercy killing.

“Ah,” I murmured, stepping forward with measured grace. “So this is where they squandered brilliance.”

My boytoy son-in-law, Beckett, had once worked here. A gentle, brilliant boy—far too refined for the chaos that had infested this place. I had heard the stories. Mismanagement. Entitlement. Petty complaints elevated above competence.

Karens, as the modern term so inelegantly puts it.

I stepped inside.

The air was stale, thick with the residue of poor decisions. Shelves stood crooked, abandoned. Papers littered the floor like fallen leaves—forms, complaints, warnings that had never been acted upon.

Ghosts.

Not the supernatural kind, no.

The far more insidious kind: the ghosts of arrogance, of people who believed themselves important simply because they were loud.

I tapped my parasol lightly against the ground.

“Let us see what remains of your… legacy.”

A faint echo of voices seemed to linger in the silence. I could almost hear them—complaints about manga, outrage over trivialities, the endless enabling of foolishness.

I smiled. Coldly. Politely.

“Pathetic.”

I walked deeper into the ruins, my heels clicking softly, each step deliberate. And then… I found it.

A small office, half-intact. Inside, a desk. A computer. And, most importantly… records.

Negligence reports. Ignored warnings. Complaints that contradicted one another. Evidence—perfect, pristine evidence—that the entire collapse had been self-inflicted.

How delicious.

I opened my phone, taking a few quiet photos. Not for exposure. Not for spectacle.

No.

For closure.

“For Beckett,” I said softly.

Because he had not failed.

They had.

And now… they would be remembered exactly as they deserved: as architects of their own downfall.

I closed the folder gently, leaving it exactly where I found it. There was no need to disturb the scene further. The truth was already written.

And then…

Footsteps.

Ah.

A man entered—one of the former administrators, if my memory served me correctly. Older now, but the posture was the same. Defensive. Self-important.

He froze when he saw me.

“…Can I help you?” he asked, voice uncertain.

I turned slowly, offering a warm, perfectly composed smile.

“Oh, not at all,” I replied. “I was merely admiring the results of your… management.”

He stiffened. “This place wasn’t my fault.”

Of course it wasn’t. It never was, with people like him.

I tilted my head ever so slightly.

“Really?”

A single word. Soft. Curious.

He began to speak. To explain. To justify.

And in doing so… he unraveled himself.

Contradictions spilled from his lips. Excuses tangled into admissions. Every attempt to defend himself only exposed more incompetence, more negligence, more hubris.

I said very little.

I didn’t need to.

People like him always destroyed themselves, given enough silence.

When he finally stopped, breathless, I simply nodded.

“How… unfortunate,” I said gently. “To have been given responsibility… and to have squandered it so thoroughly.”

He looked as though he wanted to argue. To protest.

But there was nothing left to say.

Because he had already said everything.

I turned and walked away, parasol tapping lightly against the ground.

Behind me, the building creaked—a low, groaning sound as part of the structure gave way. Dust rose into the air, sunlight cutting through it like a quiet judgment.

The ghosts were collapsing.

At last.

That evening, the manor was calm.

Persephone and Hades stood in the courtyard, small but composed, mirroring the stillness of the night as I guided them through their movements.

“Control,” I instructed softly. “Not force. Never force.”

They moved again—precise, elegant.

“Good,” I said, allowing a small smile. “You learn quickly.”

They always did.

Afterward, we gathered inside. Tea was served. Dark chocolate arranged neatly. The atmosphere—perfect.

Diana sat beside Beckett, her presence as composed and quietly commanding as ever. He looked peaceful. Safe.

As he should be.

I placed a small envelope before him.

He hesitated. Then opened it.

Inside were the photographs. The records. The truth.

His eyes softened behind the mask and he uncharistically removed it a rarity considering his own fear of germaphobia but in cases like these he felt like he couldn't breathe so understanbldy so he had to remove it.

“…It wasn’t me,” he murmured.

“No,” I said simply. “It never was.”

Diana leaned against him, smirking faintly. “Of course it wasn’t, my prince. Fools rarely recognize their own incompetence.”

I took a sip of tea.

“Oh, how I do enjoy seeing such individuals orchestrate their own downfall,” I added lightly.

A quiet laugh followed—refined, amused.

Beckett relaxed further, the weight of something old and unnecessary finally gone.

Closure.

Complete.

Outside, the night deepened. The ruins of the library would be gone soon, replaced by something new, something quieter.

And within our walls—

Peace remained untouched.