Prologue

Georges Richard stared closely at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his eyes observing the familiar lines of his so ordinary face. The face that greeted him each morning was the same as always; plain, weary and dull.

"Same day, same face…"

Sigh…

The sound echoed through the small cramped bathroom. The paint on the walls were peeling like a snake, and the tiles were cracked as much like the rest of his life. 

He, each morning, went through the same habitual routine; brushing his teeth, combing his black hair, and wearing the same cheap suit. 

This hateful routine was as ingrained as the trees on his neighbourhood park.

But today, as he buttoned his shirt, a deeper sense of disgust clawed him.

"Is this all there is?" 

He shook his head, his hair scattering. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Georges worked as an administrative assistant at a mid-sized insurance company, a job that paid the bills but left his soul. 

His days were filled with a quasi infinite load of paperwork, phone calls that he didn't wanted to answer—make, and the office rumours.

He had a dream. He had imagined a life filled with adventure and thrill. Something beyond his boring life. 

Like being a superstar, a footballer; the latter was his childhood dream.

Sigh…

With a resigned sigh, Georges grabbed his battered briefcase and stepped out his apartment. 

The sky was gray matching his mood. He walked to the bus stop, his shoulders inclined against the harsh biting wind.

Vroom!

The bus finally arrived, a hulking yellow vehicle that let out a cloud of gray smoke, as it stopped with a screech of metals rubbing against each others. 

The door opened and Georges climbed the steps, casting an glance at the driver.

"Good morning, Mr. Georges," the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair, looked at him with a tired smile. His name was Manuel, and he had been on the same route for years.

"Good morning, Manuel," Georges forced a smile as he pulled the bus pass from his pocket. "How are you today?"

"The usual," Manuel shrugged, closing the door behind Georges with a click. "Too cold for my liking, but it's part of it, right?"

"No doubt," Georges nodded agreeing. "I hope at least your breakfast was warm."

"It was, yes. My wife makes sure of it," Manuel smiled with a touch of pride. "And you, Georges? Anything new?"

"No, nothing new," Georges responded, his tone resigned. "Just another day at the office."

"Another day, huh?" Manuel looked at him with envy. "Must be nice to have an office to go to."

Georges paused, taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Manuel glanced at Georges with his tired smile fading. "It means some of us don't have the luxury of a warm office. Some of us are stuck driving a bus in the cold every day."

"I never said it was a luxury, Manuel. My job has its own problems." Georges' brows furrowed.

"Problems?" Manuel snorted. "Like what? Paper cuts and coffee stains?"

"That's not fair," Georges shot back. "You don't know what I deal with."

"And you don't know what I deal with," Manuel retorted, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "We're not all as lucky as you, Georges."

"Lucky? You think I'm lucky? You have no idea." Georges was getting impatient. He just wanted to sit.

"Maybe I don't," Manuel nodded, "But I know this: some of us have to work harder for what little we get."

"Maybe we both do," Georges said quietly, turning away. "Maybe we both do."

After that, the bus ride was uneventful, the same tedious route he had taken for years, so he adapted. 

The people in the bus with him were lost in their own worlds, their eyes were glued to their phones.

The city was gone in a blur of gray buildings and streets in a flash, devoid of any colour. Like the mono filter.

At his stop, Georges got off the bus and began the short walk to the office. 

His mind wandered as he walked.

Vroom!

As he crossed the street, he was lost in his thoughts and didn't notice the speeding truck, until it was too late.

Vroom! Vroom!

The screech of tires. The blaring horn. A flash of blinding headlights.

Boom!

Time seemed to slow as the truck hit him with a bone-crunching thud. 

Georges felt himself lifted off the ground, the world spinning in a whirl. 

Then, he hit the asphalt hard, pain cruising through his body. 

His vision darkened, the sounds fading into a distant roar.

Then, darkness enveloped him like a mother…

...

Gasp!

Georges woke with a start, gasping for air. He was lying on a cold and hard surface. The smell of old parchment and dust making a way onto his nose. 

He sat up, groaning at the sudden movement, it was strangely painful. Georges looked around, his eyes wide with confusion as he noticed his surroundings. 

Georges was in a vast, dimly lit hall, filled with towering shelves that were almost like infinite. Books and scrolls filled every inch of space of the hall. 

The place had an otherworldly feel, as if it existed for a long and long of time.

"Where the hell am I?" 

Georges rubbed his temples. The last thing he remembered was the truck, the searing pain… Was he dead? Or this was some kind of nightmare or bizarre dream?

Georges struggled to get his feet together.

The place was humongous, he couldn't see the end of it. At a corner, he saw a huge, ornate desk at the end of the aisle. He noticed a large, worn plaque hanging above it, the letters carved in elegant script.

"Primordial Origin Library."