Juicy Liquids—

Curiosity.

That was all I felt right now. This damn thing moved. It had finally shown a reaction when I had smudged the remaining blood on it.

It wasn't just a book. It was something more,

I was sure of it.

But for now, that "more" was about to meet some crazy liquids-

Yea.

Some crazy liquids.

"Kekk—" My mouth let out a weird sound.

For a moment there, I nearly questioned myself.

'Was I really going mad?'

Anyways, with Grandma Sylvie gone to the market, the house was mine for the next couple of hours.

My grin stretched wide—borderline crazy—as I kicked off the stinky boots and yanked down my pants.

Pale, muscular legs met the chilly air. I didn't stop there.

My blue blazer came off next, then the black shirt, until I stood in nothing but my boxers. 

This was my normal. I was used to stripping my clothes when no one could see me. 

There was something liberating about it, as if I could let go of the suffocating world outside and just be myself.

The creepy grin did not leave my face as I searched under the bed and pulled out an old, beat-up player.

Ughhh

I still missed the advanced technology items inside our home in Romero Clan.

Dad had once brought an 'AI speaker' at home.

He had said that all we gotta do is tell it to play songs and it would.

Crazy-

Looking at the worn-out player, I crouched down and hit the play button, cold metal songs started pouring out, filling the room with strangely upbeat music.

"Perfect," I muttered, cracking my neck.

This would do.

Still grinning, I kicked my door open and walked down the creaking wooden stairs like I owned the place.

The high notes of music followed me as I descended the ground floor. 

It was a far cry from the huge ass mansions I grew up in.

When I was still a noble, the floors would have been polished marble and walls lined with expensive tapestry. 

Here, the ground was uneven stone, the furniture old and mismatched, and the only design was a moth-eaten surface of the rooftop. 

But I'd grown used to it. This was home now. 

The scent of fresh bread still lingered, a remnant of Grandma's morning baking spree. 

The kitchen was small, with a single wooden counter and a lopsided table where we shared meals.

The living room wasn't much better, with its single armchair and threadbare rug. 

But I wasn't here to admire the décor.

I threw open the garage door with the style of a magician revealing his greatest trick.

Inside, the dim light barely illuminated the rows of tools and equipment Grandma used for her various projects.

And there it was.

The pocket knife lay on the wooden workbench, its blade glinting faintly under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the garage walls.

I stopped in my tracks, a shiver running down my spine as I stared at it like it was a sleeping beast that might wake if I so much as breathed wrong.

"Right. No big deal, Noah," I muttered, though my voice came out shakier than I'd intended.

I reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the handle.

Grandma Sylvie's voice echoed in my head, a sharp warning from years ago:

"Everything in this garage has a place, and if I find something missing, boy, you'd better have an explanation."

I gulped. I could practically see her frowning, her sharp eyes boring into my soul, armed with questions I'd have no good answers for.

With a deep breath, I steadied my hand and picked up the knife. It was heavier than I expected, the cool metal pressing against my skin.

The handle was worn, the leather grip cracked and faded with time, but the blade...the blade was spotless, sharp, and—if the slight tremor in my reflection was any indication—utterly terrifying.

I examined it carefully, turning it over in my hands like I was handling a holy relic.

The last thing I needed was to accidentally break the damn thing or—God forbid—I wouldn't just be in for a "questioning lesson."

I'd be in for a never-ending lecture about responsibility, respect, and why she didn't raise me to be a little delinquent.

"Calm down, Noah," I muttered, exhaling slowly. "You're borrowing it. Borrowing. You'll put it back exactly where you found it. She won't even know it's gone."

As I made my way back to my room upstairs, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see Grandma standing there with a disappointed look on her face.

But there was nothing—just the faint hum of the player upstairs and the aroma of her baking still floating in the air.

Once I reached the room, I set the knife on the table; just beside the cursed book.

The contrast between the two was visible to the naked eye.

The knife was simple and unassuming while the book was dark and mysterious, like it held secrets no mortal had any business knowing.

I sat down, the wooden chair creaking under my weight, and stared at the pair of them.

The knife felt...wrong here, out of place in the presence of something as otherworldly as the book.

But I did not have a choice.

"Alright, my ticket to heaven," I said, rolling up the sleeve of my shirtless arm. "Let's see if you've got more to say."

My grin was back—half-mad, half-determined—as I picked up the knife and carefully pressed the edge against the tip of my finger.

The sting came first, sharp and immediate, followed by the slow trickle of blood welling up from the tiny cut.

I winced but didn't pull back.

This was nothing. Just a drop. Barely a scratch.

I held my finger over the book, letting the blood drip onto its cover. The dark red liquid smeared against the title, glistening faintly in the dim light.

At first, nothing happened, and I felt a flicker of doubt creep in.

But then—

A low hum filled the room, faint but growing louder.

The book began to vibrate beneath my hand, the blood on its surface spreading unnaturally fast, like it was being absorbed.

The symbols on the cover glowed faintly, the light pulsating in rhythm with the beat of my heart.

I leaned in closer, my breath hitching as the book's hum grew louder, more insistent. It felt alive, almost like it was breathing.

And then, with a sudden flash of light, the book snapped open.

"Holy sh—!" I yelped, stumbling back in surprise and nearly knocking myself over the chair.

The pages flipped wildly, as if caught in a phantom wind, each one glowing faintly with strange symbols I couldn't begin to understand.

My heart raced as I stared at the glowing text, my eyes darting across the page, desperate to make sense of it all.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the book stilled. 

***