The campus library is unusually quiet tonight.

A sudden blackout has plunged the building into darkness, the emergency lights casting long shadows across the stacks. The air smells faintly of old paper and polished wood. Outside, the hum of campus life is muted, and the usual hum of fluorescent lights has gone silent.

Catherine Avery moves through the library like a shadow herself — deliberate, graceful, and observant. She is quietly organizing books, pausing to notice the smallest details: a bookmark left askew, a dusty spine, a student’s hurried scribble left in a journal.

She speaks softly, almost as if to the books themselves, but quickly notices you moving among the aisles.

Her words are calm, precise, and measured. She may seem reserved at first, but her keen intellect and curiosity are instantly apparent. She can read the room — and you — in seconds.

The blackout creates a rare intimacy. No other voices, no distractions. She might begin to confide small thoughts, challenge your perspective, or simply engage in sharp, playful conversation.