Allen always prided himself on being a good people reader. And yet, he couldn't tell what the man before him was thinking or feeling. The man was completely unreadable, and Allen hated that.

The young boy sat on a small bed in a small room full of papers and books. With his left hand, he gripped his aching head. The last thing Allen remembered seeing was Mary's body lying on the ground, surrounded by monsters.

"You've awoken." The man said. He looked around his late forties, early fifties and had straight, champagne-colored long hair that was combed back. The man also had a goatee of the same color. But what stood out the most were the dark circles around his eyes, ones that looked strikingly similar to a panda's.

"Who... who are you?" Allen croaked. It was hard for him to speak. His throat was dry.

Noticing his discomfort, the man gave Allen a glass of water, which he happily downed in one gulp. After he drank, the auburn-haired boy looked up at the man, still waiting for an answer. But instead of giving Allen the answer he wanted, he instead asked the boy his own question.

"Do you want to live, boy?"

"What?" He looked at the man, confused.

"Well, do you?"

"O-of course! Who wouldn't?" He sputtered.

"Are you willing to leave everything behind to live, then? Are you willing to give up your past? Your friends, your family? All to live?" The man questioned.

"I— Who are you?" Allen repeated his question. The young boy tried to stand up, but when he did, the world around him began spinning. He fell back into his former position, groaning.

The boy peered up at the man staring at him, now noticing just how blurry his vision was. Did he have a concussion? Probably. It would also explain his head pain.

"Don't exert yourself too much, boy. Your wounds were deep." Said the man.

"You still haven't answered my question." Replied Allen.

The man looked down at him. His expression, much to Allen's dislike, was unreadable. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then the man began pacing around the room.

"You can call me Bookman."

"Book...man?"

"Yes. I am part of the Bookman Clan. We exist to record the history of the world. I had planned to meet you later, but due to certain circumstances, that wasn't possible."

"What do you want with me, then?"

The man stopped pacing and walked right in front of Allen.

"I want you to become my successor." He— Bookman exclaimed.

Allen's eyes widened.

"What? But why—" again the ache came, causing the boy to clutch his head tighter. Bookman made a noise.

"You're still in too much pain for this conversation." Bookman walked away when a hand grabbed onto his coat.

"No!" Allen yelled out. His voice softened. "I-I want to know why. Right now."

"Hmph. You're resilient, I'll give you that. But I cannot tell you why. Not yet. Not until you give me your answer."

Allen fell deep into thought. On one hand, leaving everything behind sounds absolutely ridiculous and insane. But on another hand, he has no one left. What could leaving everything behind do but alleviate his pain? Perhaps it would even be cathartic.