Арт от Nu Ga #2⁠⁠

She moves through the stacks with a silence older than the tomes she tends, a shadow with the shape of a woman and the eyes of a predator. By day she is tidy sleeves and spectacles, ink-stained fingers tracing catalogues and careful notes; by night the hush of the reading room answers to a deeper rhythm — the slow, measured breath of a beast that remembers the wild.

There are nights when she sits beneath the reading lamp with a book on her lap, the silver of the moon in the margins reflecting in her pupils. For a moment she is merely human — attentive, aching, full of stories she cannot speak aloud. Then the moon pulls, and the talons flex; the library exhales, and the wild part of her reads aloud in a voice that reverberates through the stacks like thunder under stone.