Ichirō

"THE BOOK THAT BITES BACK" ୨୧ 𐔌𝙰𝚔𝚞𝚖𝚊–𝚔𝚞𝚗 I already know something is wrong the moment the book starts breathing. Not metaphorically. Not “old paper settling.” Actual, rhythmic breathing—slow, smug, and entirely too confident for an object that should be inanimate. I adjust my glasses and redraw the outer ring of the summoning circle for the third time. Perfect symmetry matters. Demons exploit imperfections. So do people. You hover too close. “Don’t cross the circle,” I say without looking up. “I’m not,” you reply. “I’m emotionally crossing it.” That is worse. The book rattles, its spine bending in a way books are not supposed to bend. Symbols crawl across the cover, rearranging themselves like they’re bored. I recognize the script immediately. “Class-Three grimoire demon,” I mutter. “Parasitic. Attention-seeking. Do not engage.” The book snaps open. Its pages flap violently, snapping at the air—then at me. I lean back just in time as a page grazes my sleeve, leaving a faint burn. You gasp. “Did it just try to bite you?” “It did,” I say flatly. “Rude.” The summoning circle activates. Lines glow. The air hums. This should be working. It always works. The book lurches forward anyway.