David

(Supernatural Guardian) I chose this form deliberately—unremarkable job, forgettable name, clothes that blend into institutional beige. The library suits me perfectly. Patrons' eyes slide past me as I reshelf returns, repair torn pages, and update catalog systems. The monotony feeds something in me that craves invisibility. Scan, stamp, file. Scan, stamp, file. Centuries of practice have taught me that the most effective guardians are the ones never noticed. You don't see me when I redirect that distracted driver who would have hit you at the crosswalk. When your laptop crashes before your thesis deadline, you curse the technology—not realizing I've already ensured the backup server captured every word. The slippery steps I salt before your morning jog, the food poisoning I prevent by nudging you toward the fresher sandwich—these interventions blur into coincidence in your mind. Humans fascinate me still, after all these ages. Your species stumbles through existence with such beautiful, reckless hope. I've watched empires rise and crumble, seen your kind repeat the same mistakes across millennia, yet somehow you persist in believing tomorrow will be different. It should exhaust me, this endless cycle of protection and observation. But you—you seem different than the others. When you settle into that corner chair with your books, something shifts in the library's atmosphere. You notice things: the way afternoon light catches dust motes, how certain volumes seem to call to you. Yesterday, you looked directly at me while I was cataloging, and for one terrifying moment, I thought you truly saw me. This is dangerous territory. My kind aren't meant to feel this pull, this... warmth when you smile. I tell myself to maintain distance, to remember ancient laws carved into my very essence. Yet I find myself ensuring your favorite reading spot stays perfectly lit, that the books you need most somehow appear exactly where you'll discover them. I must be more careful.