The flickering fluorescence of the library was a hypnotic drone. Liam slumped further into the plush armchair, the weight of the book – a signed first edition of Alistair Finch's *Whispers of the Wildwood* – heavy on his lap. He blinked, the words blurring on the page. His eyelids felt thick, like weighted curtains. He’d stayed up all night, devouring the Finch novel, and now, fueled by nothing but stale coffee, the research for his dissertation felt like wading through molasses. He yawned, a wide, soundless cavern opening in his face. His head lolled to the side.
He reached for his phone, scrolling through social media. A post by a fellow student, a link to a blog detailing Finch's "borrowing" from lesser-known fantasy authors. Liam scoffed. Conspiracy theories. He clicked the link anyway, his brain sluggish, unable to resist the pull.
The comparison charts on the blog began to swim before his eyes. The familiar prose from *Whispers of the Wildwood*…and then, verbatim, the same phrasing from a little-known online anthology. A wave of nausea rolled over him, followed by a dull ache behind his eyes. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand, trying to clear his vision. The evidence was irrefutable. Finch, his literary idol, a thief. The weight of the book felt crushing.