Books Similar To Diary Of An Oxygen Thief นิยาย & เรื่องราว

My gloved hands rested uselessly on the open manuscript. “You’ve worked late every Thursday for the past two months,” he said quietly. “Always alone. Always in this room. I’ve watched you from the upper gallery more than once. The way you handle the books. The way you go completely still when you think no one is looking. The way your breathing changes when you turn certain pages.” My mouth went dry. I stared at the botanical illustration in front of me—delicate ink lines of a flower that suddenly felt obscene. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Fay had been so closed off and guarded since we met, and I couldn't help but wonder what secrets she was hiding within these pages. I glanced towards the bathroom door, making sure she was still occupied before opening the diary. The first page was filled with delicate handwriting detailing her thoughts and emotions about recent events. As I flipped through the pages, I felt like I was getting a glimpse into Fay's innermost thoughts and feelings. Olivia used to write in her diary just like Fay. As I stared down at the first page, something looked familiar to me about the writing. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photo of Olivia, who I always carried with me, turning it over. I loo

It’s the first real smell in the entire place. And books. Hundreds of them. Not decorator books arranged by color. Real books. Worn spines. Dog-eared pages. I run my fingers along the shelves. Financial theory. Biographies of Carnegie and Rockefeller. Philosophy. History. And fiction. I pull out a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. The spine creaks. Pages are yellowed, soft as cloth. I flip through and stop at the margin notes inked in neat, sharp handwriting. "Revenge consumes the avenger," written next to a passage about Edmond Dantès.

In short, her side was dominated by chaos and bright colors. Mine was the exact opposite. The desk was neatly pushed against the wall, the bed was made under the window and my closet was locked. I didn't have any posters on the wall. Instead there was a large pin board above the desk that was full of newspaper clippings about proles. On my desk were neatly piled journals dealing with Venators and their prey. The only thing we had to share was the large shelf that divided our room into two areas in the middle. But here, too, it was clear to whom which subjects belonged. Meticulous order versus pure chaos.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

"When you put it that way..." The next half hour passed surprisingly quickly. The longer I spent inside Thompson's, the more I liked it. Every shelf seemed to contain something even more interesting than the last. Books with cracked leather spines. Maps rolled into neat cylinders. Jars of pigment stacked in careful rows. Bundles of charcoal. It was all very vintage. The place felt less like a business and more like the physical manifestation of a very specific obsession. “Elara?” “Yes?” “How many books are actually in here?”

​Thorne’s POV ​The book felt heavy in my hands, a physical weight that the digital world could never replicate. I opened the cover, the spine creaking in the silence of the hold. The pages were covered in hand-drawn diagrams and messy, frantic handwriting. It wasn’t the work of an Architect; it was the diary of a rebel.

First thing in the morning, I bathe, dress and walk throughout the castle, repeating the spell while looking for an item to seal Thypon. Reaper is perched on my shoulder. We enter the kitchen only to find pots, pans, plates and candle sticks—nothing in here of use. The library had the odd vase of flowers, a plethora of books, and nothing else. I take a random book from the shelf, ‘The Alpha’s Mate Who Cried Wolf,’ I read, then laugh. ‘Sounds interesting. I suppose I can’t trap Thypon in a book, though?’ I say to Reaper.

I still thought of Lyndon’s words about the prior murder case in Argao because I was there. I AM CURRENTLY reading CareLikeGoldFish’s work. The book is a mystery-thriller and even without romance, I couldn’t stop reading it whole because the scenes are so familiar, it’s like I’ve seen them before. Just like the scene where the main character shot his friend. It’s the same as what I saw there in Boljoon two months ago.

Unlike the others, it was… handwritten. Wait… is this a… journal? A diary… maybe? ‘A life with a Killer' My eye froze as soon as I read the title of the book. It was… indeed a Diary. But why does it looks so exactly like a format of a novel? My head frowns in confusion. Why is there a novel like this? It… sounds interesting but… should I read this? The fact that there are many books in this library, I can say that he just randomly asked books to fill this place…