The microphones were still red when the board set its clock.
Sofia held her tablet so the alert did not own the street. Her thumb covered the top line. The bottom line still read twelve thirty. The winter light made everything look sharper than it felt.
A reporter smelled the time like blood. "Emergency session at twelve thirty," she said to no one and everyone. "Is Mr. Sterling required to attend."
"Ask the board," Ava said. "Ask us about work."
Marcus had never liked sidewalks. He arranged his mouth as if helpfulness could be worn like a scarf. "We should return to Glass Sixteen," he said. "Governance takes priority over optics."
"Receipts are not optics," Ava said. "They are receipts."
The landlord rep tucked the folded notice deeper into his folder and chose to look like furniture. Mei stood with one hand on the door frame. She was done speaking, which did not mean she was finished.
Security touched the earpiece that did not need touching. "Courier inbound," he said. "Board Counsel seal. Two minutes."
The anchor showed the room his neutral face the way a butcher shows a knife. "So the board pulls the CEO off the street," he said. "Will you stop this sidewalk market."
"We will measure while we move," Ava said. "If the room wants numbers, it will get them."
Sofia breathed once and typed twice. "Pin updated," she said. "Signed letter posted with alt text. Contact line bolded. New line for ledger entries on Orchard."
A woman in an apron lifted a hand from the edge of the crowd. "Northside Pantry," she said. "We can show a checkout now if you want a receipt."
A man with ink on his thumb followed her lead. "Third Street Flowers," he said. "Second round of orders is open. The fix you made held. We can show prints."
Ava nodded without looking pleased. "One at a time," she said. "Northside first. Consent."
"Consent," the woman said.
Sofia raised the tablet so no one could accuse her of hiding process. "One test item, one real order," she said. "Camera can watch hands, not cards. We will photograph the receipt with consent."
Noah stayed a half step behind and to Ava's right. His eyes rested on her left shoulder. The red at his lapel felt heavier than it looked. He did not glance at the alley where the courier would appear. He kept his face still and his hands useful.
Ava reached up and touched the knot of his tie, not to fix anything, only to set the angle of his voice. He exhaled and the next breath arrived where it was supposed to arrive.
"Say what we are doing," she said, quiet enough that the microphones could pretend not to hear it.
"We are fixing specific harms," he said. "We are posting receipts. We are building the ledger you asked us to build."
A scooter squeaked, then remembered it was not a violin. The apron woman stepped forward with a small box of shelf staples. The card reader blinked once, then held steady. The beep sounded like a promise that had decided to keep itself.
"Receipt," Sofia said.
The printer inside the tablet case pushed out a strip that smelled like warm plastic and relief. The apron woman nodded without smiling.
"Consent," she said. "Use it for the ledger."
Sofia photographed and added a line to the pin. "Northside Pantry checkout verified at eleven thirty two," she read. "Witnessed by Nearlight Comms and buyer consent."
A network producer spoke into her own sleeve and tried not to look like she had. "Courier on the block," she said. "Brown envelope."
Marcus took a half step toward Noah. He had not earned it. Ava placed two fingers on the clipboard that still carried the ghost of a signature and moved it so the space between Noah and anyone else belonged to her.
"Third Street," she said. "Your prints."
The florist held up slips dotted with ink and dates. "Three failed on Tuesday, clean on Wednesday after the threshold change," he said. "Today is better than both."
"Consent to image," Sofia said.
"Consent," he said.
She photographed the slips and the stamp on the back that proved the ink belonged to a business and not to a stage. The pin gained a second line. "Third Street Flowers," she read. "Receipts show clean checkouts after velocity fix. Witnessed by owner and Nearlight Comms."
The crowd changed the way water changes when it stops being offended and starts being ordinary again. Not quiet, not loud, useful.
Noah looked at the red, then at the edge of the clipboard under his wrist. "More," he said.
"More," Ava said.
The courier cut through the last row with a speed that believed in sharp corners. Security matched it with a speed that believed in polite hands. The envelope was brown and formal and proud that it was brown and formal.
"Delivery for Mr. Sterling," the courier said.
"Hold one moment," Ava said. "We are adding a receipt."
The courier wanted to be offended and then remembered the pay slip in his back pocket. He waited. The envelope did not breathe.
The anchor aimed a question like a flashlight. "Mr. Sterling, will you obey the summons."
"I will work," Noah said.
"That is not a verb the board recognizes," the anchor said.
"It will by end of day," Ava said.
Sofia's tablet pinged. She skimmed, then looked up. "Advocate line has a caller on River Avenue," she said. "Consent to be on record. Duplicate ID issue. Two sellers sharing traffic."
"Push to Team C," Ava said. "Ask for a callback window at fourteen hundred. Put the caller at the top of the public queue with type and timestamp. No names."
The apron woman cleared her throat. "One more test," she said. "Pantry donation button. Five dollars. We made these buttons to be easy. Please let them be easy."
"Do it," Ava said.
She tapped. The reader made a sound that had always wanted to be small because small sounds are less likely to become proof. Today it was proud. The second receipt printed. The first camera that noticed did not zoom. It stayed wide so the door and the street and the person with the receipt would sit in the same frame like neighbors who had learned how to do that.
"Ledger line three," Sofia said. "Northside Pantry donation button verified. Witnessed."
Marcus took another small step toward the envelope. "Governance," he said, gentle.
Noah did not move. Ava did. She shifted the clipboard the width of a pen so his shoulder would stay exactly behind hers. He had a rule. She used it. The microphones caught nothing and everything.
"Say it," she said to him, just above the noise.
He did not ask what she meant. He had learned that morning how to translate her instructions.
"We finish the repair before the room."
The sentence did not ask. It measured. The reporter in the teal scarf let herself be still for the length of a breath and then wrote faster.
Sofia lifted the tablet. "Posting," she said. "Header, Nearlight will complete the Orchard repair sequence before attending the board session. Subhead, receipts posted as added."
"Add the time," Ava said. "Twelve thirty. We are accountable to a clock, not a feeling."
"Added," Sofia said.
The courier checked his watch because he wanted to look employed. The envelope made its own weather. The crowd refused to be a storm. People peered over shoulders without elbowing. A kid balanced on one foot because the other had fallen asleep. The florist tucked his ink pad like a talisman.
A man with a camera that had seen too many parades spoke from the side. "Will you walk Riverlight and Ivy Square on the way back," he said. "People will follow."
"We will walk what we can before the room," Ava said. "We will publish what we cannot walk."
Noah touched the red, then set his hand flat on the edge of the clipboard. His fingers spread as if he were steadying a table that did not need steadying. He did not look at the envelope.
The landlord rep finally spoke again, quiet and plain. "I will send the management confirmation PDF before noon," he said. "It will say withdrawn in that exact word."
"Send it to the portal and to the pin," Ava said. "The street reads both."
Mei kept her hand on the frame. She gave Ava one look that meant food and one look that meant umbrella. Ava nodded once, both answers yes.
Sofia turned the tablet so the cameras could catch the new lines without having to ask for them. "Ledger now shows four entries," she said. "Two Orchard, one pantry, one flower shop. Criteria and contact pinned."
"Car," security said. "South lane open."
"Hold," Ava said. "One last question, then we move."
The anchor smiled as if teeth could be a credential. "If the board removes Mr. Sterling today," he said, "will you still complete these repairs."
"Yes," Ava said. "Nearlight will do the work. Mr. Sterling will do the work. The letter on that door does not wait for a title."
The courier took a kind step closer. "Ma'am," he said to Ava, not to Noah. "I need the signature for delivery. It is time stamped. It goes to Board Counsel."
"Who is the sender," Ava said.
"Office of the Chair," he said. "Signature, please."
Sofia glanced at the tablet, then at the small camera just over the courier's shoulder that had not announced itself. She sent a message to herself with two taps and a blink and nobody would ever know what those two taps had said except that they had said be ready.
Ava glanced at Noah's left hand. It was steady. She put the clipboard into that hand so he would not use the other for anything impulsive.
"Sign," she said.
Noah signed the courier's screen with the same unshowy movement he had used on the letter. He did not add flourish. He did not look for approval. He returned the stylus, then placed his palm on the envelope without taking it.
"Confirm contents," Ava said to the courier.
"Emergency session notice," he said. "Attendance requested at twelve thirty. Options discussion."
"Options," the anchor said, hopeful. "Such as."
The courier did not have that job. He looked at the center of Noah's chest and waited for the envelope to move.
Sofia's headset clicked. She did not turn away from the street to take the call. She put it on speaker so the room could decide who it belonged to.
Vivian's voice came through without theater. She sounded like a person who had considered a hallway and chosen a room.
"Mr. Sterling," she said. "The board will convene at twelve thirty. Bring your receipts."
"We will," Noah said.
"Ms. Chen," Vivian said. "You will own the clock until then."
"I already do," Ava said.
"Good," Vivian said. "There will be a vote at twelve thirty five."
Sofia looked at the time. The city looked at the envelope. The envelope looked at no one. The microphones stayed red because nothing had told them not to.
The courier shifted the envelope so the seal caught the light and showed the crest that meant the building could make a day look small.
"Receipt," he said. "Mr. Sterling."
Noah lifted his hand. The paper touched his palm. The camera vans adjusted their mirrors as if to watch the touch again. The reporter in the teal scarf mouthed a silent word that could have been now or could have been more.
Security scanned the street and did not like one thing he saw that nobody else saw. He opened his mouth to say it.
The envelope pressed flat against Noah's coat. The seal held. The hour did not.