External POV
The first sign was not pain.
That was why no one noticed it immediately.
In the southern residential tier far from council chambers, far from strategic corridors, far from anyone who understood power,an elderly woman stopped halfway through preparing her morning tea. The kettle had reached a low simmer, steam threading lazily toward the ceiling. Her hand hovered above the cup, fingers trembling, not with age but with confusion.
She frowned at them.
They didn't hurt.
They simply… wouldn't obey.
A neighbor later described it as "hesitation," though that wasn't quite right. Hesitation implied choice. This was something else. A momentary disconnect between intention and response, as if the body had briefly forgotten which narrative it belonged to.
By the time the cup slipped and shattered on the stone floor, the woman was already apologizing to no one.
