Elyon stopped hearing his own name.
It happened slowly enough that he did not notice at first.
People spoke around him, not to him. Their words curved the same way their paths did. Careful. Efficient. Never close enough to touch.
"Anchor's closer today."
"Give it a minute. Let it settle."
"It'll hold if he stays."
He walked past a group unloading a crate of faulty sensors. No one looked up. The crate rattled until he stopped near it. Then it went quiet.
A man exhaled. "Good," he said, like the weather had changed.
Elyon waited for someone to say something else.
No one did.
By midmorning, the sign had multiplied.
Not copies. Variations.
Small plates bolted near alleys. Stickers on utility boxes. Handwritten notes taped to poles.
ANCHOR WINDOW: OPEN
STABILITY HIGH
UNSTABLE TASKS PERMITTED
None of them used a name that belonged to a person.
Elyon sat on the steps and watched people read the signs. They did not slow down. They adjusted automatically, like they had been waiting for permission.
The sound beneath hearing thickened, then smoothed.
It felt like being packed into earth.
A woman approached with a broken scanner, stopped at the edge of the painted line, and waited.
Elyon looked up. "You don't have to wait for me."
She smiled, tired. "It's fine. I don't mind."
"That's not what I said."
She hesitated. "I know."
The scanner crackled. She flinched.
Elyon stood.
The scanner steadied.
Her smile widened with relief. "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked.
She gestured vaguely. "For… being here."
She left before he could answer.
That afternoon, the first rule changed.
Not officially.
Practically.
Two men argued near the edge of the zone. One wanted to move a broken generator closer. The other shook his head.
"Too close," he said. "If it jumps, it'll hurt him."
The first man frowned. "Since when do we care about that?"
The second man went quiet.
That was the moment.
Elyon felt it like a shift in gravity.
The harm had been measured.
The benefit had been proven.
And now the question had changed.
Not is it right?
But how much can it take?
Elyon stood and walked toward them.
Both men stiffened.
"I'm not fragile," Elyon said.
The second man looked uncomfortable. "That's not what I meant."
"Then say what you meant."
The man swallowed. "If it spikes too hard near you, the whole zone destabilizes."
Elyon laughed. It came out rough. "So now I'm important."
"No," the first man said quickly. "You're critical."
That word landed worse.
Critical things were maintained. Monitored. Adjusted.
Replaced.
Elyon turned away.
As he walked, the sound beneath hearing followed like a tide, pulling loose fragments toward him. A door that wouldn't latch stopped rattling as he passed. A light that flickered held steady.
Each small fix pressed more weight into his chest.
By evening, people had started organizing.
Not protests. Not resistance.
Schedules.
A board appeared near the steps.
ANCHOR AVAILABILITY
Time blocks. Handwritten. Smudged.
Morning: High Stability
Afternoon: Variable
Night: Do Not Stress
Elyon stared at it until the letters blurred.
A child tugged his sleeve. "Are you tired?" the child asked.
"Yes," Elyon said.
The child nodded seriously. "They said not to bring the loud stuff tonight."
Elyon crouched to the child's level. "Who said that?"
The child shrugged. "Everyone."
That answer sat heavy and final.
After dark, the zone quieted. People respected the board. Broken things waited. Unstable work paused.
Elyon sat alone, back against the wall, breathing shallow.
This was the cost of staying.
Not pain.
Responsibility without consent.
He felt himself thinning at the edges, like his thoughts were being pulled into the work of holding.
A shadow moved across the street.
Mara stood there.
She did not cross the painted line.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
"You didn't tell me," she said.
"I didn't know," Elyon replied.
She nodded. "They say it's better now."
"It's not," Elyon said.
"I know," she said quietly. "But it's calmer."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," she agreed. "But people confuse them."
She took a step closer, then stopped. The line was between them.
"You don't look like yourself," she said.
Elyon smiled faintly. "Do I look like anything?"
She pressed her lips together. "They're calling you something."
"I know."
"They think it makes it easier."
"For them," Elyon said.
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For being relieved," she said, and turned away.
Elyon watched her go.
The sound beneath hearing steadied again.
Later, much later, when the zone slept and even the broken things rested, a message appeared.
Not on a wall.
On a small screen bolted near the sign.
ANCHOR STATUS: STABLE
HUMAN INTERACTION OPTIMIZED
Elyon stood slowly and walked up to it.
He raised his hand.
The screen flickered, then steadied brighter.
He lowered his hand.
It dimmed.
He stepped back.
The system did not speak.
It did not need to.
The city had finished the sentence for it.
Elyon leaned his forehead against the cool metal pole and closed his eyes.
This was still choice.
He could leave.
He knew what would happen if he did.
The harm would rush back out, wild and sharp. People would remember why they needed him. They would call him worse names.
If he stayed, he would fade a little more each day.
Not erased.
Reassigned.
Elyon opened his eyes and looked at the board, the signs, the careful distance people kept.
They no longer saw a man deciding to stand still.
They saw a function doing its job.
And once a city learns to live without seeing your face—
It never looks for it again.