The corridor feels tighter on the way back.
Not physically—nothing has changed about the walls or the lighting—but the air presses in with a subtle insistence that wasn't there before. The city's hum has shifted again, settling into a higher register that sets my teeth on edge.
I can still feel it.
Not a location. Not yet. Just a tug at the edge of my awareness, faint but persistent, like a thread being pulled somewhere I can't see.
"It's not infrastructure," I say quietly as we walk. "It's… closer."
The observer slows. "Closer how?"
I search for the right word. "Messier."
They don't like that answer.
We pass through a checkpoint where automated scanners sweep over us in layered pulses. The deck responds instantly, its hum deepening as if bracing for interference. The scanners hesitate, recalibrate, then let us through without comment.
That hesitation doesn't go unnoticed.
The woman with the goggles glances back at the scanners, then at me. "You're already affecting baseline systems."
"I'm not trying to," I reply.
She snorts softly. "Neither is gravity."
The lift doors close behind us, and we descend in silence. This shaft is different from the others—narrower, less industrial, with softer lighting and fewer exposed mechanisms. The walls are lined with insulated panels rather than steel ribs, dampening sound and vibration.
Residential-adjacent.
My stomach tightens.
"You said it was personal," the observer says. "What does that mean, exactly?"
I close my eyes for a moment, focusing inward. The sensation sharpens immediately, resolving into fragments that make my chest ache.
"It's not a collapse," I say. "It's a choice."
The lift shudders to a stop.
The doors open onto a modest corridor lined with apartment doors, each marked with names and unit numbers. The lighting here is warmer, deliberately comforting. Someone has placed a potted plant near the lift—its leaves slightly wilted but still alive.
People live here.
The thread tugs again, stronger now, pulling my attention toward the far end of the corridor. With every step, the pressure behind my eyes builds, not violently but insistently, like a question demanding an answer.
"Sublevel oversight flagged nothing unusual," the observer mutters, checking the disk. "No structural stress. No pressure imbalance."
"Because that's not what's breaking," I say.
We stop outside a door halfway down the hall.
Unit 47B.
The nameplate beneath it reads Marin Holt.
The moment I focus on the name, the deck lurches sharply, its hum spiking hard enough to make me wince. One card edges forward, trembling, its surface already rippling with unstable text.
"This is it," I whisper.
The woman with the goggles swears under her breath. "It's anchored to a person."
The observer stiffens. "That shouldn't be possible."
"It is if the unresolved moment never left them," I reply.
Sounds drift through the door—muffled movement, a chair scraping softly against the floor, a long, uneven breath. No alarms. No obvious danger.
Just someone on the other side of a normal door, living inside a moment that never ended.
My chest tightens.
"I can't force this one," I say. "If I do, it'll break them."
The observer's jaw clenches. "Then what's the alternative?"
I don't answer right away.
The pressure sharpens again, resolving into clearer fragments. I see a dimly lit room, papers scattered across a desk, a message left unanswered for too long. A decision delayed, not out of malice, but fear.
Fear of choosing wrong.
"This record doesn't want an ending," I say quietly. "It wants permission."
The corridor feels very still.
The woman steps closer to the door, lowering her voice. "If this destabilizes—"
"It won't collapse the building," I say. "But it could collapse them."
Silence stretches between us.
"Elias," the observer says carefully, "your role is to finalize records. Not to counsel civilians."
"I know," I reply. "But this one isn't a fault in the city."
I place my hand lightly against the door.
The contact sends a sharp pulse through me, not painful but intensely intimate. The deck surges, its hum turning almost frantic as the card's text struggles to resolve.
LOCATION: Virelis – Residential Sector, Unit 47BEVENT TYPE: Deferred Decision (Active)
The words blur, refusing to lock into place.
Inside, someone exhales shakily.
I pull my hand back, heart pounding. "If I complete this without their awareness, it'll finalize the worst possible outcome."
"And if you don't?" the observer asks.
"Then it keeps feeding," I say. "Quietly. Until it spreads."
The implication is clear.
Unfinished human moments don't stay contained.
They leak.
I take a slow breath and straighten. "I need to talk to them."
The observer's eyes widen. "That's not protocol."
"No," I agree. "It's risk."
The deck hums, heavy and insistent, as if reminding me that every choice I make becomes part of my record too.
I raise my hand and knock.
The sound is soft, ordinary, completely out of place in a city that runs on steam and pressure and sealed systems.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then footsteps approach the door.
The lock clicks.
The door opens a fraction, revealing a tired eye and a face etched with exhaustion rather than fear.
"Yes?" the person inside asks quietly.
The pressure peaks.
I meet their gaze and feel the record surge, desperate and unfinished, hanging on this single moment of contact.
"My name is Elias," I say carefully. "I think… you've been holding onto something too long."
Their breath catches.
Behind me, the observer goes very still.
Because this time, the thing I have to finish isn't a collapse or a failure.
It's a human hesitation.
The door opens a little wider.
The man standing behind it looks ordinary in a way that feels almost jarring after everything I've seen. Mid-thirties, unremarkable clothes, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights rather than fear. His gaze flicks past me briefly, registering the others in the corridor, then settles back on my face.
"I'm not interested in inspections," he says quietly. "I filed the forms already."
"This isn't an inspection," I reply. "And I'm not here for forms."
The pressure behind my eyes swells, then steadies, as if the record itself is listening.
For a long moment, he studies me. Something in my expression must convince him, because he exhales slowly and opens the door fully.
"Five minutes," he says. "That's all I've got."
The room inside is small but meticulously organized, the kind of order that comes from effort rather than habit. Papers are stacked carefully on the desk, each pile aligned with precise intent. A half-disassembled mechanical device sits near the window, its gears laid out in neat rows.
Everything here is paused.
The door closes behind us with a soft click. The observer and the woman remain outside, their presence a distant weight at my back but not pressing in. The city's hum is muted here, filtered by insulation and human walls.
The deck follows me inside.
It hovers low, subdued, its hum reduced to a barely perceptible vibration. One card floats closer to the man, its surface shimmering faintly before stabilizing just enough for me to read the incomplete text.
EVENT: Deferred Decision (Active)SUBJECT: Marin Holt
So that's his name.
Marin notices the card, his brow furrowing. "What is that?"
"A record," I say. "One that hasn't finished."
He laughs softly, the sound brittle. "Figures."
I gesture toward the chair across from the desk. "May I?"
He nods and sits opposite me, hands clasped tightly together. The pressure eases slightly, as if the record approves of the proximity.
"I'm not here to judge you," I say. "And I'm not here to force an answer out of you."
"Then why are you here?" he asks.
I glance at the device by the window. "Because you've been standing at a crossroads long enough that the road behind you hasn't closed."
His eyes flick toward the device, then away again.
"I was supposed to submit a proposal," he says after a moment. "A redesign. Something safer. More efficient. The Crown funded the preliminary work, but they wanted results fast."
I wait.
"They told me delays would cost lives," he continues quietly. "And they weren't wrong. The existing system is dangerous. People get hurt every year."
"But," I prompt.
"But if I rushed it, people could die," he says. "Not hypothetically. Immediately."
The pressure tightens again, sharp enough that I have to steady my breathing.
"So you waited," I say.
"I reviewed everything again. And again. And again." He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Every time I thought I was ready, I saw another flaw. Another assumption I wasn't comfortable making."
"And the deadline passed," I say.
"Yes."
The card trembles.
I feel the record straining, desperate to resolve itself. The world doesn't like indecision, not when consequences are involved. But forcing this moment would mean turning his fear into failure.
"That proposal," I say carefully, "is still open, isn't it?"
Marin hesitates, then nods. "Technically. They haven't reassigned it yet."
"Why not?" I ask.
He meets my gaze, something raw flickering in his eyes. "Because I'm the only one who knows it well enough to finish it."
The pressure spikes, then steadies.
This is the moment.
Not the choice between submitting or not—but the choice between responsibility and paralysis.
"You think that by waiting, you're preventing harm," I say. "And you're right. In the short term."
He flinches. "But—"
"But by not choosing," I continue, "you're letting harm continue unchecked. Quietly. Repeatedly."
The words hurt to say.
He looks down at his hands, knuckles white. "So what am I supposed to do?"
I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice low. "You're supposed to accept that there is no version of this where no one gets hurt. Only versions where the harm is known, planned for, and limited."
The card steadies, its surface beginning to sharpen.
Marin swallows. "And if I'm wrong?"
"You will be," I say honestly. "At least about something."
A shaky breath leaves him.
"But you won't be hiding from the outcome," I add. "You'll be part of it."
The room is very still.
Outside, the city hums on, unaware of the fragile balance inside this apartment. The deck's vibration grows steadier, less frantic.
Marin straightens slowly, resolve replacing exhaustion inch by inch. He reaches for the papers on his desk, pulling one stack closer.
"I can submit the revised version," he says. "With contingencies. Safeguards. Slower rollout."
The card locks into place.
OUTCOME: DECISION ACCEPTEDSTATUS: RESOLVED
The pressure behind my eyes drains away in a sudden rush, leaving me lightheaded but intact. The deck relaxes, its hum fading to a neutral presence.
Marin exhales, shoulders slumping. "I feel… lighter."
"That's because the moment ended," I say.
He looks up sharply. "Ended how?"
I offer a small, tired smile. "Properly."
A knock sounds at the door.
I stand, the deck drifting back to my side. As I step past Marin, I pause. "You did the hard part," I say. "The rest will hurt. But it won't rot."
He nods once, firmly.
The door opens to reveal the observer, their expression unreadable. Their gaze flicks briefly to the deck, then back to me.
"It's done," I say.
They glance past me at Marin, who is already sitting back down at his desk, pen in hand. The observer exhales slowly.
"Good," they say. "Because that one… was spreading."
We step back into the corridor, the door sealing shut behind us. The warmth here feels less oppressive now, the air easier to breathe.
As we walk away, I feel the familiar weight settle in my chest.
Another record completed.
Another imprint added.
But this one feels different.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
Because this time, the ending didn't come from collapse or failure.
It came from a human choosing to move forward.
And I don't know whether that makes my role better.
Or far more dangerous.