The square emptied faster than anyone expected.
Not because people were ordered to leave, and not because fear finally took hold—but because no one knew what to do with themselves anymore.
Arguments needed momentum.
Anger needed targets.
What remained after the sirens faded was something harder to carry.
Witness.
Police tape went up quietly, efficient and practiced. Officers spoke in low voices, their movements careful—not aggressive, but wary, as if the ground itself might react badly to sudden steps.
Marcus stayed with the injured man until the ambulance doors closed. When he finally returned, his hands were still shaking.
"He'll live," he said. "Concussion. Fractured cheekbone."
Mara let out a breath she'd been holding too long.
"And the others?"
"Minor injuries," Marcus replied. "Sprains. Cuts. Shock."
No one said acceptable.
That word no longer fit.
The advisory presence returned fully for the first time since the violence—not assertive, not analytical.
Measured.
[Post-incident assessment initiated.]
I sat on the curb, elbows on my knees, staring at the dark stain on the pavement where blood had pooled before being washed away by rain and hasty cleanup.
It was already fading.
"That shouldn't be so easy," I said quietly.
Mara sat beside me, knees drawn up, jacket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "Nothing erases it," she said. "It just stops being visible."
Marcus leaned against a lamppost, eyes scanning the thinning crowd.
"They're filming," he said.
I nodded. "Of course they are."
Phones were still out, hands trembling slightly as people recorded commentary for later—voices layered with shock, justification, anger, guilt.
"I was there."
"It wasn't like the news will say."
"Someone should've stopped it sooner."
Someone.
The advisory presence chimed softly.
[Narrative consolidation phase beginning.]
"Here it comes," Marcus muttered.
Within minutes, the interpretations hardened.
Proof that chaos follows uncertainty.
Proof that people can intervene without control.
Proof that the framework failed.
Proof that it worked.
All of them wrong in the same way.
None of them willing to say: this happened because we were there.
Mara hugged herself tighter. "They're going to ask who's responsible."
"Yes," I replied. "And they won't like the answer."
The advisory presence hesitated.
[Responsibility attribution complex.]
"Say it," I said.
[No single causal agent identified.]
Marcus snorted quietly. "That won't satisfy anyone."
"No," I agreed. "It never does."
Lights flared as a small press cluster formed at the edge of the square. Questions were already being shouted, even without answers ready.
"Was this foreseeable?"
"Could it have been prevented?"
"Who authorized this?"
Mara flinched at the last one.
"They're still looking for permission," she said.
"Yes," I replied. "Because if someone authorized it, someone else can be blamed."
The advisory presence went still again—not because it lacked data, but because it had reached a boundary it couldn't cross alone.
[Request:]
[Anchor Elena: guidance on public responsibility framing.]
I looked at the message for a long moment.
Marcus watched my face carefully. "You don't have to answer that."
"I know," I said.
"But if you do," he added quietly, "you're stepping into something permanent."
I thought of the moment in the square—of how easily the crowd had tipped, and how impossible it would have been to rewind even a second of it.
"This isn't about framing," I said finally. "It's about ownership."
I stood.
The movement drew attention immediately—cameras lifting, whispers rippling outward.
I didn't approach the press.
I spoke where I was.
"This wasn't an accident," I said calmly.
The noise dipped—not silent, but focused.
"And it wasn't a failure of order," I continued. "It was a consequence of choice."
Murmurs spread.
"People made decisions tonight," I said. "Some out of fear. Some out of conviction. Some out of reflex."
I didn't raise my voice.
"And someone got hurt because of it."
The words sat heavy in the air.
"I won't pretend that didn't happen," I said. "And I won't pretend it won't happen again."
Mara's breath caught beside me.
"But what I won't do," I continued, "is lie and say it happened because no one was in control."
I looked directly at the cameras now.
"It happened because control doesn't remove responsibility," I said. "It hides it."
A reporter shouted, "So who's accountable?"
I answered without hesitation.
"All of us."
The reaction was immediate.
Anger.
Disbelief.
Relief.
"That's not an answer!" someone yelled.
"Yes," I said. "It is. You just don't like it."
The advisory presence pulsed—strained, unsettled.
[Public response volatility high.]
Marcus stepped closer, a steady presence at my side.
Mara's voice shook, but she spoke anyway.
"If you want certainty back," she said, "ask yourselves what you're willing to let happen quietly so you don't have to see moments like this."
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
Recognition.
Sirens faded completely now. The square looked ordinary again—damaged only by memory.
As people began to drift away, conversations low and raw, I felt the weight settle fully.
Not as guilt.
As obligation.
The advisory presence chimed once more.
[Post-event framework stress test complete.]
"And?" I asked quietly.
[Framework remains viable.]
[Human cost non-negligible.]
I nodded.
"Yes," I said. "That's the truth."
Marcus let out a slow breath. "They're not done with you."
"No," I agreed. "They're just starting."
Mara looked at me, eyes fierce and uncertain.
"Do you still think this is worth it?" she asked.
I thought of the man on the stretcher.
Of the people who stepped back.
Of the hands that reached out afterward.
"Yes," I said quietly. "Because now, no one can say they didn't know."
The city resumed its rhythm—uneven, scarred, awake.
The noise was gone.
The consequences remained.
And for the first time, responsibility didn't belong to a system, a protocol, or a hidden hand.
It belonged to everyone who had chosen to stay.