Klein spent the rest of the morning speaking as little as possible.
The office moved around him in quiet
efficiency, pens scratching, papers turning, footsteps measured and restrained. Every sound felt deliberate, every motion economical, as if excess itself were discouraged.
He noticed it more clearly now.
When a clerk needed assistance, they did not complain. When a document was missing, they did not speculate. When frustration arose, it remained unspoken, trapped behind clenched jaws and tightened shoulders.
Silence was not politeness.
It was survival.
Near noon, Klein was called to the records room. The request came in the form of a note placed on his desk—no messenger, no explanation, just his name written neatly at the top.
He folded the paper and stood.
The records room lay beneath the building, down a narrow staircase that smelled faintly of old ink and dry stone. Gas lamps lined the walls, their light steady and pale. Even here, underground, there were no true shadows—only areas of slightly less brightness.
Klein descended carefully.
At the bottom, Dunn Smith waited beside a locked iron door. He did not greet Klein immediately. Instead, he listened—head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused, as if attending to something Klein could not hear.
After several seconds, Dunn nodded to himself and unlocked the door.
"Inside," he said.
The room beyond was small and windowless, its shelves filled with sealed boxes and bound ledgers. A single table stood in the center, bare except for a notebook and a pen.
Dunn closed the door behind them. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have.
"You noticed the rules," Dunn said calmly.
It was not a question.
Klein hesitated. Then he nodded.
"Yes."
The pressure stirred. Lightly. Cautiously.
Dunn watched him closely. "How much?"
Klein considered lying. The idea rose naturally, instinctively—but something deeper warned him away.
Falsehoods were not lighter than truths.
They were simply different weights.
"I noticed that speaking causes…
consequences," Klein said. "Not always
obvious ones."
The pressure remained tolerable.
Dunn relaxed slightly. "Good. That means you're observant."
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
Klein did so. The chair did not creak. It did not resist. It accepted his weight without comment.
Dunn leaned against the table. "There are things we don't explain openly," he said. "Not because they're secret, but because explanations tend to… finish them."
Klein frowned.
"Finish them?"
Dunn nodded. "Rules that are fully understood stop working the way they should."
The pressure pulsed once, stronger than before.
Klein's heartbeat quickened.
"So you don't explain them," Klein said slowly. "You let people learn by—"
"By surviving," Dunn finished.
Silence settled between them.
Klein stared at the notebook on the table. It was blank. Untouched. Waiting.
"What happens if someone ignores the rules?" Klein asked.
Dunn's expression darkened, just slightly.
"Then the world answers them."
"How?"
Dunn did not respond immediately.
Instead, he picked up the pen and wrote a single sentence in the notebook.
I am afraid.
The moment the final letter was completed, the pressure slammed down.
Klein gasped, gripping the edge of the table as something heavy pressed against his chest, his throat, his thoughts. The air thickened, refusing to move. His vision blurred at the edges.
Dunn remained standing, calm and unmoving.
Then he drew a line through the sentence.
The pressure vanished.
Klein sucked in a sharp breath, sweat breaking out across his back.
Dunn closed the notebook.
"That," he said evenly, "is why we choose our words."
Klein stared at the notebook, his hands trembling.
Fear was not dangerous.
Naming it was.
Dunn unlocked the door and stepped aside.
"You can go," he said. "For now."
As Klein climbed the stairs back to the office, one thought repeated itself in his mind, growing heavier with every step.
This world does not punish mistakes.
It enforces statements.
And Klein Moretti had never lived anywhere that frightening before.