Klein did not sleep well that night.
It was not because of nightmares. There were none. No distorted images, no sudden awakenings drenched in sweat. His mind remained clear, calm, and unsettlingly orderly.
That was precisely the problem.
Each time he closed his eyes, the day replayed itself—not emotionally, but structurally. Statements. Responses. Weight. Consequence. The sequence was clean, logical, and terrifyingly consistent.
The world was not cruel.
It was precise.
He rose before dawn, careful not to speak even to himself. The habit formed quickly, slipping into place as though it had always been there. Thoughts stayed internal.
Observations remained unvoiced. Even muttering felt indulgent now.
As he washed and dressed, Klein noticed how naturally restraint came to him. That realization unsettled him more than the rules themselves.
Adaptation should not be this easy, he thought.
He stopped.
The thought had nearly crossed his lips.
A faint pressure brushed the edge of his awareness, like a reminder delivered without accusation. Klein inhaled slowly and said nothing.
Outside, the city was quieter than the day before. Not empty—never empty—but subdued. Conversations were shorter. Gestures replaced words. Nods carried meaning that speech no longer did.
Klein reached the office to find a notice posted near the entrance.
Attendance Review — Mandatory
No explanation followed. There didn't need to be one.
Inside, Dunn Smith stood near the filing shelves, arms folded, expression neutral.
Several clerks gathered nearby, their faces composed, eyes attentive. No one asked questions.
Dunn waited until everyone had arrived. Then he spoke.
"Some of you have noticed irregularities," he said. "You will not discuss them."
The pressure stirred. Firm. Directive.
"This is not a prohibition," Dunn continued. "It is advice."
A few people shifted uneasily. No one spoke.
"Those who speak carefully," Dunn said, "continue working."
"And those who don't?" someone asked
before they could stop themselves.
The pressure surged.
The clerk stiffened, face draining of color. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw trembling. Dunn did not look at him.
"They leave," Dunn said simply.
The pressure eased.
The clerk exhaled shakily and stepped back, eyes lowered. No one followed him. No one offered reassurance. The space he left behind closed seamlessly.
Klein watched the exchange in silence.
So this is how it's enforced, he realized. Not by punishment. By attrition.
The meeting ended without ceremony. People returned to their desks. Work resumed. The system continued.
As Klein sat down, he felt something settle inside him—not fear, not panic, but a slow, creeping adjustment. His thoughts began arranging themselves more carefully. His inner voice softened, less eager to assert, more willing to observe.
Silence was no longer an action.
It was becoming a habit.
And that, Klein suspected, was how the world truly changed people—not through terror, but through comfort.