Klein noticed the absence before anyone acknowledged it.
The desk opposite him remained empty. The chair was pushed in. The papers were aligned with habitual care. Nothing suggested disorder—only that a person had been removed cleanly, without residue.
No one asked where the clerk had gone.
No one mentioned his name.
By midmorning, Klein realized he could no longer recall the man's face clearly. When he tried to summon the memory, it slipped away like a word on the tip of the tongue, leaving only the impression that someone had been there.
Silence was not neutral.
It erased.
A file appeared on Klein's desk shortly after. He did not see who placed it there. He only noticed that it had not been there a moment earlier.
The cover bore no title. Only a thin vertical line, drawn carefully in ink, as if marking a boundary rather than a subject.
Klein did not open it immediately.
He waited until the faint, familiar pressure settled into its steady presence—watchful, restrained, patient. Only then did he lift the cover.
Inside were incident summaries. Brief. Clinical. Each entry followed the same structure: a statement, a response, and an outcome. Names were omitted. Locations were precise. Motives were never discussed.
One entry drew his eye.
Statement:I will never forgive you.
Response: Elevated pressure, sustained.
Outcome: Subject ceased participation.
Klein's fingers tightened slightly around the page.
Ceased participation.
The phrase repeated throughout the file. Different words. Different circumstances. The same ending. Sometimes the response was immediate. Sometimes delayed. Sometimes subtle enough to be mistaken for coincidence.
Always final.
"You're reading it correctly."
Dunn Smith's voice came from behind him.
Klein did not turn.
"Then why give it to me?" Klein asked carefully.
"Because you're observant," Dunn replied.
"And because you noticed the absence."
The pressure stirred—light, acknowledging, but unmistakable.
Klein closed the file. "What happens if someone says nothing at all?"
Dunn did not answer immediately.
The pause stretched. It felt deliberate, as though the world itself were waiting to hear the response before deciding how to react.
"Then the world speaks instead," Dunn said quietly.
Klein turned to face him. "And what does it say?"
Dunn met his gaze without blinking. "It decides for you."
The pressure deepened—not sharply, not violently, but with patience. The kind that assumed compliance in the end.
Klein understood then why the empty desk felt wrong in a way that went beyond absence.
The clerk hadn't been punished.
He had been concluded.
That evening, as Klein walked home beneath the clean, uninterrupted sky, he tested the thought silently, careful not to let it reach his lips.
If silence erases…
He stopped himself.
The pressure brushed past him—light, curious, almost gentle. Klein said nothing more and continued walking, his pace measured, his expression composed.
At his apartment door, he hesitated. Inside waited quiet, safety, and the slow comfort of adaptation.
Before entering, Klein looked back down the stairwell. It was bright from top to bottom. Every step was visible. Nothing hid.
This world did not force obedience.
It rewarded it.
And Klein Moretti knew, with unsettling clarity, that rewards were far harder to resist than threats.