klein learned a new habit that day.
He learned how to address Dunn without using his name.
It wasn't a rule written anywhere. No one corrected him. No pressure descended when he nearly spoke it aloud. And yet, every time the syllable Dunn reached the edge of expression, something inside him tightened and stopped it.
Names carried weight.
Using them invited attention.
So Klein adapted.
"Sir," he said instead, when instruction was required.
A nod was enough in response.
The work continued. Files moved. Ink dried. The office functioned with its usual restrained efficiency. But Klein noticed small deviations now—patterns that had been invisible before.
No one ever spoke a full sentence when issuing criticism.
"This section—"
A pause.
A tap of the finger.
Understanding followed.
Laughter did not occur. Smiles did, briefly and carefully, but soundless. Even approval was expressed through gestures rather than words.
Affirmation was safer when unspoken.
Near midday, Klein was tasked with delivering a sealed packet to the west wing. The instruction was written, not spoken. The paper contained only an address and a time. Nothing else.
He followed it precisely.
The west wing was brighter than the rest of the building. The windows there were larger, the walls painted a paler shade, the floors polished until they reflected light without distortion. Klein felt exposed walking through it, as though his outline were being measured against the air itself.
At the destination room, the door stood ajar. Inside, a man sat alone at a long table, hands folded, posture straight. He looked up as Klein entered.
"You're punctual," the man said.
The pressure stirred, then settled. Mild. Evaluative.
Klein inclined his head. He did not reply.
The man accepted the packet and placed it beside him without opening it. "You may go."
Klein turned to leave.
Behind him, the man spoke again. "You haven't asked my name."
Klein stopped.
The pressure deepened slightly, not threatening, but expectant.
"No," Klein said carefully.
"Why not?"
Klein chose his words with extreme care. "It didn't seem necessary."
Silence followed. Then—approval. Subtle, but unmistakable.
"Good," the man said. "Names tend to linger."
Klein left the room without another word.
As he returned to his desk, the realization settled in fully, solid and unavoidable.
The World didn't reward curiosity.
It rewarded restraint.
And Klein Moretti was beginning to understand why so many people survived here—and why so few remained themselves.