Klein made a conscious effort to change nothing.
That was the adjustment.
He woke at the same time, followed the same route, greeted the same faces with the same nods. No new habits. No visible caution. To alter behavior too obviously would itself become a statement.
Normalcy was camouflage.
At the office, the rhythm continued. Ink scratched. Pages turned. The pressure lingered in its usual, low presence—neither oppressive nor absent, like a law that did not need to announce itself.
Klein discovered that the smallest deviations drew the most attention.
A pause before sitting. A glance held too long. A breath taken too sharply.
None triggered consequence on their own, but together they formed patterns. And patterns, Klein suspected, were how the world learned you.
Midmorning, a woman two desks away dropped her pen. It rolled, stopped, rolled again, then came to rest against Klein's shoe.
She hesitated.
Klein waited.
After a moment, she bent, retrieved the pen, and gave a shallow nod. She did not apologize. She did not thank him.
Nothing happened.
Courtesy had weight too, Klein realized. Even harmless words accumulated.
Near noon, Dunn passed behind the desks, hands clasped behind his back. He did not stop. He did not speak. Yet the pressure sharpened subtly in his wake, like air disturbed by something heavy moving through it.
Klein did not look up.
When Dunn reached the far end of the room, the pressure eased. Work resumed at its previous pace, as though a test had concluded without comment.
During lunch, Klein sat alone. He ate quietly, measuring each bite, aware that even chewing too loudly felt conspicuous. Across the room, two clerks shared a table. They exchanged looks, brief gestures, and a folded note that passed between them once, then disappeared.
They did not speak.
The pressure remained flat.
Written words were safer, Klein thought. But only if they stayed contained.
In the afternoon, Klein received a small task—minor, almost trivial. He was to verify a list of names against archived ledgers and mark discrepancies. No commentary required. Only confirmation.
He worked steadily until one entry caught his eye.
The name was familiar. Not personally, but contextually—one of the clerks who no longer occupied a desk. The ledger showed a simple notation beside it: status updated.
No date. No cause. No explanation.
Klein's pen hovered.
Marking it felt like agreement. Leaving it blank felt like refusal. Both, he sensed, would be noticed.
After a long moment, Klein made a small, careful mark—precise, minimal, identical to the others.
The pressure did not react.
Compliance without emphasis, he noted. That's the balance.
When the day ended, Klein left with the others, merging into the steady flow of bodies moving through the bright streets. He felt no triumph, no relief. Only a subtle recalibration, like something inside him settling into a new alignment.
That night, as he prepared for sleep, Klein reviewed the day one last time. He had spoken fewer than ten words. He had written nothing unnecessary. He had noticed much and acknowledged little.
Minor adjustments, he thought. That's how it starts.
And as the even light filled his room, refusing to dim, Klein understood something quietly unsettling:
The world was teaching him how to disappear without leaving.