The city didn't move.
That was the first mistake Qin Mian noticed.
No alarms.
No drones.
No sudden tightening of space.
Just a quiet correction—like a breath taken too calmly to be natural.
She felt it as she stepped out of the stairwell and into a maintenance concourse. The lights were the same. The people were the same. Even the air smelled the same.
But timing slipped.
A woman ahead of her paused half a beat too long before walking again. An elevator door closed a fraction earlier than expected. Her own footsteps echoed once more than they should have.
"…They're measuring," Qin Mian murmured.
Her body tensed automatically—then stopped.
No Anchor.
No pull.
Just awareness.
Soft Hands, Hard Math
The first inconvenience arrived politely.
Her transit card declined.
She blinked, tried again.
"System lag," the gate chimed pleasantly.
A guard waved her through with a tired smile. "Happens all the time."
It didn't.
She walked on.
The second inconvenience came quieter.
Her comm buzzed—one short pulse—then went dead. Not jammed. Not confiscated.
Deprioritized.
She exhaled slowly. "Okay," she said to no one. "That's new."
The city wasn't pushing her.
It was making her smaller.
What Pressure Looks Like Without Violence
She cut through a side corridor she'd used twice before.
This time, a maintenance barrier blocked it—fresh paint, official seal.
No warning.
No reroute posted.
Just… unavailable.
She turned back, heart steady.
Don't rush, she told herself. That's what they want.
As if on cue, her vision shimmered. Not pain—fatigue. The kind that crawls in when you've been making decisions for too long.
Her left hand twitched.
She stopped, leaned against the wall, breathed.
Across the city, far beyond any map she could draw, Yin Lie remained still.
She felt it.
And didn't reach.
The Test Tightens
The third inconvenience had a face.
A man stepped into her path at the concourse junction. Mid-thirties. Clean jacket. No badge visible. Hands empty.
"Qin Mian," he said calmly.
She didn't answer.
He smiled, not unkindly. "We won't detain you."
"That's generous," she replied.
"It's efficient," he corrected. "We're assessing."
She met his eyes. "Assessing what?"
"How long you'll last without intervention."
Her jaw tightened.
"You could just ask."
"We are," he said—and stepped aside.
Behind him, the concourse split into three routes. Each marked open. Each equally plausible.
No guidance.
No hint.
Choice as stress.
Where the Knife Really Is
Her chest tightened—not fear, but calculation.
She knew this tactic.
Make her choose. Make the choice hurt.
She picked the middle route.
Ten steps in, her vision blurred. The ache behind her eyes sharpened. Her heartbeat misfired once, hard enough to make her gasp.
The man's voice carried, calm and distant. "You can stop this."
She stopped walking.
"Use the Anchor," he said. "Just a touch. We'll see it. We'll help."
Her fingers curled reflexively.
The Anchor stirred—weak, damaged, hungry.
Across the city, Yin Lie felt a ripple—not pain, not panic.
A question.
He stayed still.
Qin Mian closed her eyes.
"No," she said.
The ache spiked—then steadied.
The man exhaled, disappointed. "Noted."
Collateral Without Blood
The pressure shifted again.
Her name appeared on a public notice screen nearby—briefly—then vanished. A harmless clerical error, already corrected.
But people looked.
Just once.
Enough.
She moved faster now, not running—efficient.
The city responded by slowing everything else.
Crosswalks delayed.
Doors hesitated.
Queues thickened in front of her.
No wall to punch.
No enemy to strike.
Just friction.
What She Refuses to Do
Her body screamed for correction.
For the Anchor to take over.
For the familiar pull to smooth the edges.
She pressed her palm to her chest and breathed through it.
"I can hold," she whispered.
Across the distance, Yin Lie felt the words without hearing them.
He didn't answer.
He didn't move.
He waited.
The Director's Note
Far above, the Director watched the stream of micro-adjustments converge.
"Result?" she asked.
"Subject resists reactivation," the system replied. "Physiological cost increasing."
"Good," the Director said. "Increase ambient friction by twelve percent."
A pause.
"Do not escalate visibly."
She turned away.
"If stability depends on restraint," she said, "let's see how long restraint lasts."
End of the First Test
Qin Mian reached a quiet alcove and sank onto the bench, breathing hard.
Sweat dampened her collar. Her left hand shook. Her vision narrowed—then cleared.
She was still here.
Still choosing.
Still not reaching.
She stood again, slower now, but upright.
"Next," she said softly.
The city adjusted.
Not angry.
Interested.
And somewhere else, Yin Lie opened his eyes—feeling the pressure without knowing its shape—and made the same choice again.
Not to move.
Not to save.
To wait.
The test had begun.