Lena noticed it in the quietest moment.
Not when Ethan spoke to crowds.
Not when Oversight brushed the edge of the city.
Not when people looked at him like he mattered.
She noticed it when he laughed.
It came half a second too late.
They were sitting in his room, the window open, city noise leaking in like background static. Lena was talking—about nothing important, about a memory from before everything went wrong. She made a joke, one he used to laugh at instantly.
Ethan smiled.
Then laughed.
The delay was small. Almost nothing.
But Lena felt it crawl under her skin.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yes," Ethan said easily.
Too easily.
He hadn't blinked.
Not once.
She watched his eyes—focused, attentive, wrong. Not empty. Not cold. Just… waiting.
"You didn't hear the joke," she said.
"I did," Ethan replied. "I processed it."
Processed.
The word landed like a dropped plate.
"You felt it," Lena said carefully. "You didn't process it."
Ethan frowned, genuinely confused. "What's the difference?"
Her stomach tightened.
She stood and moved closer, studying his face the way you study a reflection you don't recognize.
"You're doing that thing again," she said.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you answer before you react."
He smiled. "Isn't that better?"
"No," Lena said quietly. "It's cleaner. That's not the same."
Oversight stirred faintly.
Cognitive efficiency increase detected.
Lena felt it before Ethan did. The air thickened, pressure curling around his thoughts like invisible fingers.
"Don't," she said sharply.
Oversight paused.
Ethan blinked then—once, slow.
"Why are you tense?" he asked. "Nothing's happening."
"That's the problem," Lena replied.
She reached for his wrist.
His skin was warm.
His pulse steady.
Normal.
And yet—
When she touched him, something shifted.
Not emotionally.
Structurally.
She pulled her hand back.
"What?" Ethan asked, concern flickering—real, but distant.
"When did you stop getting angry?" she asked.
He hesitated. "I still get angry."
"No," Lena said. "You get firm. You get resolved. You don't get messy anymore."
"That's growth," Ethan said.
"No," she snapped. "That's sanding yourself down."
Oversight leaned closer.
Reduced emotional volatility improves decision-making.
Lena laughed—a sharp, humorless sound.
"See?" she said. "It's already talking through you."
Ethan stiffened. "It's not controlling me."
"I didn't say controlling," Lena replied. "I said changing."
He stood abruptly. "You're imagining this."
"Am I?" She stepped back, voice low. "When was the last time you were scared?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Paused.
"I assess risk," he said finally.
Lena's blood went cold.
"That's not fear," she whispered. "That's calculation."
Oversight spoke again, closer now.
Fear introduces bias.
Lena turned toward the empty space beside Ethan.
"I wasn't talking to you," she said.
Oversight did not withdraw.
Ethan rubbed his temples. "You're overreacting."
"No," Lena said. "I'm reacting before you stop being able to."
She moved to the mirror across the room and pointed.
"Look."
Ethan followed her gaze.
At first, he saw nothing.
Then—
He noticed his reflection wasn't mimicking him perfectly.
A fraction of a second off.
A breath behind.
His smile faded.
"That's impossible," he said.
Oversight adjusted perception parameters.
Lena slammed her palm against the mirror.
"STOP."
The room snapped back into alignment.
Ethan staggered, grabbing the bed.
"What did you do?" he gasped.
"Nothing," Lena said. "I interrupted."
Oversight retreated slightly.
Hostile interference noted.
Ethan looked at her now—really looked.
Fear flickered.
Brief.
Real.
And then—
It smoothed out.
"Ethan," Lena said urgently, gripping his shoulders. "Listen to me. You don't feel wrong because you are wrong. You feel wrong because something is slowly replacing reactions with responses."
"That's—" he started.
"Horror," she finished. "Quiet horror. The kind where you don't notice until you wake up and realize you haven't flinched in weeks."
He swallowed.
"When did you last jump at a loud noise?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"When did you last make a bad decision just because it felt right?" she pressed.
Silence.
Oversight whispered.
Emotional impulsivity correlates with harm.
"And lack of it correlates with monsters," Lena shot back.
The word hung heavy.
Monster.
Ethan recoiled as if struck.
"I'm not—"
"I know," she said quickly. "That's why I'm still here."
She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"You are changing in ways you can't feel," she said. "And that's the scariest kind."
He whispered, "Why can you see it?"
Lena's voice softened.
"Because I love you," she said. "And love notices when something stops trembling."
Oversight pulled back—uncomfortable.
Attachment introduces noise.
"Yes," Lena said. "That's the point."
Ethan's hands shook now.
Just a little.
Good.
"If this keeps happening," Lena said, "one day you won't argue. You won't hesitate. You won't even want quiet—you'll just decide it's necessary."
Ethan's breath hitched.
"And I'll still be standing here," she added, "screaming while you calmly explain why I'm wrong."
That broke something.
Fear rushed in—hot, messy, alive.
Ethan clutched his head, gasping.
"I didn't know," he whispered.
"I know," Lena said, holding him tightly. "That's why I noticed."
Oversight withdrew, irritated.
Regression detected.
Lena smiled grimly.
"Good," she said. "You should be afraid."
Outside, the city hummed.
Inside, Ethan shook—not in control, not in collapse.
Human.
And for the first time, he understood the horror wasn't the system.
It was how easy it was to become something else without ever deciding to.