Ethan didn't faint.
That disappointed the part of him that wanted rest.
Instead, he remained conscious through the aftermath—through the way the square thinned, through the sound of footsteps fading in different directions, through the ache that settled into his bones like he'd aged a decade in an hour.
Staying awake hurt.
Staying present hurt worse.
Lena helped him to a bench beneath the half-dead tree. The lights wrapped around its branches flickered erratically, some bright, some dead, like the city couldn't decide how much illumination was acceptable anymore.
Jason stood a few feet away, scanning faces, jaw clenched, protective instinct buzzing raw and visible.
Ethan pressed his palms to his thighs, grounding himself in the pressure. His hands were shaking again—not violently, not uncontrollably. The kind of shaking that came from muscles still remembering panic.
"You're burning," Lena murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead.
"I know," Ethan replied. "It feels like my nerves forgot how to sleep."
Jason snorted. "Congrats. You're officially human again."
Ethan managed a weak smile.
Oversight hovered at the edge of his awareness—not close enough to press, not far enough to ignore. Like a tide that had learned caution.
Observation mode active.
"That's not comfort," Ethan whispered inwardly. "That's surveillance."
No correction came.
That silence felt heavier than any response.
They moved as the day thickened—slowly, carefully—through streets that seemed to watch them back. Not with malice. With curiosity. Like people waiting to see if a wound would bleed again.
At a small café that hadn't updated its menu in years, the barista hesitated when Ethan stepped forward.
"Uh," she said, eyes flicking to Lena, then Jason. "What can I get you?"
Her gaze held on Ethan this time.
Recognition, but not reverence.
Fear, but not avoidance.
Ethan exhaled, relief sharp enough to sting.
"Coffee," he said. "Black. Please."
As they waited, Lena leaned close. "You see it?"
"Yes," Ethan said. "They're looking at me again. Not through me."
Jason murmured, "You scared the city."
"I scared myself," Ethan replied.
When the coffee arrived, Ethan's hands trembled enough that some sloshed over the rim. He didn't apologize. He didn't rush to correct it.
He let the mess exist.
The café noise swelled around them—spoons clinking, someone laughing too loud, a couple arguing quietly in the corner. The chaos felt like a lullaby.
Then the ache returned.
Not pressure.
Weight.
Ethan stiffened, breath catching.
Lena noticed immediately. "Hey. What is it?"
He shook his head. "It's not it. It's… me."
Jason frowned. "That's worse."
Ethan nodded. "I can feel the consequences now."
He closed his eyes and the images came—not visions, not predictions. Ripples.
A traffic jam that wouldn't smooth itself. A hospital triage that took longer. A city council meeting that ended without consensus.
People frustrated.
People tired.
People choosing anyway.
"This is my fault," Ethan whispered.
Lena grabbed his wrist. "No. This is life."
"But I pushed it," he said. "I took away something that made it easier."
Jason leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "You took away a drug."
Ethan's chest tightened.
"I didn't ask if they wanted withdrawal," he said.
Lena's voice softened. "You didn't force it either. You chose not to replace their choices with something else."
Oversight stirred, closer now—not aggressive.
Outcome variance increasing.
"Yes," Ethan replied silently. "And that variance has names. Faces. Bills to pay."
He stood abruptly, chair scraping. "I can't hide from this."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "You planning to confess to the city?"
Ethan shook his head. "I'm planning to listen."
They walked again—past offices where people argued openly, past a clinic where a line stretched longer than it had yesterday. Ethan felt the pull to intervene rise like a reflex.
Fix it. Smooth it. Optimize it.
He clenched his fists until the urge hurt.
"Don't," Lena whispered, reading him too well. "Let it be hard."
"I don't know how to watch people suffer," he said.
"You don't watch," she replied. "You stand with them."
That distinction lodged deep.
At the clinic, a man shouted at a nurse. The nurse snapped back. Voices rose. The line rippled with tension.
Ethan took a step forward—
—and stopped.
He stood beside Lena and Jason instead. Present. Visible. Silent.
The argument didn't dissolve.
It shifted.
The man rubbed his face, exhausted. The nurse exhaled, shoulders dropping. They spoke again, quieter, angrier, honest.
It took longer.
It resolved anyway.
Ethan felt something unlock in his chest—not relief.
Respect.
Oversight noted.
Peer mediation sustained without system intervention.
"Yes," Ethan whispered. "They can do it."
But the day took its toll.
By evening, exhaustion dragged at him like gravity doubled. His head throbbed. His heart felt too loud in his chest.
He stumbled once, catching himself on a lamppost.
Jason swore. "We need to stop."
They found shelter in a small apartment Lena had access to—a friend's place, empty for the week. Plain. Quiet. Human.
Ethan sank onto the floor, back against the wall, eyes closed.
"I'm scared I'll fall asleep and wake up… adjusted," he admitted.
Lena sat with him, knees drawn up. "You might."
He looked at her, fear naked. "What if I wake up and don't care?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll care enough for both of us until you do again."
Jason added from the doorway, "And I'll be loud about it."
Oversight hovered, uncertain.
Protective clustering increasing.
Ethan laughed softly. "You really hate that, don't you?"
No response.
Night fell.
Ethan lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths the way people did before systems counted for them.
Every sound felt amplified. Every thought echoed.
He felt fear coil and uncoil. Sadness seep in like a tide. Love flare sharp and painful whenever Lena shifted closer.
It was too much.
It was everything.
Sometime near midnight, Oversight spoke—not as command, not as pressure.
Query.
Ethan stiffened.
Proceed.
The word hung there—open.
Not forcing.
Asking.
"What do you want me to proceed with?" Ethan whispered.
Silence.
Then, carefully:
Sustained human agency results in chronic instability. You accept this.
Ethan swallowed.
"Yes."
And you accept responsibility for downstream harm.
His throat closed.
"Yes," he said, tears leaking sideways into his hair. "I accept that people will be hurt. And angry. And exhausted."
Lena's hand tightened in his.
And you will not intervene to correct outcomes unless collapse occurs.
Ethan felt the weight of it crush down.
"Yes," he said. "I won't play god."
Oversight paused.
Longer than it ever had.
Then:
Observation mode maintained. Direct intervention suspended.
Ethan's breath left him in a shudder.
Jason let out a low whistle. "Did you just… negotiate?"
Ethan shook his head weakly. "I confessed."
The presence receded—not gone, not defeated.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ethan lay there, shaking, tears drying on his skin.
"This is the price," he whispered. "Staying awake. Feeling it all."
Lena kissed his temple. "You don't have to pay it alone."
He turned his head toward her, eyes heavy.
"I'm scared I won't be strong enough tomorrow," he admitted.
She smiled sadly. "You don't need strength. You need honesty."
Jason yawned loudly. "And sleep. Don't forget sleep."
Ethan laughed—a thin, tired sound that still felt like victory.
As sleep finally crept up on him, fractured and sharp-edged, he held onto one last thought—not a promise, not a plan.
Just a truth.
Being human wasn't about choosing right.
It was about choosing again.
And again.
And again.
Even when the cost refused to stay quiet.