The city reached the limit quietly.
Not a breaking point—those were loud—but a thinning. A moment when there was simply nothing left to absorb what came next.
The buffer was gone.
Not reduced.
Not hidden.
Gone.
It began with a small announcement from the system, released at 06:00 to all administrative tiers.
No alert tone.
No emphasis.
Just a line added to the operational header every coordinator saw before making a decision:
NOTE: BUFFER CAPACITY = 0
Minh Truong read it twice.
Zhang Yu read it once and swore under his breath.
"They actually said it," Zhang muttered. "They named it."
Minh nodded. "Because pretending otherwise would be another buffer."
By midmorning, the effect rippled outward.
Meetings shortened—not because people were decisive, but because they were done hiding. Pre-ambles vanished. So did hedging language. Every proposal landed bluntly, without the soft cushioning of we can adjust later.
Later no longer existed in the same way.
A regional transport board approved a schedule cut knowing it would anger commuters. They approved it anyway, and released the rationale alongside the vote tally. Names attached. No anonymity.
The backlash came fast—and then stabilized.
People argued with the decision, not the process.
That was new.
At Oversight, the dashboards simplified.
Not by design.
By necessity.
When there was no buffer, secondary projections lost meaning. Long-range smoothing functions shut themselves off, flagged as non-informative under immediate consequence conditions.
The system wasn't withdrawing yet.
It was shedding weight.
Elena Park stood with Minh at the observation rail, watching the changes propagate.
"This is the point of no return," she said.
Minh didn't correct her.
"There will be losses," she continued. "Visible ones."
"Yes," Minh replied.
"And no place to put them."
Minh's voice stayed even. "There never should have been."
Elena looked at him sharply, then away. "Say that out loud in public, and you'll be crucified."
"I know," Minh said. "That's why the system had to say it first."
At noon, the Council released a statement.
It was shorter than any before it.
The advisory system will no longer provide temporal mitigation. Decisions will resolve at their natural pace. Responsibility rests with decision-makers.
No reassurance.
No apology.
The markets reacted briefly, then settled into a new, tighter band. Uncertainty rose—but volatility fell.
People adjusted when they believed the rules wouldn't shift again tomorrow.
In the afternoon, Minh received fewer messages than he had in weeks.
Not because people had stopped deciding.
Because they had stopped asking for shelter.
One message stood out, forwarded from a district coordinator he barely knew:
We voted. We know what it will cost. Thank you for not answering our earlier request.
Minh closed the channel without replying.
This was the answer.
That evening, the protests changed again.
Smaller.
Sharper.
Focused on specific offices, specific names.
Not mobs.
Audiences.
People showed up to watch decisions being defended in real time. Some shouted. Most listened.
Accountability had become a public act.
At nightfall, the system issued a final note for the day.
[STATUS UPDATE] TEMPORAL MITIGATION: DEPRECATED
BUFFERING FUNCTIONS: DISABLED
ADVISORY MODE: ACTIVE
Minh read it once.
"So that's the end," he said quietly.
Zhang shook his head. "The end of what we were used to."
Minh looked out over the city lights, closer now, sharper.
"Yes," he said. "The end of pretending time could carry our mistakes for us."
At home, Minh did not open his notebook.
He didn't need to.
The lesson had finished writing itself.
Without buffers, decisions no longer stretched into the future where responsibility blurred. They stayed close. They stayed personal.
The city was bruised, but awake.
And Minh understood, with a clarity that left no room for doubt:
This phase could not be reversed.
Any attempt to rebuild the buffer—to reintroduce delay as mercy—would not feel like reform.
It would feel like theft.
He lay back and let the quiet settle.
Tomorrow would not be easier.
But it would be honest.
And honesty, Minh had learned, was the only thing left once the buffering ended.