The next step didn't come from a person.
It came from a process.
An email.
Not aggressive. Not threatening. Written in neutral language that made everything feel smaller than it was.
Subject: Use of Company Facilities
It explained that the space he had been using was technically part of a shared resource pool, and that any "organized activities" needed to be reviewed for compliance with internal guidelines.
Compliance.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
He read the message twice.
Not to understand it.
To feel what it was trying to do.
Contain.
He replied simply.
Understood. Happy to clarify what's happening if needed.
A meeting was scheduled.
Not a confrontation.
A review.
Three people sat across from him.
Not hostile.
Procedural.
"We just need to understand what this is," one of them said.
"It's a conversation space," he replied. "Not training. Not therapy. Not a program."
"Is there a facilitator?"
"I'm there," he said. "I don't instruct."
"Is there a purpose?"
He paused.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"To let people speak without being optimized."
A silence.
That answer wasn't in their vocabulary.
"We need to make sure this doesn't expose the company to risk," another said.
"I understand."
They nodded.
"We'll get back to you."
That was all.
No outcome.
Just a pause.
The worst kind.
The record waited until he was alone.
Formal resistance detected.
He exhaled.
"So that's what this level looks like."
Formal resistance wasn't anger.
It was paperwork.
Forms.
Language that turned lived experience into categories.
He felt tired.
Not defeated.
Not angry.
Just aware that something had crossed a line.
Not his.
Theirs.
He lay in bed that night feeling the weight settle deeper.
Not the weight of pressure.
The weight of having stepped into a space that institutions don't like to admit exists.
Between productivity.
Between metrics.
Between roles.
That space had no name.
Which meant it had no protection.