Convergence
The board had changed.
Sylence stood in front of it for several seconds before admitting that to himself. The apartment was silent—Andrew hadn't returned yet, Heaven slept near the window, the sea murmured far below—but the wall felt crowded.
At first, the alterations were subtle.
A red thread knotted differently than he remembered tying it. Two photographs overlapping when they had been pinned cleanly apart. A corner bent where no hand should have reached.
Then he saw the pin.
Matte black. Centered.
Not attached to a face or a name.
To him.
A printed label hung beneath it, stark against the cork.
SYLENCE
He checked his fingers. No blood. No adhesive. No memory.
The board hadn't been disturbed.
It had been revised.
He stepped back slowly.
The connections still made sense—too much sense. The narcissist's orbit. The empath's exhaustion. The sociopath's precision. The predator's patience. But now the lines curved inward before bending outward again, as if he were not the endpoint but the hinge.
He had been mapping them.
They had finished mapping him.
Heaven refused to follow him into the building.
The creature stopped at the threshold, scales rising, a low sound vibrating through its chest. Sylence turned, annoyed at first, then cautious.
"What is it?" he asked.
Heaven didn't look at the door.
He looked at Sylence.
When Andrew passed between them, Heaven relaxed. When Lucia laughed somewhere down the hall, Heaven shifted closer—to her, not to him.
Sylence reached out.
Heaven stepped back.
Not defiant.
Protective.
The bond hadn't weakened.
It had recalculated.
In class, the seat beside Sylence was empty.
It always was.
Today, a notebook rested there.
No name. No markings.
Inside, a single sentence written in neat, controlled handwriting.
You see us now.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Welcome back.
We were wondering when you'd remember.
Across the room, someone smiled without warmth. Someone else didn't look at him at all. A third mouthed a word he couldn't hear.
Finally.
The realization arrived too late.
They didn't think he was investigating.
They thought he was returning.
That night, Sylence stood before the board again.
Another change.
The strings no longer converged.
They radiated.
He pulled one free.
Nothing collapsed.
The pattern held.
He had planned to teach them a lesson.
The lesson had already begun.
Sylence stepped back, breath steady, mind sharp.
He wasn't late.
He was expected,a thing he didn't knew it all was cosmic even if it was changed by a person.
The board did not resist his conclusion.
Once the strings settled, the answer arrived cleanly.
A location.
Not hidden.
Allowed.
An abandoned auxiliary wing beneath the college auditorium—sealed officially, active unofficially. Sylence didn't break in. He didn't need to.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled disinfected, not abandoned. Chairs arranged in rows. A table. A stack of forms.
No cameras.
That mattered.
A man waited there—not armed, not guarded. Calm in the way only the convinced can be.
"You're late," the man said.
Sylence sat.
A form slid toward him.
No header. No logo.
Just questions.
BRUTALITY THRESHOLD:
—Reactive
—Instrumental
—Recreational
—Necessary
Sylence circled one.
Necessary.
PRIMARY PERSONALITY EXPRESSION:
—Leader
—Observer
—Enforcer
—Corrective
He paused.
Corrective.
EMPATHIC RESPONSE TO SUFFERING:
—Avoidance
—Simulation
—Curiosity
—Utilization
Utilization.
The questions continued.
Not diagnoses.
Permissions.
When he finished, the man collected the paper without comment and stood.
"Last part," he said. "Practical."
A door opened behind the curtain.
They brought someone in.
Young. Clean. Empty-eyed.
The man spoke calmly. "He has been conditioned. He wants pain. Believes it gives him purpose. You may stop when you feel satisfied."
Satisfied.
That word irritated Sylence.
The person knelt without being told.
Sylence didn't hesitate.
There was no rage in what followed. No spectacle. No loss of control.
Only precision.
He used what worked. He adjusted when resistance failed. He watched for thresholds—not of flesh, but of will.
The person never begged.
That disturbed him more than screaming would have.
When it was over, Sylence stood, breath steady, hands clean enough.
The man nodded.
"Your brutality is functional," he said. "Not indulgent. That's rare."
Sylence wiped his hands once.
"What's next?" he asked.
The man smiled—not welcoming, not cruel.
"Now," he said, "we see what you correct."
Sylence turned toward the next door.
The board had been right.
This was only the second step.