They did not announce the example.
They never did.
Announcements invited debate. Debate invited interpretation. Interpretation weakened intent. The system preferred outcomes that appeared inevitable—natural consequences of order restoring itself.
So the correction arrived as routine.
It began with a reassignment.
The supervisor noticed it when his calendar changed overnight. Meetings he had chaired for years now listed another name. His access still worked. His desk remained. But the center of gravity had shifted away from him.
He said nothing.
At first, no one else did either.
He continued to come in early, as he always had. Continued to answer emails. Continued to nod in meetings where he no longer spoke first.
People adjusted around him with polite efficiency.
By midday, his authority had become conditional.
A junior analyst approached his desk with a question, stopped halfway, then redirected herself to another manager without explanation. A decision he approved waited for secondary confirmation that never arrived.
Nothing dramatic occurred.
Nothing needed to.
Raka noticed the change from across the floor.
"That's him," someone murmured nearby.
Raka didn't ask who.
He already knew.
The supervisor had been careful. More careful than most. He rarely challenged process directly. He relied on experience—on the small flexibilities accumulated over years of quiet competence.
That was precisely why he had been chosen.
In the afternoon, a memo circulated—short, dry, indistinguishable from dozens before it.
To ensure consistency, interim supervisory adjustments have been made.
No names were listed.
Everyone knew anyway.
The supervisor read the memo twice. Then a third time. His expression did not change.
He closed it and returned to work.
The effect rippled outward.
People took note of the absence where influence had once lived. They recalculated how much weight history carried now. How little margin remained for interpretation.
At lunch, his usual table sat empty.
No one commented on it.
Later that day, a compliance officer appeared at his desk—not confrontational, not apologetic.
"We're standardizing oversight," she said. "This won't reflect poorly on you."
He nodded. "Of course."
"This is temporary," she added.
He did not ask how temporary was defined.
The officer left without another word.
By evening, his name appeared in a different place.
Not removed.
Repositioned.
It sat lower in the directory. Still visible. Still respectable.
But no longer central.
Raka watched as the supervisor packed his bag at the end of the day, movements precise, controlled. There was no visible anger. No collapse. Just an adjustment made too quickly for comfort.
As he passed Raka, the supervisor paused.
"They're closing the gap," he said quietly.
Raka met his eyes. "Yes."
The supervisor gave a small, tired smile. "Someone had to make it real."
"Yes," Raka agreed.
"Was it because of the approval?" the supervisor asked.
"No," Raka said honestly. "It was because you could carry it."
The supervisor nodded once.
"That figures," he said.
He left the building without looking back.
The next morning, the system felt calmer.
Not safer.
Not kinder.
Calmer.
Processes aligned more cleanly. Decisions moved again, slower but steadier. People stopped improvising. Silence returned to its assigned role.
The gap still existed.
But now it had a boundary.
In the cafeteria, conversations shifted.
"They reassigned him."
"He must have crossed a line."
"What line?"
"No idea."
Speculation filled the space where explanation should have been—and died there. No one pursued it too far. Curiosity had learned its limits.
Raka found Alfian later that day, standing near the window.
"They chose someone," Raka said.
"I know," Alfian replied.
"They didn't choose you."
"No."
"They chose someone strong enough to absorb it."
Alfian watched the street below, traffic moving in predictable flows. "That's how examples work."
Raka's voice lowered. "Do you think he deserved it?"
Alfian considered the question carefully.
"No," he said. "That's why it worked."
Raka exhaled slowly. "The system's good at this."
"Yes," Alfian said. "It learns who won't break loudly."
They stood in silence.
From that day on, people stopped asking what the correction meant.
They understood it.
The example had done its job.
Not by punishing excess—but by demonstrating cost.
And everyone adjusted their distance accordingly.