The city didn't panic.
That worried Arav more than if it had.
By morning, the bus stop incident had been folded neatly into routine explanations—
a woman fainted,
a lighting malfunction,
crowd misinterpretation.
Clips circulated briefly online, then vanished.
Accounts were flagged.
Comments disabled.
Search results diluted.
Visibility reduced.
Monitoring increased.
Civil explanations prepared.
Arav felt it everywhere he went.
Not eyes.
Processes.
At Night Ridge College, security gates appeared overnight. New scanners. New guards who didn't wear uniforms but carried themselves like they belonged to something larger.
Tiku noticed immediately.
"Okay," he muttered, peering at a guard too calm for a Monday morning. "Either we've upgraded campus security… or we've annoyed someone important."
Ira didn't laugh.
Her press credentials no longer opened certain doors.
Interview requests bounced back with polite refusals.
Her inbox filled with automated responses that sounded human but weren't.
She slammed her laptop shut. "They're throttling access."
Arav nodded. "They're mapping influence."
"That's worse."
The first summons came that afternoon.
Not official.
Not written.
A request phrased as concern.
We'd like to speak with you. Off the record.
The address wasn't a police station.
Not a hospital.
Not a government building.
It was a counseling center.
Arav almost smiled.
Almost.
The room was small, warm, deliberately unthreatening. Soft lighting. Neutral colors. No visible cameras.
A man sat across from him, middle-aged, clean-shaven, eyes alert but gentle.
"Arav Malhotra," he said. "I'm Dr. Sen. We're just here to talk."
Arav didn't relax.
"About what?"
"Stress," Dr. Sen replied smoothly. "You've been near several… intense incidents lately. That can take a toll."
"I'm fine."
Dr. Sen smiled. "That's what most people say before they aren't."
The questions were subtle.
How often did he feel pressure in crowds?
Did he ever feel responsible for things outside his control?
Did he believe some people were more sensitive than others?
Arav answered carefully.
Not lies.
But not truths.
At one point, Dr. Sen tilted his head.
"You know," he said mildly, "most awakenings fail because people mistake reaction for responsibility."
Arav's jaw tightened.
That wasn't psychology.
That was policy.
Outside, Ira waited.
"How was therapy?" she asked flatly.
"They weren't trying to help," Arav said. "They were testing compliance."
Tiku exhaled. "I knew it. The system weaponizes couches now."
Ira stopped walking.
"You're being classified," she said. "Not arrested. Not recruited."
"Contained," Arav replied.
She met his eyes. "That's not safety."
"No," he agreed. "That's delay."
That night, Arav couldn't sleep.
The city hummed below his window, restless, subdued.
Inside his head, something aligned—not painfully, not sharply.
Cold.
Precise.
Containment Status : Updated
Visibility Level : Restricted
No threat level.
No warning.
Just a quiet acknowledgment that his actions now required permission.
Arav sat up, heart steady.
They hadn't stopped him.
They had noticed him.
And somewhere in the city, someone else was reading the same report—
not with concern,
not with restraint,
but with interest.
The fault lines were no longer theoretical.
They were being measured