Arav realized he wasn't alone only after the pressure behind his eyes changed.
Not sharpened.
Aligned.
He stood on the rooftop long after the city had quieted, lights flickering below like thoughts no one bothered to finish. The wind moved steadily, ordinary, grounding.
Then something subtle shifted.
The air felt… acknowledged.
"You're late," a voice said softly.
Arav didn't turn.
Because the voice wasn't behind him.
It was inside the space he was already occupying.
"I was wondering when you'd stop pretending I wasn't there," the voice continued.
Female. Calm. Familiar in a way that made his jaw tighten.
"Rhea," Arav said.
There was a pause.
Then a faint, almost amused exhale.
"So you did know," she said. "Good."
She stood at the far edge of the rooftop.
Not flickering.
Not distorted.
Perfectly ordinary.
Long coat. Loose hair. Hands relaxed at her sides.
No threat posture.
That frightened him more than any anomaly ever had.
"You've been watching," Arav said.
"Yes."
"You altered things."
"No."
She tilted her head slightly.
"I let them settle."
Arav felt the pressure behind his eyes respond — not with resistance, but with recognition.
"You let Ira fracture," he said quietly.
Rhea's expression didn't change.
"I let her remain whole," she replied.
"Those are not the same thing."
He stepped closer.
"You don't get to decide that."
Rhea smiled faintly.
"Neither do you," she said. "That's the problem."
Silence stretched.
Not hostile.
Evaluative.
"You refused to intervene," Rhea said at last.
"With the boy."
Arav didn't answer.
"You could have collapsed the loop," she continued.
"Softened the outcome. No one would have known."
"I know."
"And you didn't."
"No."
She studied him closely now.
"Why?"
Arav's voice was steady. "Because it wouldn't have been my pain."
Rhea's gaze sharpened.
"That's restraint," she said.
"And it's expensive."
She walked closer, stopping a careful distance away.
"Devavrata believes Ajna should be erased," she said.
"Because he thinks certainty is kindness."
"And you?" Arav asked.
"I think certainty is convenience," Rhea replied.
"And convenience destroys people slowly."
Arav felt the truth of that settle uncomfortably.
"You're not trying to control anything," he said.
"No," she agreed. "I'm trying to see if control is inevitable."
She looked past him, toward the city.
"They're already adapting," she said.
"They're learning how not to ask questions."
Arav followed her gaze.
"And you're letting it happen."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Rhea turned back to him.
"Because if they choose it," she said softly,
"then it's theirs."
The words hit harder than accusation.
"You're testing them," Arav said.
"I tested you first," Rhea corrected.
Something cold settled behind his eyes.
Not pressure.
Clarity.
"You knew I wouldn't act," he said.
"I hoped," Rhea replied. "And when you didn't…"
She met his gaze fully now.
"…I knew you weren't like him."
"Like Devavrata," Arav said.
She nodded once.
"He would have erased the boy's suffering," she said.
"You let it be seen."
"That doesn't make me right."
"No," Rhea agreed.
"It makes you dangerous."
The wind shifted.
The rooftop felt suddenly smaller.
"What do you want from me?" Arav asked.
Rhea considered the question carefully.
"Nothing yet," she said.
"I wanted to see whether you could live with the cost."
She stepped back.
"And now I know you can."
She began to fade — not disappearing, but withdrawing her presence.
"One more thing," she said, her voice softer now.
"Yes?"
"You think Ajna removes disagreement," Rhea said.
"It doesn't."
She smiled faintly.
"It decides who gets tired first."
Then she was gone.
No distortion.
No afterimage.
Just absence that felt deliberate.
Arav stood alone.
The pressure behind his eyes eased — not gone, but settled.
For the first time, he understood the shape of the conflict ahead.
Not heroes versus villains.
But people deciding:
Who bears uncertainty.
Who absorbs cost.
Who gets to stop thinking.
Inside him, the system remained silent.
No log.
No warning.
That silence told him more than any notification ever had.