I stood by the window for a long time after shutting down the interface.
Greyhaven moved below, orderly and indifferent. Lights changed when they were meant to. People crossed streets when they were told to. The world didn't ask questions as long as nothing broke.
The black box didn't judge.
It reacted.
People didn't work that way.
That thought stayed with me.
Understanding something didn't require action. But confirming it did.
I left the apartment without activating Shadow. Today wasn't about avoiding notice. It was about watching behavior without interference.
The records office was close. A low-priority building handling storage registrations and minor identity updates. The kind of place people went when they didn't have influence to skip lines.
I joined the queue and waited.
That was when I noticed her.
She stood beside me, close enough to register without demanding attention. Her hair was dark, tied loosely behind her head, a few strands slipping free near her face. She wore simple clothes—clean, worn, practical. No jewelry. No visible enhancements.
What stood out wasn't her appearance.
It was her stillness.
No tapping fingers. No restless shifts. No irritation at the delay.
Just calm.
The terminal chimed.
One authorization slot remaining.
She looked at the screen before the attendant spoke.
"I'll withdraw," she said.
Her voice was steady. Not apologetic.
The attendant frowned. "You don't have to. You were next."
"It's fine."
She stepped back.
That was wrong.
I'd already calculated the outcome. Withdrawing meant losing the processing window. She'd have to come back. Delays always had a cost.
As I stepped forward, the terminal refreshed.
For a moment, the previous entry remained on the screen—just long enough to register.
Vale, Mira.
The system cleared it immediately, replacing it with my own authorization.
I didn't look back at her.
"You shouldn't," I said.
She turned toward me.
Her eyes were a muted gray. Clear. Focused. Not defensive. Not surprised.
"Why?" she asked.
"The system won't process you again today," I said. "You'll lose your slot."
"I know."
"You were here first."
"Yes."
"Then stepping aside makes no sense."
She paused.
Not thinking.
Deciding.
And stayed where she was.
The terminal accepted my access.
I completed my request quickly. When I stepped away, she was still there—waiting, posture unchanged.
Something still didn't settle.
"You gain nothing from this," I said.
She tilted her head slightly.
"I know."
That answer didn't resolve anything.
"You came here for a reason," I said. "This delay affects you."
"Yes."
"Then why accept it?"
She looked past me, toward the glass doors where the city moved in straight lines.
"Some things aren't worth rushing," she said.
No emotion.
No explanation.
Just certainty.
She returned to the waiting area without another word.
No frustration.
No regret.
She had chosen this—and accepted it completely.
I left the building unsettled.
Not emotionally.
Logically.
Her decision wasn't careless. It wasn't naive. It wasn't impulsive.
She understood the cost.
And accepted it.
That didn't fit.
People avoided loss.
That was consistent.
She hadn't.
Back in the apartment, I replayed the interaction.
Again.
And again.
Each time, the result stayed the same.
There was no hidden benefit. No delayed gain. No moral display.
She hadn't been kind.
She hadn't been foolish.
She had simply decided that something mattered more than efficiency.
I wrote her name down.
Mira Vale.
Not as a curiosity.
As an exception.
Exceptions were dangerous.