Nothing important happens in this chapter.
I need you to understand that upfront. Not because it's true—but because believing it will make what does happen easier to miss.
He spends the first hour of work doing exactly what he always does: answering emails that don't require thinking and pretending they do. His fingers move on autopilot. His mind keeps circling the same empty space, like a tongue worrying a sore tooth.
The document.
The words.
The way the office froze.
Every rational explanation lines up neatly and collapses just as neatly.
Stress.
A glitch.
A half-remembered dream bleeding into the morning.
He chooses stress. People like answers that don't demand action.
By 9:17 a.m., he's almost convinced himself.
At 9:18, his coworker Mara leans over the partition.
"Did you see that?" she asks.
"See what?" he says too quickly.
She frowns. "Your screen. It—never mind. It's gone now."
His stomach tightens.
"Gone how?"
She studies him for a second longer than polite, then shrugs. "Must be losing it. Need more coffee."
She walks away.
Something important has already happened, but it's subtle enough to survive denial.
The fact that someone else saw it.
At 10:02 a.m., the office printer jams.
This would normally be irrelevant. Printers are temperamental by nature. They fail the way lungs eventually fail—inevitable, annoying, tragic only when you need them.
But when he opens the printer tray, a single sheet of paper slides out.
It isn't part of anyone's print job.
There's no logo. No header.
Just text.
Chapter Two: Nothing Important Happens Here
His hands go numb.
He flips the page over.
Blank.
He looks around. No one is watching. The office hums with artificial normalcy—phones ringing, keyboards tapping, someone laughing at something not funny enough to justify it.
He folds the paper and slips it into his pocket.
That is mistake number one.
During lunch, he doesn't eat. He stares at his phone and scrolls without seeing anything. The words on the paper press against his thigh like a pulse.
He tells himself not to check it.
He checks it anyway.
The text has changed.
You're still reading. That's good.
He drops the paper.
It flutters to the floor, landing face-up.
It means you're paying attention.
He steps on it instinctively, as if pressure might pin reality back into place.
Across the table, a man he barely knows—Accounting, maybe—tilts his head.
"You okay?" the man asks.
"Yes," he says automatically.
The man nods, already disengaging. Concern is expensive; most people only rent it briefly.
When he lifts his foot, the paper is blank again.
He leaves work early. Claims a headache. No one argues. The world rarely resists exits.
Outside, the city looks solid enough to forgive. He walks fast, then faster, as if distance might dilute whatever is following him.
He takes a different route home.
This is mistake number two.
Halfway down an unfamiliar street, his phone buzzes.
A notification.
From a notes app he never uses.
You weren't supposed to do that.
He stops walking.
People pass him. A shoulder clips his arm. Someone curses. Life continues, offended by his pause.
He types back before thinking.
"Do what?"
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then the reply:
Deviate.
His mouth goes dry.
"This isn't funny," he mutters, drawing a glance from a passerby.
Another message arrives.
Of course it isn't. If it were funny, you'd be laughing.
He deletes the app.
Deletes it completely.
The phone restarts.
The app is still there.
This time, it's open.
Don't do that again, the screen reads.
We're still early in the story.
He turns the phone off.
That helps.
For exactly thirty seconds.
The streetlights flicker—not off, not on. Just enough to make the shadows stutter. He feels it then, unmistakably.
The sense of being observed.
Not watched.
Read.
He reaches his apartment building and fumbles with his keys. His hands are shaking now. No point pretending otherwise.
Inside, he locks the door. Chains it. Presses his back against the wood.
Silence.
Good, thick silence.
He laughs once. A sharp sound that surprises him.
"Nothing important," he says out loud, testing the words. "Nothing important happened."
The lights flicker.
On his kitchen table, neatly stacked, is a small pile of paper.
Three sheets.
Perfectly aligned.
He knows without looking what they say.
He knows because the voice in his head—calm, patient, smug—tells him.
Nothing important happens in this chapter.
The important part is what you decide to ignore.
And he ignores the papers for exactly twelve seconds.
That's all the mercy this story allows.