Arjun noticed the silence first.
It crept into places where sound used to linger. The maintenance corridors felt wider, emptier, as if the walls themselves had stepped back. Footsteps echoed longer than they should have. Conversations ended sooner, voices lowering without anyone consciously deciding to stop speaking.
The city was still functioning.
It always was.
But something had been thinned out.
In Sublevel Seven, three workstations stood inactive. Their consoles displayed neutral gray screens, neither error nor shutdown. Just absence. Arjun paused beside one, fingers hovering over the interface. The system recognized him instantly, yet offered no explanation.
No reassignment notice.
No transfer log.
No record of previous occupancy.
It was as if the space had never belonged to anyone.
Arjun moved on, unease settling deeper with each step. He catalogued the missing faces without trying to. The technician who whistled while working. The older man who always complained about calibration drift. The runner from the training complex.
Gone.
No one asked about them.
At midday, Arjun ate alone in a public dining area. The room was half full, but quieter than usual. People focused on their meals, eyes flicking occasionally toward screens displaying civic updates.
COMMUNITY STABILITY INDEX: OPTIMAL
A young woman at a nearby table laughed too loudly at something on her console. The sound cut off abruptly, as if she had surprised herself. She glanced around, embarrassed, then lowered her head and continued eating in silence.
Arjun felt the pressure stir.
It was faint now, ever present, like background radiation. Not strong enough to hurt. Just enough to remind.
He wondered how many people felt it and mistook it for fatigue or stress. How many adjusted without ever realizing they were being guided.
After his shift, Arjun took a longer route home, wandering through residential sectors rarely visited. The lighting here was dimmer, the architecture older. Less polished. Less watched, or so it felt.
He passed a small park enclosed by regulation fencing. Inside, children played quietly under the supervision of adults seated at precise intervals. No shouting. No running beyond marked boundaries.
One boy climbed higher than the others on a sculpted frame, reaching for a grip just beyond the suggested limit. Arjun felt the pressure spike sharply.
The boy froze.
Not slipping. Not losing balance. Simply stopping mid motion. His expression went blank, then confused. Slowly, carefully, he climbed down and rejoined the others without a word.
None of the adults reacted.
Arjun's stomach tightened.
That night, the city issued a maintenance-wide notice.
TEMPORARY REALIGNMENTS IN EFFECT
NONESSENTIAL PERSONNEL MAY EXPERIENCE RELOCATION
COOPERATION ENSURES CONTINUITY
The wording was clean. Reassuring. Meaningless.
Arjun slept poorly.
He dreamed of corridors folding inward, doors sealing without sound. Of people walking into light and failing to cast shadows.
He woke before dawn with the sensation of being watched.
Not observed.
Measured.
The next morning, Fueta did not arrive for work.
Fueta had always been unremarkable in the way that kept people safe. Average output. Predictable habits. Quiet compliance. He joked once that the secret to survival was never giving the system a reason to notice you.
Arjun waited through the first hour. Then the second.
No notification came.
By midday, Fueta's name no longer appeared on the shift roster.
Arjun asked a supervisor, phrasing the question carefully. "Was Fueta reassigned?"
The supervisor frowned slightly, tapping at his console. "There's no record of that name."
Arjun stared at him. "He worked here yesterday."
The supervisor met his gaze evenly. "Are you certain?"
The pressure pressed down hard enough to make Arjun's breath hitch. He nodded once and said nothing more.
That afternoon, a new worker occupied Fueta's station. Younger. Efficient. Silent.
Arjun did not introduce himself.
On his way home, Arjun stopped at a public archive terminal. Access was restricted but not forbidden. He searched for records of transfers, removals, anything that might leave a trace.
The data was pristine.
Too pristine.
People did not vanish.
They resolved.
Optimized.
Realigned.
Arjun shut down the terminal with shaking hands.
As he stepped outside, the air felt heavier. The city lights flickered in synchronized patterns, almost imperceptible. He had the sudden, irrational sense that the city was holding its breath.
He walked faster.
At an intersection, transit halted unexpectedly. Vehicles froze in place. Pedestrians stopped mid step, confusion rippling through the crowd.
Then everything resumed.
No delay warning. No apology.
Across the street, a man staggered, clutching his head. Two civic officers appeared almost instantly, guiding him away with gentle hands. Their faces were calm. Professional.
The man did not resist.
He did not scream.
Arjun watched until they disappeared into a service corridor that did not exist a moment earlier.
The corridor sealed behind them.
No one else seemed to notice.
When Arjun finally reached his unit, he locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. The pressure was heavier than it had ever been, coiling around his thoughts like a warning.
Or a test.
He looked at his hands.
They were steady.
That frightened him more than anything else.
Whatever governed this world did not rely on force. It did not need fear or obedience. It removed problems quietly, elegantly, without disruption.
And yet.
Something was changing.
The removals were increasing. The corrections sharper. The attention closer.
As Arjun lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, one truth settled with chilling certainty.
The system was not reacting to chaos.
It was reacting to awareness.
And now that Arjun had begun to see it, the city would not unsee him.
Not anymore.