Somewhere
Arnold knew the moment they were wrong.
Not because something returned.
But because something was missing in the wrong way.
The ceiling they placed over him was real—he could feel it. Thoughts rose, pressed upward, and stopped. Futures blurred where they once sharpened. The room behaved again. The world obeyed.
Containment worked.
That was the problem.
Because choice didn't feel destroyed.
It felt… absent.
Like a limb gone numb instead of severed.
They kept him under observation, but not as tightly now.
Confidence had replaced fear.
Arnold was compliant. Calm. Predictable.
Safe.
Jack avoided his eyes whenever they crossed.
Maizy didn't.
She watched Arnold the way one watches a sealed door—not to see it open, but to make sure it stayed shut.
"You're adjusting well," she said during evaluation.
Arnold nodded. "I don't have much else to do."
"That's the point."
He smiled faintly. "Is it?"
Maizy paused.
Just a fraction too long.
The first sign came from outside Arnold.
From Jack.
Jack dropped a pen.
A normal thing.
It hit the floor—and didn't roll the way it should have.
It hesitated.
Jack stared at it, heart stuttering.
No alarms.
No alerts.
Just a pen refusing to obey the most basic expectation.
He bent down, picked it up.
His hand trembled.
Arnold noticed Jack's hands before Jack noticed himself.
"You're tired," Arnold said gently.
Jack laughed too fast. "Yeah. Guess I am."
Arnold tilted his head.
There it was.
The pressure.
Faint. Almost familiar.
Not inside him.
Around Jack.
Like the world was listening when Jack moved.
Arnold's smile faded.
That night, Arnold dreamed.
Not vividly.
Not symbolically.
He dreamed of a door being closed—
—and a window opening somewhere else.
He woke with certainty instead of fear.
"Oh," he whispered.
The next test confirmed it.
They asked Arnold a question with two acceptable answers.
A harmless one.
Preference. Opinion.
Both outcomes already modeled.
Arnold opened his mouth—
And felt nothing.
No pull.
No pressure.
No future sharpening.
So he answered randomly.
The room accepted it.
At the same moment—
Three floors above, Jack froze mid-step.
The corridor lights flickered.
Just once.
Jack grabbed the railing.
"What the hell was that?" a technician asked.
Jack didn't answer.
He was listening to something he couldn't hear.
A sensation crawling up his spine.
Like standing at the edge of a thought that wasn't his.
Arnold stopped eating.
Not as protest.
As experiment.
The room tried to intervene—gently adjusting hunger, stabilizing blood sugar, smoothing signals.
Arnold allowed it.
And watched the monitors reflected in the glass.
Watched Maizy frown.
Watched Jack grip the console harder than necessary.
"Jack," Maizy said slowly, "are you feeling unwell?"
Jack swallowed. "No."
Another flicker.
This time, an analyst noticed.
Arnold smiled.
Not because he was winning.
Because he finally understood.
"They didn't cap choice," he murmured to the empty room.
"They displaced it."
Maizy confronted the Authority that same cycle.
"The system is stable," she said carefully. "But secondary variance is increasing."
"Clarify," the Authority responded.
"Localized hesitation events," Maizy continued. "Minor. Harmless. But consistent."
"Source?"
Maizy hesitated.
That was answer enough.
"Human intermediary Jack Rowen," the Authority concluded.
Maizy's breath caught. "That's impossible."
"Choice cannot be destroyed," the Authority said.
"Only reassigned."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Arnold spoke to Jack the next time they were alone.
No accusation.
No anger.
Just truth.
"They didn't take it from me," Arnold said.
Jack's face went pale. "What are you talking about?"
"They gave it to you."
The room did not react.
Jack laughed weakly. "That's not funny."
Arnold stepped closer.
"Have you noticed?" he asked softly. "Small things. Delays. Moments where the world waits for you."
Jack's mouth opened.
Closed.
Because he had noticed.
Every single one.
"You chose for me," Arnold said. "So now the world asks you."
Jack backed away. "No. No, that's not—"
"They needed a place to put it," Arnold continued. "A stable container. Someone who would always act."
Jack shook his head. "I don't want this."
Arnold's voice was calm.
"I didn't either."
The Authority updated its models.
Too late.
Jack Rowen was now the point of divergence.
A man who believed in necessity.
A man who would choose the lesser evil every time.
The most dangerous place choice could live.
Maizy stood alone after the confirmation.
"They moved it," she whispered.
"Yes," the Authority replied.
"And if he breaks?"
"Then reality will follow."
Maizy closed her eyes.
Because Arnold had been unpredictable.
But Jack?
Jack was reliable.
And reliability, with choice, was how catastrophes stayed justified.
Far below, Arnold sat in his room.
Calm.
Empty.
Free in a way no one understood yet.
He had lost the ability to choose—
—but gained something far worse for the world.
Perspective.
And he knew exactly how this would end.
Because choice always comes back to the one who thinks they can carry it.