The response to Strasbourg did not arrive all at once.
That was how Stefan knew it mattered.
True reactions never came as explosions. They came as adjustments—small changes in tone, access, and expectation. Doors that opened a fraction wider. Others that closed without explanation. Invitations that shifted from personal to institutional, from genuine curiosity to controlled engagement.
Politeness, sharpened.
At thirteen, Stefan was already learning one of Europe's oldest truths:
Power rarely confronted.
It redirected.
The first fault line appeared at school.
The International Lyceum announced a new "advanced civic program," available to a select group of students. Participation required recommendations, interviews, and—most importantly—parental approval through official channels.
Stefan read the notice twice.
This was not education.
It was filtration.
Lucas found him in the courtyard later that day. "You're on the list," he said. "Automatically."
Stefan nodded. "Of course I am."
Lucas hesitated. "My father says the program is… sensitive."
"That's another word for supervised," Stefan replied.
"Are you going to accept?"
Stefan looked around the courtyard. Students laughing. Teachers watching. Flags hanging motionless in the mild autumn air.
"Yes," he said. "Refusing would confirm suspicion."
"And accepting?" Lucas pressed.
"Creates expectations," Stefan finished. "Which can be managed."
Lucas frowned. "You talk like you're negotiating treaties."
Stefan gave a faint smile. "I'm practicing."
At home, the discussion was shorter.
"They're formalizing contact," Gianluca said. "This program reports upward."
Fabio leaned back in his chair. "You won't be alone in the room anymore."
"I already wasn't," Stefan replied.
Vittorio studied him. "What do you want from this?"
Stefan answered without pause. "Access."
"Information?"
"Patterns," Stefan corrected. "Who speaks freely. Who repeats doctrine. Who hesitates before agreeing."
Fabio sighed. "You're thirteen."
Stefan met his eyes. "And they started this."
Silence followed.
Finally, Vittorio nodded. "Very well. But remember—institutions don't like mirrors."
Stefan inclined his head. "Then I won't reflect. I'll refract."
The first session confirmed everything.
The room was circular. The seating deliberate. No podium—only a facilitator who spoke softly and listened carefully.
The questions were framed as discussions.
The conclusions were already assumed.
Integration was framed as technical inevitability.
Resistance as emotional immaturity.
Centralization as something to be discussed—but never designed.
When Stefan spoke, he did so cautiously.
Not weaker.
Narrower.
He tested boundaries, introduced minor friction, withdrew before escalation. He watched who reacted—and who watched reactions instead.
By the end of the session, three conclusions were clear.
One: the program existed to identify manageable minds.
Two: Stefan was already marked as unmanageable.
Three: no one wanted to admit that openly.
That made him dangerous in a very specific way.
Pressure followed outside the classroom.
A teacher suggested he "broaden his interests."
An administrator hinted that intensity might "limit social development."
A counselor offered support he had not requested.
Concern, weaponized.
Stefan accepted it all politely.
Noise, again.
But this time, he felt the cost.
That evening, training suffered.
Krüger noticed immediately.
"You're thinking instead of moving," he said sharply.
Stefan missed a step, caught himself, and exhaled.
"Distraction?" Krüger asked.
"Accumulation," Stefan replied.
Krüger studied him. "Then you need release."
"I can't afford it," Stefan said.
Krüger's voice hardened. "No one can afford collapse either."
They ended early.
That unsettled Stefan more than exhaustion would have.
Late that night, Stefan sat alone, reviewing notes from the civic program.
One name appeared repeatedly—always as a reference point, never as a speaker.
A senior advisor.
A policy architect.
A man who did not attend youth forums.
The same symbol appeared beside it.
Three interlocking lines.
Stefan closed the notebook slowly.
In his previous life, he had learned that systems protected themselves long before they defended people. That politeness often concealed the sharpest fault lines.
He was standing above one now.
And it was beginning to crack.
"Good," Stefan murmured into the quiet room.
Because when fault lines appeared, pressure no longer needed to be applied.
It revealed itself.
And Stefan Weiss was no longer content to merely endure it.
Soon, he would decide where it broke.