The first rejection didn't come with anger.
It came with relief.
I felt it before I understood it—a subtle pull at the edge of my awareness, like someone stepping backward into something familiar. Not fear. Not resistance.
Comfort.
Mara stiffened beside me.
"Someone closed the draft," she said quietly.
Marcus looked up from his phone. "Closed?"
"Rejected," I corrected. "On purpose."
The hospital night staff moved through the corridor, slower now, exhaustion softening every step. Outside, rain had started to fall, tapping lightly against the windows in uneven rhythms.
Ordinary weather.
Extraordinary timing.
The system—no, not the system anymore—the advisory presence—didn't intervene.
It simply recorded.
[Anchor response logged.]
[Rejection rate: 7%.]
"That's faster than I expected," Marcus said.
"Yes," I replied. "Because certainty is addictive."
Mara wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "What does rejection mean?"
"It means," I said, choosing my words carefully, "they want the old rules back."
The advisory presence chimed again, almost reluctantly.
[Clarification:]
Rejected anchors request restoration of deterministic correction.]
Marcus let out a short breath. "They want guarantees."
"Yes," I said. "They want outcomes they don't have to carry."
As if summoned by the observation, a new awareness brushed against mine—distinct, sharper than the others. Someone nearby. Not physically close, but conceptually aligned.
Another anchor.
But different.
"They're not like Mara," I said slowly.
Mara turned to me. "How?"
"They're not overwhelmed," I replied. "They're… certain."
The advisory presence expanded the signal.
A fragment of context unfolded.
A man sitting alone in a private office, city lights reflecting off the glass behind him. His posture was relaxed, his expression composed in the way of someone who believed the future could be negotiated.
On the screen in front of him, the draft framework glowed.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then closed it.
"No," he said aloud, calmly. "This won't work."
The fragment ended.
Marcus frowned. "He didn't look scared."
"No," I said. "He looked inconvenienced."
The advisory presence confirmed it.
[Subject classification:]
[Anchor—Type B.]
[Preference: Deterministic stabilization.]
Mara swallowed. "He wants control back."
"Yes," I replied. "Just not in his hands."
The rain outside intensified, streaking the windows with blurred lines of light.
"People like him thrived under the old system," Marcus said. "They could plan. Leverage outcomes."
"And outsource consequences," I added.
The advisory presence pulsed once.
[Historical correlation confirmed.]
The hospital lights dimmed slightly as a generator kicked in—routine, mundane, but suddenly symbolic.
"What happens if more people reject it?" Mara asked.
I didn't answer right away.
Because the presence already was.
[Projection:]
[Framework fragmentation possible.]
"Fragmentation," Marcus repeated. "As in… two systems."
"Yes," I said. "Or none."
The idea settled between us like a crack spreading through glass.
"They'll organize," Marcus continued. "People like him don't like uncertainty. They'll find each other."
"And they'll say we're irresponsible," Mara said.
"They'll say we're dangerous," I corrected. "That we're gambling with lives."
The advisory presence didn't contradict me.
[Narrative conflict anticipated.]
I felt a familiar pressure building—not pain, not prediction, but awareness.
"They're already framing it," I said.
"Framing what?" Marcus asked.
"Choice," I replied. "As negligence."
The presence hesitated, then supplied another fragment.
A meeting room.
Muted colors.
Voices calm, measured.
"We can't let emotional anomalies dictate global stability," someone said.
"We need the system back," another replied. "Even if it means oversight."
Oversight.
The old word for control.
Mara's hands trembled. "They're afraid."
"Yes," I said. "But not of chaos."
"Of responsibility," Marcus finished.
I nodded.
"People didn't reject the draft because it was weak," I said. "They rejected it because it made them visible."
The advisory presence chimed again.
[Rejection rate updated: 11%.]
The number climbed quietly.
No alarms.
No urgency.
Just math.
"What do we do?" Mara asked.
Marcus looked at me. "We can't force them."
"No," I agreed. "That would make us what we're trying not to be."
The rain slowed, then steadied into a soft, relentless rhythm.
"Then we let them choose," Marcus said.
"Yes," I replied. "But we don't pretend the choices are equal."
The advisory presence stirred—uncertain, attentive.
[Request:]
[Guidance on response strategy.]
I almost laughed.
"You're asking us now," I said.
[Affirmative.]
I thought of the child in the elevator.
Of the nurse double-checking a chart.
Of Mara seeing too early and choosing to speak anyway.
"We don't argue with fear," I said slowly. "We show consequences."
"By letting things fail?" Mara asked, horrified.
"No," Marcus said. "By letting things function."
I nodded. "We keep the draft open. We document what happens. Transparently."
"And when they point to every injury, every delay?" Mara pressed.
"We point to every life that wasn't optimized out of existence," I replied.
The advisory presence went quiet—not withdrawn, but absorbing.
[Response strategy recorded.]
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance—not close enough to threaten, just close enough to be heard.
Marcus exhaled slowly.
"This was never going to be clean," he said.
"No," I agreed. "But it's finally honest."
Mara looked between us, eyes bright with fear and something harder.
"So this is it," she said. "The split."
"Yes," I replied. "Not between good and evil."
"But between certainty and choice," Marcus finished.
The advisory presence chimed once more—soft, restrained.
[Phase divergence confirmed.]
I looked out at the rain-slicked city.
Somewhere, people were closing the draft, welcoming the return of guarantees.
Somewhere else, others were reading it and hesitating—feeling the weight of choice settle into their hands.
The future did not align.
It branched.
And this time, no system—old or new—could force it back into a single line