The request arrived wrapped in reason.
That was what made it dangerous.
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't an ultimatum.
It was framed as a recommendation—clean, precise, professionally worded.
The advisory presence delivered it without commentary.
[Formal proposal received.]
[Request: Temporary rollback to deterministic correction model.]
Marcus read the summary twice.
"Temporary," he said. "They always say temporary."
"Yes," I replied. "Because permanence sounds like tyranny."
Mara stood by the window, watching rain bead and slide down the glass. "Who's asking?"
The advisory presence answered.
[Initiating group identified.]
[Anchor—Type B collective.]
A collective.
Not one voice.
Many.
People who had found comfort in alignment.
People who had benefited from predictability—markets that didn't crash, crises that resolved quietly, losses that never quite reached them.
"They're not panicking," Marcus said. "They're organizing."
"Yes," I replied. "That's worse."
The proposal unfolded further.
[Justification:]
[Observed increase in injury variance unacceptable.]
[Public confidence declining.]
[Rollback duration estimated: 72 hours.]
"Seventy-two hours," Mara whispered. "Just long enough to prove a point."
"And reset expectations," Marcus added. "Once people feel the old certainty again…"
"They'll want it back," I finished.
The advisory presence remained neutral.
[Rollback would restore prior correction efficiency by 94%.]
I felt the familiar pressure stir—not pain, not prediction, but something closer to grief.
"That efficiency," I said quietly, "was built on silence."
Marcus nodded. "And absence."
Mara turned from the window. "What happens if we refuse?"
The presence answered immediately.
[Projected response:]
[Type B collective will escalate request to public channels.]
[Narrative framing: negligence.]
"They'll blame us," Mara said.
"Yes," I replied. "And they won't be entirely wrong."
The words tasted bitter.
People were getting hurt more often now.
Not erased—but injured.
Not optimized—but exposed.
"And if we agree?" Marcus asked.
The advisory presence hesitated—then complied.
[Projected response:]
[Public reassurance achieved.]
[Framework credibility reduced.]
[Rollback reversal probability low.]
"There it is," Marcus said. "Once you roll back, you don't come forward again."
I closed my eyes briefly.
This was the moment the draft had been leading to.
Not rebellion.
Not collapse.
Pressure from those who knew how to wait.
"They're saying this is about safety," Mara said.
"And it is," I replied. "Just not whose."
The advisory presence chimed again.
[Request awaiting anchor response.]
All eyes turned to me.
Not because I was the strongest.
But because my name was on the draft.
Because I had said release it.
"They want you to authorize it," Marcus said quietly.
"Yes," I replied. "They need legitimacy."
Mara's voice trembled. "If you say yes, the system takes control again."
"And if I say no," I said, "we accept the cost of imperfection."
Silence stretched.
Not empty.
Weighted.
I thought of the man in Room 602—alive because someone had asked a question.
Of the child who had fallen—not because of malice, but because no one had smoothed the floor ahead of him.
Of Mara, seeing too early and choosing to speak anyway.
"This isn't about whether the old system worked," I said finally.
Marcus looked at me.
"It did," I continued. "At what it was designed to do."
"Then why not use it?" Mara asked, almost pleading.
"Because," I said softly, "working isn't the same as being right."
The advisory presence pulsed—subtle, strained.
[Anchor authority confirmed.]
I straightened.
"Transmit my response," I said.
The presence waited.
I didn't rush.
"Tell them," I said slowly, "that there will be no rollback."
Mara's breath caught.
Marcus didn't move.
"Tell them," I continued, "that the increase in harm is real, and it's being tracked—openly."
[Message drafting.]
"And tell them," I finished, "that if they want certainty back, they're free to argue for it publicly."
The advisory presence hesitated.
[Public discourse increases instability.]
"Yes," I replied. "That's the cost of consent."
The response transmitted.
I felt it leave—not like power slipping away, but like weight shifting off my shoulders and onto the world.
Mara sank into a chair. "They won't accept this."
"No," Marcus said. "They'll escalate."
"Yes," I agreed. "They'll need an example."
The advisory presence chimed once more.
[Risk of demonstrative incident increased.]
I looked at both of them.
"Which means," I said, "someone will get hurt—not by accident, but by design."
Mara's eyes widened. "They'd let that happen?"
"Yes," Marcus said grimly. "To prove a point."
The rain outside intensified, hammering against the windows now, no longer gentle.
"This is the line," Mara whispered.
"Yes," I replied. "The first real one."
The advisory presence went quiet—not retreating, not calculating.
Waiting.
Because for the first time, the system wasn't deciding what came next.
People were.
And some of them were already deciding that uncertainty was too high a price to pay—
Even if certainty meant surrendering the right to choose.