He widened the map by a finger, the glow shifting with his touch. Small timers appeared—hidden ones, invisible to anyone who hadn't built the system with him.
They didn't tick. They didn't blink. They waited, patient and silent, like traps disguised as shadows.
Only three people alive could have recognized them for what they were. That was enough.
He nudged a maintenance order forward six hours, subtle as breathing, so that a lift would be out of service on the exact morning someone tried to ride it into a room they had not earned.
Nothing dramatic. Just one door that wouldn't open, one hinge that would hold them a second too long.
He shifted a bus route by a single block, sent out the notice with a typo because real notices always carried mistakes while fakes never did.
He sent two plainclothes teams to drink coffee two doors down from where they wanted to be.
