The city didn't erupt.
It divided.
That distinction mattered.
There were no riots the morning after the broadcast. No fires, no sirens tearing through the streets. People still went to work. Trains still ran. Cafés still opened their doors and served coffee to customers who pretended not to watch the news playing silently above the counter.
But the air had changed.
You could feel it in the pauses between conversations.
In the way strangers lingered just a little longer after disagreeing.
In the way silence now meant decision, not indifference.
"They're organizing," Marcus said, scrolling through the feeds. "Not centrally. Locally."
I stood at the window, watching a small group gather in the square below. Not shouting. Just standing. Signs leaned against legs, not yet raised.
CHOICE IS NOT NEGLIGENCE.
Across the street, another cluster formed.
CERTAINTY SAVES LIVES.
"They're close," Mara said quietly. "Too close."
"Yes," I replied. "Because this isn't about distance. It's about values."
The advisory presence hovered, restrained.
[Urban sentiment polarization increasing.]
Marcus looked up. "We should move."
"Soon," I said. "But not yet."
The square filled slowly, organically. No one appeared to be in charge. No megaphones. No banners stretched high.
Just people.
Some nervous.
Some angry.
Some visibly relieved to finally stand somewhere.
I spotted a woman holding her child's hand tightly, the same age as the boy in the hospital elevator. I saw an older man leaning on a cane, his sign resting against his knee like a quiet demand.
"They're not here to fight," Mara said.
"No," I agreed. "They're here to be seen."
The advisory presence chimed.
[Risk of escalation: moderate.]
"That's optimistic," Marcus muttered.
I turned from the window. "What do you see?"
Mara closed her eyes briefly.
"Noise," she said. "Not futures. Not outcomes. Just… pressure. Like weather."
I felt it too—not as prediction, but as resonance.
The weight of many minds focused on the same unresolved question.
Who decides?
Below us, someone stepped forward.
A young man, voice shaking but loud enough to carry.
"We're not saying no one should help," he called out. "We're saying no one should decide for us."
A murmur of agreement rippled through part of the crowd.
A woman across from him responded immediately.
"My sister is alive because someone decided for her," she said. "She didn't have time to choose."
The square stilled.
That was the danger.
Not ideology.
Story.
Marcus swore softly. "This is where it turns."
"Yes," I replied. "Because both of them are right."
The advisory presence pulsed—uncertain.
[Framework not designed for narrative conflict.]
"I know," I said quietly. "That's why we're here."
A shout rose from the certainty side—angrier now.
"You can't gamble with lives!"
The response came back just as sharp.
"You already did! You just hid the table!"
Voices overlapped.
Not yet violence.
But strain.
Mara opened her eyes suddenly. "Elena."
I turned.
"There's a surge," she said. "Not physical. Emotional."
I felt it then—a subtle pull, not forward in time, but outward.
A capacity I hadn't used before.
Not prediction.
Alignment.
I could feel the contours of the crowd's fear and hope, not as data, but as overlapping waves. Where they reinforced. Where they canceled.
Marcus noticed my stillness. "What's happening?"
"I'm not seeing futures," I said slowly. "I'm seeing… thresholds."
The advisory presence reacted.
[Unregistered anchor activity detected.]
"Not now," I whispered.
Below, someone shoved forward—hard enough to draw gasps. Another person pushed back.
The first physical contact.
The moment where principle turned into momentum.
"Marcus," I said. "We need to go down."
He nodded immediately. "I'll stay close."
Mara hesitated.
"I should stay back," she said. "If this turns—"
"No," I said. "You're part of this."
We moved fast.
The street-level noise hit like a wall.
Shouting.
Breathing.
Heat.
I stepped forward, not onto a stage, not onto a platform—just into the open space between the two clusters.
For a second, no one noticed.
Then someone did.
"That's her."
The ripple spread faster than panic.
People stared. Some angry. Some hopeful. Some terrified.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't need to.
"You're not wrong," I said, letting the words carry just far enough. "Any of you."
The shouting faltered—not stopped, but confused.
"I won't tell you which side to stand on," I continued. "Because the moment I do, this becomes about following me instead of choosing for yourselves."
A man near the front scoffed. "Easy to say when you don't pay the price."
I met his gaze.
"You're right," I said. "So let me be clear."
The advisory presence pulsed hard.
[Public anchor exposure increasing.]
"There is no version of this where no one gets hurt," I said. "There never was."
Silence spread—not peace, but attention.
"What changed," I continued, "is whether that hurt happens quietly, without your consent—or openly, with your knowledge."
The woman with the story about her sister was crying now.
"So you're saying we should just accept it?" she demanded.
"No," I said. "I'm saying you should own it."
Marcus shifted beside me, alert.
Mara watched from just behind my shoulder, eyes wide—not with fear, but recognition.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They didn't disperse.
They listened.
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
The advisory presence stilled completely.
No projections.
No assessments.
Just observation.
I felt the weight of it settle—not as destiny, but as consequence.
This wasn't a system test anymore.
It was a human one.
And it had only just begun