Power rarely announces itself as power.
It prefers language like necessity, continuity, stability.
By the end of the week, the committee no longer spoke about temporary measures.
They spoke about extensions.
Marcus dropped the document on the table without comment. It slid toward me, pages crisp, margins precise.
"Read the footnotes," he said.
I did.
Emergency authorization clauses quietly broadened.
Oversight timelines extended "pending review."
Appeal mechanisms clarified—but deferred.
"They didn't expand authority," Marcus said flatly. "They normalized it."
"Yes," I replied. "That's how permanence happens."
Outside, the city had adapted with alarming speed.
Barricades became familiar.
Permit checkpoints routine.
Language shifted from restriction to coordination.
People still gathered—but cautiously, calculating angles and exits.
Freedom didn't disappear.
It learned how to ask permission.
The advisory presence surfaced briefly, subdued.
[Governance state trending toward institutional equilibrium.]
"Congratulations," Marcus muttered. "They've built a new default."
I didn't answer.
Because I was busy trying not to lose focus.
The pressure behind my eyes had changed.
No longer a surge.
A constant hum.
Like tinnitus, but cognitive.
I noticed it most when I tried to remember small things.
Where I'd left my phone.
The name of a reporter I'd spoken to yesterday.
The exact wording of Mara's first statement.
The memories weren't gone.
They were… smeared.
"Elena," Marcus said carefully, "you asked me the same question twice."
I looked up. "I did?"
"Yes," he said. "Five minutes apart."
I sat very still.
The advisory presence hesitated—then spoke with uncharacteristic caution.
[Anchor degradation pattern detected.]
"Define degradation," I said quietly.
No immediate answer.
"Define," I repeated.
[Sustained exposure to unfiltered collective response exceeds design tolerance.]
I laughed once, dry and sharp. "Design tolerance."
Marcus didn't smile.
"What kind of damage?" he asked.
The presence stalled.
[Non-reversible variance loss possible.]
The words landed harder than any headline.
"Possible," I repeated. "Or occurring?"
A long pause.
[Occurring.]
The room felt suddenly too small.
"What kind?" Marcus asked.
I answered before the system could.
"Resolution," I said. "I'm losing resolution."
He frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning I still feel everything," I said. "I just can't always separate it cleanly."
I closed my eyes.
People bled together now—emotions overlapping, edges blurred. Where once I could distinguish fear from anger from conviction, they now arrived in clusters.
It made thinking slower.
Heavier.
"And this doesn't stop?" Marcus asked.
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "Because there's no buffer anymore."
The advisory presence remained silent.
It had nothing left to optimize.
Across the city, Mara's influence grew—not because she sought it, but because people needed a face that wasn't procedural.
She didn't call herself a leader.
Others did.
Her gatherings were smaller—but intentional. No barricades. No permits. Just presence.
She spoke carefully, refusing absolutes.
"We don't win by replacing one authority with another," she said in one address.
"We win by refusing to let fear decide faster than conscience."
People listened.
Not everyone.
Enough.
The committee responded predictably.
Not with force.
With framing.
"Unregulated assemblies increase risk," a spokesperson said calmly.
"Responsible dissent must operate within established safeguards."
Marcus watched the broadcast with a clenched jaw.
"They're painting her as unsafe."
"Yes," I said. "And themselves as adults in the room."
I tried to stand—and swayed.
Marcus caught me.
"Okay," he said firmly. "This is real."
"I know," I replied.
I was exhausted in a way sleep didn't touch.
Not tired.
Worn.
"Elena," Marcus said, lowering his voice, "you can't keep doing this at full exposure."
"If I pull back," I said, "the committee consolidates uncontested."
"And if you don't," he said, "you burn out permanently."
I didn't answer.
Because both were true.
That night, I forgot Mara's voice.
Not completely.
But enough that when I tried to recall her tone—calm, steady, precise—it came back distorted, like audio played through a wall.
That scared me more than pain.
Memory was part of identity.
And mine was fraying at the edges.
The advisory presence chimed faintly.
[System recommendation:]
[Anchor disengagement advised.]
I laughed softly.
"Now you tell me."
It didn't respond.
It knew better than to argue.
Outside, the city settled into its new shape.
Committees held.
Schedules posted.
Dissent managed.
Not crushed.
Contained.
Mara stood at the edge of it all—visible, articulate, increasingly alone.
And I sat in the quiet, realizing something I hadn't allowed myself to before:
I had broken the system.
But I hadn't replaced the cost.
I had simply agreed to pay it myself.
The question wasn't whether the future would be optimized or free.
It was who would be damaged in the process.
And as my thoughts blurred and my memories softened, the answer became impossible to ignore.