Audits did not begin with questions.
They began with alignment.
Chairs arranged symmetrically. Screens calibrated to identical brightness. Bottles of water placed equidistant from each seat. The room itself performed neutrality, as if fairness could be engineered through geometry.
He arrived on time.
Not early. Early suggested preparation.
Not late. Late suggested avoidance.
On time suggested compliance.
Three others were already seated. She sat at the far end, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. No greeting passed between them. Familiarity during audits created narratives.
The facilitator entered last and closed the door without ceremony.
"This is procedural," she said. "We're not investigating individuals. We're validating processes."
Processes never spoke for themselves. People spoke for them.
The first questions were broad. Roles. Responsibilities. Routine interactions. He answered with the cadence of someone who had nothing to hide—because he hid nothing concrete.
"Did you make changes to any schedules last week?" the facilitator asked.
"Yes," he said.
No pause. No qualification.
The facilitator glanced at her screen. "Under whose direction?"
"Standard facilitation flow," he replied. "No directive. Minor adjustments."
"Purpose?"
"Load balancing."
The word landed cleanly. Familiar. Institutional.
The facilitator nodded. "Acceptable."
The audit moved on.
They asked her next—about access logs, permissions, thresholds. She answered with technical precision, careful not to explain beyond necessity. Over-explanation was a tell.
When the facilitator circled back, the questions narrowed.
"Were you aware of any students approaching reclassification during that period?"
"Yes."
A pause. Shorter this time.
"Did that awareness influence your actions?"
"No."
True enough.
Awareness was not influence. Influence required intent.
The facilitator studied him. "Do you often make marginal adjustments?"
"Yes."
Another pause. This one longer.
"Why?"
"Margins are where systems stay flexible," he said. "They prevent accumulation."
Silence followed.
It was a risky sentence. Not incorrect—just… thoughtful.
The facilitator tapped her screen once. "Noted."
The audit concluded without incident. No raised voices. No accusations. Just a quiet recalibration as the system reconciled answers that aligned but did not reassure.
Outside, the corridor felt wider than it should have.
She walked beside him for three steps before speaking.
"You shouldn't have said that," she said softly.
"Which part?"
"About margins."
He considered. "It's true."
"That's not the same as safe."
They stopped at a junction. Foot traffic passed around them, unaware of the microfracture just beneath the surface.
"They're going to watch you more closely now," she continued. "Not because you did something wrong. Because you sound like you know why things work."
"I do."
She searched his face. "Then you know what comes next."
He nodded. "Restriction. Formalization."
"And escalation," she added.
"Yes."
She exhaled, a controlled release. "You changed one window."
"One window," he agreed.
"And they felt it."
The system confirmed that an hour later.
[Audit Outcome: Cleared.]
[Follow-up Monitoring: Increased.]
Cleared meant nothing had been proven.
Monitoring meant something had been suspected.
He returned to his room and sat without turning on the lights. The city outside hummed, indifferent and precise. He replayed the audit—not for mistakes, but for interpretations.
Words mattered.
Silences mattered more.
He had crossed another threshold—not of action, but of articulation. The moment when intent became legible enough to imagine.
That was the real danger.
The system would now try to constrain language, not behavior.
He adjusted accordingly.
Fewer explanations.
Shorter answers.
Cleaner noise.
Margins had narrowed.
But they still existed.
And as long as there were margins, there was room to move.