Restrictions never arrived as commands.
They arrived as friction.
His access badge still worked. Doors still opened. Schedules still populated automatically. On the surface, nothing had changed.
Underneath, everything had.
The first sign was time.
Corridors he once crossed without pause now slowed him by seconds—authentication checks that lingered just long enough to be noticed. Elevators that arrived one cycle later than expected. Notifications that repeated information he already knew.
Micro-delays.
The system's preferred method of discouragement.
He adjusted his pace without conscious thought. Slower when watched. Faster when unobserved. The margins were thinner now, but they were consistent.
Consistency could be exploited.
At the facilitation office, his tasks were simpler. Fewer errands. Less cross-department movement. The kind of streamlining that looked like efficiency and functioned like containment.
"You're doing fine," the woman at the desk said, not looking up. "We're just tightening workflows."
"I understand."
She glanced at him, searching for irritation. Finding none, she returned to her screen.
The system logged the exchange.
[Subject response: compliant.]
[Stress indicators: absent.]
Incorrect.
But useful.
Later, during a seminar, he noticed the seating arrangement had changed. Not assigned—suggested. Chairs closer together. Lines of sight optimized. Conversations easier to track.
He chose a seat near the aisle. Transitional spaces offered options.
An instructor asked a question designed to invite elaboration. He answered with a single sentence. Accurate. Incomplete.
The instructor nodded and moved on.
Good.
Attention redirected.
Between sessions, he passed the analytics wing again. This time, the doors did not ignore him. They hesitated. A brief flicker of authentication before opening.
Access remained.
Trust did not.
Inside, screens displayed updated dashboards—new color codes, tighter bands of acceptable variance. Someone had recalibrated the thresholds after the audit.
The system was learning.
He did not approach the terminals.
Presence alone was data.
As he turned to leave, he caught a reflection in the glass—her, standing further back than usual, arms crossed, gaze fixed not on him but on the displays behind him.
"You feel it too," she said quietly, when he reached her.
"Yes."
"They're closing ranks."
"Yes."
A pause.
"Does that change anything?"
He considered. Not for effect. For accuracy.
"It changes timing," he said. "Not direction."
She studied him, then nodded once. Agreement without endorsement.
"Be careful," she said. "When systems constrain movement, they expect compliance—or collision."
"I won't collide."
She arched an eyebrow. "Then what will you do?"
He looked past her, down the corridor where staff moved in predictable arcs, their routines optimized into invisibility.
"I'll move where they're not measuring," he said.
That night, in his room, the silence felt heavier. Not threatening—compressed. He reviewed the day's data, noting every delay, every reroute, every softened boundary.
The system had shifted from observation to regulation.
A common progression.
He adjusted his internal map accordingly.
Constraints revealed structure.
Structure revealed blind spots.
And blind spots—
He closed his tablet.
—were where systems forgot to look.