Klein arrived at the office five minutes early.
That, too, felt intentional.
The building stood on the corner of Ironcross Street, its stone facade unremarkable, its windows uniformly clean. The brass plaque beside the door read Backlund Historical Records Office. The lettering was sharp, the grooves free of dust, as though they had been carved yesterday rather than decades ago.
Klein paused before entering.
He had spoken little since leaving his apartment. Each step had been taken with care, each thought examined before it reached his lips. The pressure he had felt on the street lingered faintly, like a reminder pressed into the back of his skull.
He pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of ink and paper greeted him, crisp and separate from the smell of polished wood. Desks were arranged in neat rows, papers stacked with almost excessive precision. Clerks sat quietly at their stations, pens moving in steady, synchronized rhythms.
Too synchronized.
"Good morning, Klein."
The greeting came from Dunn Smith, standing near the filing shelves. Dunn's brown hair was neatly combed, his expression calm and polite, his eyes clear.
"Morning," Klein replied automatically.
The pressure stirred.
He stiffened, then relaxed when it faded without incident.
Dunn smiled faintly. "You're early."
"So are you," Klein said.
Dunn inclined his head. "Habit."
They walked together toward their desks.
As they passed between the rows, Klein noticed something he hadn't before: conversations were rare. When they did occur, they were brief, clipped, and carefully worded.
"Have you finished the Calder files?" a woman asked her colleague.
"Yes," he replied. "They are complete."
Nothing more.
No complaints. No embellishment. No opinions.
Klein sat down and began sorting the documents on his desk. Census records, shipping manifests, birth registries—mundane paperwork that grounded him, that reassured him through repetition.
As he worked, he listened.
Every time someone spoke, Klein felt it: a faint tightening, a subtle response, as if the room itself were registering the statement. The longer the sentence, the heavier the pressure. The more absolute the wording, the stronger the reaction.
At one point, a clerk muttered, "This is pointless."
The pressure flared.
The clerk flinched, pressing his fingers to his temple. His pen slipped, leaving a jagged line across the page. He stared at it for a moment, then quietly corrected the mistake and said nothing further.
Klein's pen slowed.
So even here… he thought.
During the midmorning break, Klein stood near the window, watching the street below.
Dunn joined him, holding a cup of tea.
"You seem distracted today," Dunn said.
Klein considered his response carefully.
"I noticed something strange this morning," he said at last.
The pressure stirred.
Dunn's gaze sharpened. "Strange how?"
Klein chose his words like stepping stones across a river. "People are… more direct."
The pressure remained light.
Dunn took a sip of tea. "That's not new."
Klein turned to him. "Then it's normal for words to… affect things?"
For a moment, Dunn did not answer.
The pressure gathered, slow and deliberate.
Dunn lowered his cup. "You're asking the wrong question."
Klein's heartbeat quickened. "Then what's the right one?"
Dunn met his eyes.
"How much did you notice?"
The pressure surged.
Klein felt it clearly now—coiling, waiting, ready to descend if he crossed some invisible line. He understood instinctively that a careless answer here would not end well.
"Enough to be careful," Klein said.
The pressure eased.
Dunn studied him for a long second, then nodded. "That's usually enough."
He turned back toward the desks. "Don't talk about it openly. Especially not here."
Klein watched him go, unease settling deep in his chest.
Usually, Dunn had said.
As the workday resumed, Klein's sense of wrongness grew stronger.
This was not a secret.
It was a rule.
And rules, Klein knew, were far more dangerous than mysteries.
Because once you understood them, you were expected to obey.