I wasn’t supposed to be there.

That was the first thing I realized, not in words but in my body. The way my steps slowed. The way the corridor felt narrower, quieter, like sound itself had been filtered out. I felt them before I saw them.

Inside, the room was small and clean and far too bright.

A polished floor that reflected light like water. There were no restraints bolted to the furniture, no weapons visible. Nothing that looked violent.

A man stood in the center of the room.

He was bound. He was on his knees. He wore a tailored jacket, dark fabric, pressed clean. His hands were folded in front of him as if he were waiting for a meeting to begin.

Two officials stood a few feet away, reading from a tablet. Their voices were low, professional, and boring.

“This action has been approved under Stabilization Clause Twelve,” one of them said. “Regional impact projections show a net reduction in Outer-zone volatility.”

The man didn’t interrupt.

A third figure stood slightly behind them. A Shadow. I recognized the mark on his wrist immediately. He wasn’t tense. He wasn’t alert.

He was waiting.

I should have left.

I should have turned around and pretended I’d never taken the wrong corridor, never misread a clearance map. But my feet stayed rooted to the floor, my breath shallow and quiet, as if my body had already decided silence was survival.

The man finally spoke.

“You’re outsourcing violence again,” he said calmly. “You’ll destabilize the zones faster than you can contain them.”

One of the officials sighed. “You’re no longer in a position to speculate.”

“I built those projections,” the man replied. “You’re feeding scarcity into a system that…”

“That will be all…” the other official said.

There was no argument. No raised voice.

Just a nod.

The Shadow stepped forward.

It happened quickly.

Not dramatic. Just, final.

The Shadow moved behind the man, placed the old school pistol to the base of his skull, and pressed.

The man stiffened once, just once, and then he was gone. His body folded to the floor like something powered down. Vaguely robotic.

I remember staring at his shoes.

Perfectly polished. Untouched.

One of the officials tapped their tablet again.

“Witness exposure?” they asked casually.

The other glanced toward the doorway.

Toward me.

Our eyes met.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face. Not guilt. Not fear.

Calculation.

“No,” he said. “Containment protocols held.”

The Shadow dragged the body away, efficient and silent, leaving behind nothing but a faint smear where the man’s shoulder had brushed the floor.

The room returned to stillness.

I stepped back, slowly, carefully, my pulse roaring in my ears. I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I didn’t report what I’d seen.

I went back to my assigned corridor. I completed my shift. I smiled when spoken to. I followed every instruction precisely.

That night, my wrist chimed softly.

“Protected Timeline Relocation Program.

Exposure Risk Identified.

Relocation Recommended.”

They didn’t accuse me.

They didn’t threaten me.

They thanked me for my compliance.

I understood then what I had really witnessed.

Not a death.

A decision.

It was the truth that they couldn’t afford to let me come back with.

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