The warning wasn't loud.
That was how Aria knew it mattered.
It came as a scheduling error—small, deniable. Her name removed from a panel she'd confirmed twice. Replaced by someone less known. More agreeable.
"They say it's a mistake," Noah said, reading the message.
"It's a test," Aria replied.
---
An hour later, a second sign.
A background check triggered on a crew member she'd worked with for years. Routine, they said. Random.
It wasn't.
"They're mapping proximity," Noah said. "Anyone who gets too close."
Aria nodded. "They're narrowing the circle."
---
The third sign arrived before sunset.
A private warning, delivered politely.
We're concerned about the optics of some of your associations.
No signature. No threat.
Just implication.
---
"This is escalation," Noah said. "They're seeing how you respond."
Aria closed her laptop. "They're seeing if I flinch."
"And will you?"
She shook her head. "I'll document."
---
That night, she reviewed everything.
Times.
Names.
Language patterns.
The system never repeated itself unless it wanted something.
A pattern emerged.
Pressure, pause, observation.
---
In a secure channel, a new line appeared.
Subject exhibits situational awareness.
Proceed with calibrated constraint.
The phrase was familiar.
Too familiar.
Aria stared at it for a long moment.
"So it begins," she said softly.
Noah looked at her. "What does?"
She closed the file.
"The part where pretending this is normal becomes impossible."
Outside, the city hummed on.
Inside the system, the first warning sign had been logged.
And it wouldn't be the last.