The word over the supervisor's shadow keeps pulsing:
**FOUND.**
It doesn't glow the way other words glow.
It doesn't hover.
It *pressurizes* the air around it—like a weight placed on everyone's lungs.
Ardan exhales through his teeth.
"Stay still," he murmurs. "If you run now, he'll classify you as fleeing."
"That sounds bad," I whisper.
"It is. Auditors don't chase. They *redefine*."
Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed today.
The supervisor continues walking toward us, clipboard hanging loosely from his fingers. He isn't rushing. He doesn't need to. Every step rewrites the shadows around him.
A woman in aisle three freezes mid-reach.
Her word **UNDECIDED** sharpens into **CORRECTED**.
She blinks and lowers the item in her hand, suddenly certain about something she wasn't certain about moments ago.
"This is wrong," the girl whispers. "People shouldn't—he shouldn't be able to—"
"Should has nothing to do with it," Ardan says. His voice is tight. "We are in his jurisdiction now."
The supervisor reaches the divider between the aisles. He doesn't look at us, but the energy around him narrows, like a funnel pointing in our direction.
And then—
he lifts his head.
His eyes are nothing special. Brown. Tired. Human.
But behind the human surface, I feel the same thing I felt in that hospital corridor:
an emptiness shaped like a person, stuffed into a body the way a hand fits inside a glove.
When he speaks, it's with the bored politeness of someone asking about a loyalty card.
"Mark."
My pulse slams against my ribs.
He knows my name.
He shouldn't know my name.
"Don't answer," Ardan says under his breath. "Not even a nod."
The supervisor shifts his clipboard. Notes appear on it without him writing anything.
"You have an open discrepancy," he says. "Pending audit."
The words prick through my skin like needles.
"I'm here to resolve it."
Resolve.
Not review.
Not evaluate.
Resolve.
That word feels like a trapdoor opening beneath my feet.
Ardan straightens, placing himself a fraction in front of me.
"A clarification request can be filed," he says evenly. "There may be mitigating circumstances."
The supervisor doesn't look at him.
"Your position is noted," he says.
Which is the politest possible way of saying: irrelevant.
The girl grips my wrist under the table. Her fingers are cold, trembling.
The supervisor steps closer.
The automatic lights above us flicker, then burn steady again—too steady, as if something is holding them still.
"Mark," the supervisor repeats. "Your refusal of acquisition has created contradiction. Contradiction must be resolved."
I swallow hard.
I want to speak.
I want to defend myself.
I want to run.
I want to disappear.
Instead I sit frozen, because even breathing too loudly feels like it could count as "interference."
He slides a page on his clipboard, though I can see there are no actual pages. It's just movement, a gesture mimicking humanity.
"Unclaimed. Rejected. Resistance recorded." He pauses. "The system cannot categorize you."
My breath catches.
His eyes finally rest on mine—flat, steady, uninterested.
"You will be placed."
Placed.
Into what?
Into whose authority?
Into which fate?
I feel my heart thrashing like a trapped thing.
Ardan shifts, taking a subtle breath.
"Placement requires a hearing," he says. "Even now."
"A hearing has been deemed unnecessary."
"That is not compliant procedure."
The supervisor finally looks at Ardan.
And something cold rolls through the air, like a pressure wave.
"You are not compliant procedure."
Ardan's word flashes above his shadow:
**ACCOUNTANT**
**DELINQUENT**
**FLAGGED**
He stiffens—just slightly, but enough that I feel the floor tilt.
If they can rewrite him that quickly…
I'm beyond doomed.
The supervisor turns his attention back to me.
"Mark," he says again, softer. "Step forward."
My legs don't move.
They twitch under the table but don't obey.
"Step forward," he repeats.
The girl squeezes my wrist.
"Don't," she breathes. "Don't stand up. Don't leave me."
Her word **BOUND** glows faintly, pulling toward me like a tide.
Something cracks inside my chest.
"I can't," I whisper. "He'll—"
"Mark," Ardan says quietly, not looking back at me. "Listen carefully. An auditor cannot physically force you to comply. They can only escalate classification until you do."
The supervisor doesn't blink.
"Step forward."
"What happens if I don't?" I ask.
The supervisor tilts his head.
A new word appears above my shadow.
**NONCOMPLIANT.**
Ardan swears—an actual, sharp curse that slices through the stale supermarket air.
"That's escalation," he mutters. "Fast escalation."
The supervisor takes another step. His clipboard dissolves into dust, then reappears whole in his hand.
"Mark," he says. "You have been instructed three times."
Another word forms:
**OBSTRUCTING.**
People keep shopping. A cart squeaks past us. A cashier announces a price check. The world goes on completely unaware that its labels are rewriting themselves.
My throat tightens.
"What do you want from me?" I ask before Ardan can stop me.
The supervisor actually pauses.
For one moment, the tired-human mask slips.
And I see the outline beneath the flesh—smooth, hard, geometry pretending to be skin.
"To correct you," he says.
His shadow lengthens toward mine.
But something stops it.
A thread.
A literal, thin, silvery thread extending from the girl's hand.
It wasn't there a moment ago.
Her eyes widen in horror as she realizes it too.
Above her shadow:
**BOUND**
**TETHERED**
**LINKED**
The thread lashes toward my shadow—attaching.
The supervisor reacts instantly.
"Unauthorized binding detected."
The back of his hand brushes the air, as if wiping away dust.
The thread trembles—
turns opaque—
begins to unravel like pulled fabric.
The girl screams—not from fear, but from something deeper, ripping through her chest.
"Stop!" I shout.
The word above me spasms.
**NONCOMPLIANT**
**OBSTRUCTING**
**DISPUTING**
The supervisor watches me without emotion.
"She is not part of this audit."
"I DON'T CARE!"
The word over my shadow flickers violently.
Ardan's head snaps toward me.
"Mark—no—don't push—!"
But something in me finally breaks.
Not courage.
Not clarity.
Something older.
Something instinctive.
I stand.
The table rattles.
The lights tremble.
The air folds inward like a collapsing lung.
A new word carves itself into existence above my shadow.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if the world is holding its breath while it writes.
**CLAIMING.**
The supervisor goes still.
Ardan stares at me like I've just thrown a match into a gas-filled room.
The girl's thread glows brighter, stabilizing but still frayed.
The supervisor's voice is different now—lower, edged.
"On what authority," he asks, "do you attempt a Claim?"
I don't know.
I shouldn't have words.
I shouldn't have authority.
I shouldn't have anything.
But my voice speaks anyway.
Not louder.
Just truer.
"On mine."
The aisle lights blow out.
The shadows surge.
People gasp and flinch as a wave of pressure sweeps the store, though they can't see the cause.
The supervisor's shadow buckles.
His word flickers:
**AUDITING**
**PENDING**
**RECALCULATING**
He steps back.
Just one step.
But it's the first step he has taken *away* from me.
Ardan whispers:
"Oh… that's new."