Harvey didn't tell anyone about the words.
Not the paramedic. Not the doctor. Not Emily when she messaged again later that night. He answered everyone the same way, short and careful, as if nothing strange had happened.
He slept badly.
Not because of pain. The headache was dull but manageable. What kept him awake was the feeling that something had shifted without his permission. Like a door had been opened somewhere he couldn't see.
When morning came, it didn't feel like a new day. It felt like a continuation.
Harvey sat on the edge of his bed for a long time before standing. He moved slowly, paying attention to how his body responded. Everything worked. A little stiff, a little sore, but normal.
No words appeared.
That should have reassured him. Instead, it made him tense.
He showered, dressed, and made coffee he barely touched. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to empty space, half-expecting text to appear. Nothing did.
On the ride to work, he kept replaying the memory. Not the accident itself, but the moment after. The stillness. The certainty in those lines.
Decision recorded.
It bothered him more the longer he thought about it. Not because it was frightening, but because it didn't make sense. He had always believed decisions were things you noticed yourself. Things you chose loudly, clearly.
He had never thought that doing nothing counted.
Redfield Group looked the same as always. Glass front, clean lobby, muted colors meant to feel professional and forgettable. Harvey signed in and took the elevator up.
People nodded at him. Someone asked if he was okay. He answered yes. He took his seat and turned on his computer.
Everything was normal.
That was the problem.
The email was still there.
Harvey stared at it without opening it. He didn't feel rushed anymore. He didn't feel calm either.
He just felt watched.
Not by anyone else. By the space between moments. By the pause before action.
He moved his mouse away from the email and opened a different file. Work came easily. Familiar tasks, familiar patterns. He finished them faster than usual.
At some point, he realized he was waiting.
Not for instructions. Not for messages.
For the words.
They didn't come.
Jake leaned over the divider near noon. "You good, man? You disappeared yesterday."
"Yeah," Harvey said. "Just got checked out."
"Lucky," Jake said. "Could've been worse."
Harvey nodded. Lucky didn't feel like the right word, but he didn't say that.
Emily came by later with her lunch. She paused beside his desk like she always did.
"You should've taken today off," she said.
"I'm fine."
She studied him for a second longer than usual. "If you say so."
She left without adding anything else. Harvey noticed she didn't smile this time.
He looked back at the email.
For the first time since yesterday, he felt the urge to do something. Not because he wanted the project. Not because he didn't.
Just to see what would happen.
His finger hovered over the mouse.
Nothing appeared.
No warning. No signal. No text.
Harvey closed the email.
A few minutes passed.
Then it happened.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
The words appeared the same way they had before. Calm. Fixed. Unconcerned.
[Decision point detected]
Harvey froze.
The office noise faded slightly, like his attention had turned inward. He didn't move his mouse. He didn't breathe deeply. He just stared.
Decision point.
Not recorded. Not finished.
Detected.
So this was different.
He didn't feel fear. He felt awareness.
The words stayed for several seconds. Then they disappeared without changing.
Nothing else followed.
Harvey sat back in his chair slowly.
That was it.
No outcome. No future. Just a marker.
He understood something then, quietly.
The system didn't care what he chose. It only cared that a path existed.
And it didn't need his permission to notice it.
The rest of the day passed with a strange sense of clarity. Harvey didn't touch the email again. He didn't avoid it either. He let it sit, visible, unanswered.
He paid attention instead.
To how often his mind tried to jump ahead. To how many times he imagined consequences before taking a step. To how heavy simple choices felt once he became aware of them.
On the way home, he didn't rush.
He walked slower than usual, letting people pass him. The city moved around him, loud and alive, unaware of the quiet shift that had taken place.
No words appeared again.
That night, Harvey wrote one sentence in a notebook he hadn't used in years.
*Observe first.*
He closed the notebook and set it aside.
For now, that was enough.