The system update came at 7:04 a.m.
Not an announcement.
Not an apology.
A quiet reclassification.
My role shifted from temporary consultant to interim stabilizer—a title that meant nothing publicly and everything internally.
Stabilizers didn't get applause.
They got blamed when the structure stopped holding.
The first meeting of the day was deliberately late.
A test of patience.
I arrived early anyway and took the seat furthest from the screen. Not submission—positioning. It let me watch faces instead of data.
When the door finally closed, the man who never gave his name spoke.
"We're accelerating."
No explanation.
Just the word.
"And?" I asked.
"And acceleration increases heat," the woman beside him added. "Which increases exposure."
I nodded once. "So you want me visible."
They exchanged a glance.
"Temporarily," he said.
Of course.
Visibility changed everything.
By noon, my calendar was flooded.
By three, people stopped pretending not to know who I was.
By five, someone leaked my involvement—nothing concrete, just enough to raise eyebrows.
I didn't counter it.
Countering meant panic.
Instead, I did something else.
I documented.
Every approval.
Every delay.
Every offhand instruction delivered without witnesses.
I learned quickly who spoke carefully—and who assumed I wouldn't last long enough to matter.
Han Zhe showed up unannounced at 6:40 p.m.
Not at my apartment.
At the building.
Security called me first.
"He says he knows you."
I smiled thinly. "Tell him to wait."
I took my time.
When I finally walked into the lobby, he was pacing, irritation written into his shoulders.
"This isn't safe," he said immediately. "You're being pushed forward."
"Yes."
"And you're fine with that?"
"No."
He exhaled sharply. "Then why—"
"Because forward is where decisions are made," I interrupted. "And backward is where people disappear quietly."
He looked at me like he didn't recognize me.
Maybe he didn't.
"You used to hate this kind of thing," he said.
"I used to hate not being told the truth."
Silence.
Then, softer, "They'll sacrifice you."
I met his gaze. "They already tried."
He stiffened. "Tried?"
I leaned closer, just enough for him to hear. "And failed."
That night, the second test came.
An internal email—accidentally copied to me.
If stabilizer resists redirection, initiate option C.
No details.
No definitions.
Just enough to warn me that my usefulness was being evaluated against my obedience.
I forwarded it to a private address.
Then I replied—brief, polite, lethal.
Received. Clarifying parameters for option C before implementation.
No accusation.
No refusal.
Just a demand for definition.
They answered an hour later.
Carefully.
Shen Yu called near midnight.
"You're not supposed to ask questions like that," he said.
"I know."
"They'll mark you."
"They already have."
A pause.
Then: "You're forcing them to acknowledge you."
"Yes."
"And if they do?"
"Then they have to deal with me as a variable," I said. "Not padding."
He sighed. "You've changed."
I looked out at the city lights, steady and cold.
"No," I said. "I've stopped shrinking."
Before sleep, I updated the contingency file.
Option C now had a definition.
Two new exits opened.
One ally moved from potential to probable.
I closed the laptop.
Pressure was building.
Not around me.
Through me.
And somewhere above the glass towers and polite threats, someone was realizing a dangerous truth:
Insulation that understands the structure
can decide which parts burn—and which ones don't.