The request didn't come as an invitation.
It came as pressure.
Not from the advisory presence—not anymore—but from everywhere else. Messages stacked faster than I could read them. Media outlets. Professional committees. Anonymous accounts that spoke with borrowed certainty.
Clarify your position.
Explain the framework.
Reassure the public.
Marcus watched the feeds scroll past on three different screens.
"They're not asking questions," he said. "They're setting terms."
"Yes," I replied. "And hoping I'll accept them."
Mara stood near the window, silent. She hadn't taken her eyes off the city since the panel ended. Lights flickered on across the skyline, thousands of windows glowing with private anxieties.
"They want you to make them feel safe," she said quietly.
I nodded. "They want certainty back. Even if it wears my voice."
The advisory presence chimed—not interrupting, just acknowledging.
[Public engagement probability rising.]
[Silence interpreted as evasion.]
"I know," I said.
Marcus leaned back, arms crossed. "You don't owe them anything."
"No," I replied. "But they don't know that."
I thought of the man on the panel. Of the pause before he spoke. Of what it cost him to say something simple and unprotected.
Truth didn't arrive armored.
It arrived exposed.
"Schedule it," I said.
Marcus looked at me sharply. "You're sure?"
"No," I replied. "But I'm done letting other people define the risk."
The advisory presence hesitated.
[Clarification:]
[Message parameters unspecified.]
"Exactly," I said. "No parameters."
The stream went live an hour later.
No panel.
No moderator.
No background graphics.
Just me.
I didn't sit behind a desk. I stood in front of a plain wall, hands visible, posture unguarded.
The counter climbed fast.
Ten thousand.
Fifty.
Hundreds of thousands.
I took a breath.
"I'm not here to reassure you," I said.
The chat froze for half a second.
"I'm not here to promise safety, or certainty, or outcomes you don't have to think about."
The advisory presence stilled completely.
"I'm here because you were told that recent changes were reckless," I continued. "That uncertainty is negligence."
I leaned slightly closer to the camera.
"And that's only true if you believe someone else should always decide for you."
The feed exploded.
Marcus exhaled slowly behind the camera.
I kept going.
"For a long time, harm was minimized by removing choice," I said. "Not loudly. Not violently. Quietly."
I didn't say system.
I didn't say correction.
I didn't need to.
"Most of you never noticed," I continued. "Because the cost was paid elsewhere."
I paused.
"In erased possibilities. In lives that never got to surprise you."
The chat slowed.
Fear didn't vanish.
But it shifted.
"You've seen numbers," I said. "Percentages. Projections. Risk curves."
I shook my head.
"They don't tell you what it feels like to let a stranger decide what kind of loss is acceptable."
I swallowed.
"I won't pretend this new framework is safer," I said. "It isn't."
That landed hard.
"But it is honest," I added. "And honesty doesn't protect you. It involves you."
The advisory presence flickered—strained, but silent.
"You don't have to like that," I said. "You don't have to choose it."
I straightened.
"But if you ask for certainty back, you should do it knowing what you're asking someone else to carry for you."
The counter ticked higher.
A million.
I finished quietly.
"There is no neutral position anymore," I said. "Only choices you make—or let others make in your name."
I stepped back.
The stream ended.
Silence filled the room.
Not relief.
Aftershock.
Marcus was the first to speak. "You just refused to sell it."
"Yes," I replied.
Mara finally turned from the window. Her expression was unreadable.
"You didn't defend the framework," she said.
"No," I agreed. "I defended people knowing what they're choosing."
The advisory presence chimed once—soft, almost reverent.
[Public response variance high.]
"That's putting it mildly," Marcus muttered.
The feeds lit up again.
Support.
Anger.
Fear.
But something else threaded through it now.
Ownership.
Mara crossed the room slowly.
"You know what happens next," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
"They'll stop arguing about the system," she continued. "And start arguing about you."
I met her gaze.
"That was always coming."
Outside, the city buzzed—no longer waiting for instructions, no longer shielded from consequence.
The advisory presence remained still.
For the first time, it wasn't framing outcomes.
It was watching people do it themselves.
Marcus glanced at the screen again. "Requests are coming in. Debates. Forums. Assemblies."
I nodded.
"The future didn't accept or reject what you said," Mara whispered. "It… engaged."
"Yes," I replied. "And that's more dangerous than certainty ever was."
I looked at the dark screen where my face had just been.
"This is where it stops being about frameworks," I said.
"And starts being about power," Marcus finished.
I didn't deny it.
Because once you told people the truth—
They didn't all choose the same thing.
And no system could optimize what came next.