Humanity never collapsed.
That was the strange part.
Civilizations usually fell loudly. They burned through excess, drowned in war, or shattered under ambition that grew too fast to control. History taught that pattern clearly. Yet this world did none of that. It endured. It stabilized. It learned how to stop leaning forward.
Progress slowed first. Not halted. Slowed just enough to feel reasonable.
Technology advanced, but never sharply. Medicine improved, but never dramatically. Lifespans increased, but only within safe margins. There were no golden ages and no dark ages, only a long stretch of adequacy.
People stopped talking about breakthroughs and started praising sustainability.
Society rewarded those who fit cleanly into its systems. Careers became predictable. Education became narrow. Dreams became smaller but safer. Those who failed were cushioned. Those who succeeded too much were quietly corrected.
No law explained it. No authority enforced it.
And yet effort beyond a certain point always failed.
The failures were subtle. Accidents. Sudden illnesses. Budget cuts. Lost data. Distractions. Fatigue without cause. Motivation draining for no reason anyone could articulate. When pressed, experts blamed probability. Stress. The complexity of modern life.
Most people accepted that explanation because it was comfortable.
But some noticed patterns.
A scientist who pushed too close to a new energy principle and died in a routine transit malfunction. An athlete whose body gave out on the eve of something historic. A political figure whose charisma collapsed overnight, replaced by bland caution.
None of it was dramatic enough to protest.
It was maintenance.
Children still dreamed, of course. That was unavoidable. But as they aged, something pressed down gently, persistently, until they learned the correct amount of wanting. Until ambition felt childish. Until pushing felt embarrassing.
Society called that maturity.
Sometimes, in crowded places or moments of extreme stress, people reported seeing shapes above others. Outlines that did not belong. Fleeting impressions like symbols half imagined.
Those reports were archived and forgotten.
The world remained safe.
Stable.
Small.
And somewhere within it, growing up under fluorescent lights and regulation posters and ceilings no one questioned, was a boy who felt the pressure more clearly than most.
A boy who did not hate injustice.
He hated limits.