Dave was five years old when he learned that hesitation could hurt.
Not theoretically.
Not philosophically.
But directly.
The playground behind the preschool had been renovated recently.
Brighter colors. Softer ground. Higher structures.
Adults called it safer.
Children called it better.
Dave stood near the edge of the climbing frame, watching as always. He didn't climb often—not because he couldn't, but because watching revealed patterns that movement hid.
A boy named Haru was already halfway up the tallest structure.
"You're not supposed to go that high!" a teacher called.
"I can do it!" Haru shouted back.
His quirk shimmered faintly around his arms—reinforcement, unstable and uneven.
Dave noticed the problem immediately.
Haru was rushing.
Not because he was confident.
Because he wanted to be seen.
In another life, Dave had recognized that look on coworkers' faces.
The moment someone chose speed over stability.
Hive reacted instantly.
Trajectory mapped.Muscle strain predicted.Failure probability rising sharply.
Request detected.
Hive wanted permission.
Not to act directly—
But to intervene early.
To shout.
To move.
To prevent.
Dave froze.
Adults were nearby.
Teachers were watching.
This isn't my responsibility, Dave thought.
That thought belonged to the child.
The hesitation belonged to the adult.
Haru's hand slipped.
The fall wasn't dramatic.
That made it worse.
He landed wrong.
Not broken.
But twisted.
The sound he made afterward wasn't loud—it was thin and sharp, like something tearing slowly.
The playground went quiet.
Teachers rushed in.
Someone cried.
Dave stood still.
Hive went silent.
Haru recovered.
Mostly.
Weeks later, he was back, quieter, slower, more careful.
But something had changed.
He didn't climb anymore.
Dave noticed that too.
At night, lying in bed, Dave replayed the moment.
Hive reconstructed it perfectly.
Intervention timing: sufficient.Risk reduction: significant.Social exposure: minimal.
Hive presented the outcome without judgment.
Dave provided the judgment himself.
"I said no," he thought.
Hive accepted that.
But it didn't agree.
The world kept moving.
Hero news talked about increasing quirk-related injuries in children.
Parents argued online.
Schools adjusted rules.
Somewhere else, a green-haired boy was learning—very slowly—that wanting something badly didn't make it possible.
Dave didn't know his name.
But he recognized the shape of the problem.
Weeks later, Dave walked home with Aiko.
"Why are you so quiet lately?" she asked gently.
Dave considered the question carefully.
"Do adults ever hesitate too much?" he asked instead.
Aiko stopped walking.
She knelt in front of him, rain dampening the knees of her pants.
"Yes," she said honestly. "All the time."
"Does that hurt people?"
She thought.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But rushing hurts people too."
Dave nodded.
That matched his data.
That night, Hive asked again.
Not urgently.
Not emotionally.
Permission request: conditional pre-emptive assistance.
Dave closed his eyes.
He remembered Haru's fall.
Remembered the sound.
Remembered choosing to do nothing.
"I won't give you full permission," Dave thought.
Hive waited.
"But next time," Dave continued, "you can warn me sooner."
Not act.
Not move his body.
Just notify.
Hive adjusted instantly.
Constraint accepted.
Dave didn't sleep immediately.
He thought about heroes.
About how the world rewarded fast, visible action.
About how the quiet failures never made the news.
Somewhere, a boy his age was probably running forward without hesitation.
Somewhere else, another child was standing still, afraid to move at all.
Dave understood both.
He turned onto his side.
Hive settled—not expanded, not suppressed.
Refined.
The next morning, Dave tied his shoes carefully.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Kenji watched him and smiled. "You're patient for your age."
Dave smiled back.
He wasn't patient.
He was learning where speed belonged.
End of Chapter 7