Consequences never arrive on schedule.
They come early, late, or all at once—but never when people are ready.
I learned that lesson before sunrise.
The name I was using that morning was Liam Cross.
Different city.
Different posture.
Same problems.
Liam Cross preferred early trains and quiet stations. He dressed like someone with somewhere to be and no reason to explain it. That made him invisible in crowds that worshipped urgency.
I boarded the 6:10 a.m. train and took a seat near the door.
Two stops later, I felt it.
The weight shift.
The pause in breathing.
The kind of attention that didn't belong.
Someone was watching me.
Not from behind.
From the reflection in the window.
A woman. Mid-thirties. Business coat. Hair tied too neatly. She wasn't looking at me—she was looking through me.
Professional.
That made three in less than twenty-four hours.
Too many.
My phone vibrated once.
YOU MISSED A VARIABLE.
No sender.
I exhaled slowly.
So they were done pretending.
The train slowed as it approached the next station. I stood up before the doors opened, stretching like someone late for work.
When the doors slid apart, I stepped out.
She followed.
Good.
People think running creates distance.
It doesn't.
It creates intention.
I turned left, then right, then down a staircase that smelled like metal and old rain. Cameras watched every angle. I waved casually at one.
The woman stopped at the top of the stairs.
Smart.
She chose sight over speed.
I chose speed.
By the time she reached the bottom, I was gone—slipping through a service corridor meant for staff who didn't ask questions.
The café I ducked into was loud, crowded, and aggressively normal.
Perfect.
I ordered tea and sat near the back, watching reflections instead of faces.
Three minutes later, my phone vibrated again.
MESSAGE RECEIVED. RESPONSE EXPECTED.
They wanted acknowledgment.
I typed one word.
WHY?
The reply came instantly.
YOU ALTERED THE BALANCE TOO FAST.
Ah.
That explained it.
People don't hate disruption.
They hate unscheduled disruption.
I finished my tea without tasting it and stood.
The consequence arrived at noon.
Not for me.
For someone else.
A news alert flashed across a public screen as I walked past.
WITNESS FOUND DEAD. SUSPECT UNKNOWN.
The man from the café.
The brother.
The one who had chosen.
They'd moved faster than I expected.
That was on me.
I stopped walking.
For exactly two seconds.
Regret is useless.
But data isn't.
I memorized the details. Location. Time. Method. What was missing mattered more than what was there.
A message vibrated in my pocket.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DELAY CLOSURE.
Threat.
Lesson.
Invitation.
I typed my response while the crowd streamed past me.
YOU'RE WASTING RESOURCES.
The reply came slower this time.
YOU'RE WORTH IT.
That made things complicated.
By nightfall, Liam Cross was already dying.
Not literally.
Socially.
Financially.
Digitally.
Accounts frozen. Credentials questioned. A quiet investigation opened in a place that liked to stay quiet.
Pressure was tightening.
Good.
Pressure forces alignment.
I stood on another rooftop—different city, same height—and looked down at streets that didn't know my name yet.
Someone out there thought they were correcting an anomaly.
They weren't wrong.
They just misunderstood the nature of the problem.
I don't resist systems.
I stress-test them.
I pulled my hood up and sent one final message.
IF YOU WANT CONTROL, STOP REACTING.
IF YOU WANT OUTCOMES, FOLLOW MY LEAD.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
No reply.
Not yet.
That was fine.
Consequences had been delivered.
The counterstrike had begun.
And this time, I wasn't going to slow down.