Writers test things. That's our sickness.
I opened a blank document. Not for posting. Just for myself.
The panic will die down by morning.
I didn't believe it. That was the point.
I closed the file and waited.
Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
The strike ended overnight. Officials blamed "miscommunication." The contamination was declared "within acceptable limits." Videos circulating the night before were suddenly labeled unverified.
People went to work like nothing had happened.
My chest felt hollow.
I tried again.
People are angrier than they admit.
That afternoon, a fight broke out on the metro. Then another. Then five more, filmed from different angles, all uploaded with captions that felt… rehearsed.
I wasn't predicting.
I was nudging.
No—worse.
I was lying confidently.
And the world was correcting itself to match me.
That night, I wrote the truth.
I am scared.
Nothing happened.
The city didn't slow.
My hands didn't stop shaking.
Truth, it seemed, had no weight.