Signature

The prompt waited: confirm authorship.

The office was quiet at that hour. Only a few desks were occupied. The system loaded slowly, as if still waking. He read the document from beginning to end without scrolling back.

Nothing in it was false.

The framing was careful. Events were ordered in a way that suggested inevitability rather than cause. Decisions appeared as outcomes rather than responses. The language carried a steady tone, free of urgency.

He understood exactly what it did.

Anton placed the cursor at the top and began editing.

He adjusted transitions first. Then headings. He moved a paragraph upward, delayed another. He removed a sentence that introduced unnecessary specificity. In its place, he added a neutral connector.

The document grew smoother with each change.

He paused once, hovering over a section that referenced an earlier review. The original wording implied a decision that had never been formally recorded. He knew this. Others would too, if they looked closely.

He rewrote the passage to reflect alignment rather than sequence.

The problem disappeared.

When he finished, Anton read the document again. It flowed cleanly. No contradictions remained. The structure held.

He added his name to the header.

Anton waited.

The office around him filled slowly. Chairs moved. Screens lit. Conversations started and stopped. The day assembled itself.

He confirmed.

The system accepted the submission without delay.

A notification appeared in his inbox less than a minute later.

Thanks. This helps. — Hale

Anton closed the message.

The rest of the morning passed without interruption. Meetings occurred as scheduled. The review proceeded on time. No objections surfaced. The document circulated and settled into place.

By midday, references to it appeared in other threads. Phrases he had written began to reappear, detached from his name.

Anton noticed but did not react.

In the afternoon, Mira stopped by his desk.

“They used your version,” she said.

“Yes,” Anton replied.

She looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.

“They didn’t ask questions,” she said.

“No,” Anton said.

She nodded once and left.

Later, Anton opened his notebook. He turned to a blank page and waited. The pen rested in his hand, unmoving.

He closed the notebook.

As the day ended, he shut down his workstation and stood. The office felt lighter than it had in weeks. Work flowed. Tension had eased.

Outside, the evening air was cool and still. Anton walked without urgency, his bag light on his shoulder.

The decision had been made. The system had accepted it.

And there would be no version of the day in which it hadn’t happened.