Marc stops replying mid-thread, the way someone does when their screen has been taken from them, or their stomach drops before their fingers can catch up. A minute later the account you used gets a short notice: neutral language, corporate wallpaper, the kind of message that pretends it isn't a door closing. The exchange has been forwarded for review. Not flagged as drama. Flagged as procedure, which is how institutions do violence without raising their voices. You read it twice, looking for a joke, a misunderstanding, a way to pretend this is still rehearsal. There's none. The chat window sits open, an empty room. The operation doesn't explode. It closes, which is worse, because there's nothing left to grab: no leverage, no banter, no next move that feels like skill instead of panic. You aren't arrested in this moment. You're simply excised. [[The Aftermath]]