Gray Aero sat in his modest apartment, sharpening his sword with mechanical precision. The whetstone scraped against steel—rhythmic, meditative, *wrong*.
He wasn't troubled. He wasn't thinking through a problem. He was just... cleaning his sword because it seemed like the proper thing to do. Maintenance. Discipline. Good habits.
The blade gleamed in the lamplight—perfectly sharp, perfectly maintained, perfectly *unnecessary* to sharpen again.
Gray stopped mid-stroke.
*When do I clean my sword for maintenance?*
Never. He cleaned his sword when *troubled*. When processing difficult thoughts. When wrestling with moral complexity or strategic problems.
But he hadn't been troubled in weeks. Everything felt... clear. Simple. The world operated on straightforward principles of justice and proper behavior. No moral ambiguity. No difficult decisions.
Gray set down the whetstone slowly.
*That's not how the world works.*
