The gloves took him to an apartment. Nondescript. Beige. Smelled like burnt olives and unresolved tension. Inside: dozens of screens, each broadcasting a slice of someone’s life—an old woman crying into her dog’s ashes, a cult leader baking scones, a clown stealing milk from a hospital fridge. “Observe,” said the gloves. “Do not intervene.” Lorgnette, naturally, immediately fed one of the monkeys. He fed it a lie.

The system cracked. The screens began to weep. The clown stole a gun. Somewhere, a domino of ruined lives began to fall, toppling governments, marriages, and the fragile ego of a popular podcast host. Lorgnette, meanwhile, used the distraction to sneak out with a duffel bag full of hallucinogenic mushrooms and a sense that he'd just pulled a lever he wasn't supposed to. The gloves buzzed against his skin like a hive of bored lawyers. “Congratulations,” they hissed. “You’ve nudged the wheel. Now let’s see where it rolls.”

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