Morning preparation had already been completed.

  Clothing adjusted. Collar aligned. Documentation reviewed.

  I stood near the small table in my room, turning a few pages in my notebook. Several lines from the previous evening required clarification. Infrastructure discussions had a tendency to multiply variables overnight.

  I had just finished underlining a section labeled “mechanical compaction requirements” when the door received three loud knocks. Not polite ones. Operational ones.

  Before I could answer, the door opened.

  Nicholas stepped inside with the unmistakable expression of a man expecting victory.

  He looked almost offensively cheerful.

  Eyes bright. Shoulders relaxed. Smile wide enough to suggest anticipated revenge.

  In summary: excessive gloating.

  “Up.” He grinned. “Vacation’s over. I’m returning the favor.”

  He waited.

  I said, “Good morning.”

  Nicholas blinked. His expression faltered and he looked at me again, properly this time.

  Clothing already adjusted. Boots secured. Notebook in hand. Consciousness clearly established.

  The smile collapsed. His posture changed noticeably.

  Earlier enthusiasm: evaporated.

  Shoulders slightly lower.

  Eyes narrowed.

  Overall emotional state: disappointed.

  “I thought you’d finally learn what it feels like to be woken up early.”

  “I informed you previously that vacation does not alter my sleep rhythm.”

  Nicholas frowned. “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “You absolutely did not.”

  “I did.”

  He stared at me for a moment longer, perhaps hoping fatigue would suddenly manifest.

  It did not.

  “I stand up at the same hour on workdays,” I continued calmly. “Vacation respects no biological negotiation.”

  Nicholas rubbed his face. “This is incredibly unsatisfying.”

  “That appears to be your problem.”

  He sighed. Then waved toward the hallway.

  “Well… since you’re already functioning like a perfectly wound clock, we might as well get breakfast,” he muttered.

  That was acceptable.

  We left the room and walked down the corridor toward the kitchen.

  Nicholas still looked mildly offended by my existence.

  Which, statistically speaking, suggested the day had begun normally.

  We were almost at the kitchen when Nicholas slowed down.

  “Do you see that?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The floor had been marked. Thin lines, carefully drawn and separated by approximately one meter, ran along the corridor with quiet determination, like a silent architectural argument.

  Nicholas stopped walking.

  “What is that supposed to be?”

  “That is an attempt at order.”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “You did this, didn’t you?”

  “Not directly.”

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “That answer worries me.”

  We continued forward, and around the corner the explanation revealed itself. A line of people waited in front of the entrance to the kitchen hall. Not a crowd, not the usual morning cluster of hungry workers, but an actual line. Each person stood precisely within one of the marked intervals—roughly one meter apart. There was no pushing, no drifting, no slow gravitational collapse of personal space. Just quiet compliance.

  Nicholas stopped again.

  “You definetly did this. This has your fingerprints all over it.”

  “I merely demonstrated the principle.”

  “You created this.”

  “I created the possibility.”

  “That is the same thing.”

  “No. This indicates voluntary adoption.”

  Nicholas stared at the line as if it had personally offended him. After a moment the people moved forward, one position at a time. Predictable. Efficient. Almost unsettling.

  Eventually we reached the entrance and stepped inside. The interior had undergone further adjustments. Tables had been rearranged into clean rows with identical spacing between them, chairs aligned with a level of symmetry normally reserved for military parades. Additional markings covered the floor. Clearly painted arrows indicated the direction of movement toward the food counter—one direction only, eliminating crossing traffic.

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  Nicholas slowly turned in place, absorbing the scene.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “It is structured.”

  “It’s a dining hall.”

  “Yes.”

  “People eat here.”

  “Yes.”

  “They are not wagons in traffic.”

  “People are significantly worse at collision avoidance.”

  Nicholas gestured helplessly toward the arrows. “There are arrows on the floor.”

  “Yes.”

  “For food.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked around again. Several workers walked quietly along the marked direction toward the serving counter. There was no congestion, no shouting, no accidental elbow diplomacy.

  Nicholas rubbed his temples.

  “You redesigned breakfast.”

  “I optimized movement.”

  “That is the same thing.”

  “It is not.”

  He looked at the perfectly aligned tables again and sighed. “I’m starting to understand why the bakers are afraid of you.”

  “Fear is an inefficient interpretation of improvement.”

  Nicholas muttered something that sounded very much like a prayer for patience as we joined the line, which—for once—already existed.

  “Oho! You’re here as well.”

  The voice came from behind us.

  I turned. The kitchen chief stood a few steps away. Recognition required a brief moment of recalibration.

  Previously observed characteristics: thick hair tied into a practical knot.

  Current state: none. Complete cranial smoothness. No loose strands. No accidental contamination vectors.

  Nicholas leaned slightly closer and whispered in a tone that attempted discretion but failed at respect. “That wasn’t actually your doing… right?”

  The way he said it suggested two simultaneous interpretations: first, mild accusation; second, quiet horror at the possibility that it had indeed been me.

  Before I could respond, the kitchen chief waved us over toward the side entrance of the kitchen. “You two can eat in here if you want. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  We followed. Along the wall beside the entrance hung several garments I had not seen during my first visit—full-body coverings made of simple cloth suits with tight cuffs, long sleeves, and separate caps.

  She was already pulling one over her head. “Before you come in, you’ll need to put these on.”

  Nicholas looked at me. The expression could best be described as deeply betrayed resignation. He said nothing, but his face conducted a silent argument with reality: Max did this. Max definitely did this.

  I took one of the garments. Nicholas followed with the emotional enthusiasm of a condemned man accepting paperwork.

  While we were still adjusting sleeves and tying the cloth belts, the kitchen chief had already picked up two trays—fresh bread, sliced meat, and something that appeared to be cheese.

  “Come on,” she said. “Before it gets cold.”

  We stepped into the kitchen. The difference from my first visit was measurable. Movement pathways were clear, workstations separated, and containers labeled. Most noticeable, however, were the workers. Every one of them wore the same protective clothing, and every visible head was completely shaved. No hair. Not even eyebrows.

  Nicholas slowed down slightly as he observed the room. His eyes moved from worker to worker. “…That’s unsettling,” he murmured.

  Operationally efficient, however.

  We entered a small break room adjacent to the kitchen. The kitchen chief gestured toward two chairs. “Sit.”

  She placed the trays on the table. “The changes you sent the king after your first visit—I tried to implement them as best as I could.”

  She leaned back slightly against the table. “People reach the food about thirty percent faster now.”

  She held up one finger. “Since the changes, nobody’s gotten sick.”

  Another finger. “And no one complains about hair in the food anymore.”

  She nodded toward the kitchen behind us. “Also… it’s quieter in the dining hall.”

  Nicholas leaned back in his chair and glanced toward the door. “Well, if everything is this controlled, I’m not surprised nobody dares to talk.”

  I shook my head slightly. “That is not control. It is structure.”

  Nicholas looked unconvinced, but he took a piece of bread anyway, which indicated partial acceptance of the system.

  I examined the kitchen behind the open door again, noting the spacing, the movement flow, and the directional markings. Then I looked at the kitchen chief.

  “You implemented the adjustments.”

  She straightened slightly. “Yes.”

  “That is… notable.”

  Her expression brightened.

  “Particularly the arrows and the distance markers. They correspond reasonably well to the intended spacing.” I gestured vaguely toward the dining hall. “Not perfect, but within a tolerable deviation range.”

  Nicholas muttered something that sounded like that’s a compliment in Max-language.

  The kitchen chief looked openly proud. “I wasn’t sure about the arrows at first, but people follow them. It’s… easier.”

  “That is generally how arrows function.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “And the suits help a lot with hygiene.”

  I hesitated. “About that.”

  She waited.

  “The shaving was unnecessary.”

  Nicholas blinked. “What?”

  “The hair removal.” I gestured toward my head. “A cap would have achieved the same containment.”

  Silence settled over the room.

  Nicholas slowly turned toward the kitchen, then back toward me.

  “Ehm… Especially the eyebrows,” he added carefully.

  The kitchen chief frowned. “The eyebrows?”

  Nicholas nodded. “They don’t exactly fall into soup every few seconds.”

  The kitchen chief looked between us and then back at me.

  I explained, “The objective was to prevent loose hair from entering food preparation areas. Head coverings are normally sufficient.”

  She raised a hand. “Stop.”

  The room became quiet.

  Her expression shifted—first confusion, then calculation, and finally a slow, creeping realization. The color left her face.

  She stared at me. “So you’re telling me…”

  Her voice dropped. “…we didn’t actually have to shave?”

  I considered the statement. “Correct.”

  “And not just the hair,” she continued faintly. “All of it.”

  Nicholas nodded gently. “Looks like it.”

  The kitchen chief became noticeably paler and leaned against the table. “This is going to cause a revolt.”

  Nicholas perked up. “Why?”

  She pointed toward the kitchen. “Do you think they did that voluntarily?”

  Nicholas followed her gesture. Rows of workers moved efficiently between the stations—smooth heads, smooth faces, smooth brows.

  It took a moment. Then understanding arrived, not suddenly but with the quiet inevitability of structural collapse.

  “Oh,” Nicholas said softly.

  “Yes,” said the kitchen chief.

  Nicholas leaned closer to the table and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We could just not tell anyone.”

  She looked at him.

  He continued, “we pretend that was always the plan.”

  The kitchen chief stared at him for several seconds, then sighed. “That might be the only thing keeping this kitchen from burning down.”

  Nicholas nodded gravely. “Which would be unfortunate.”

  I considered the situation.

  “Documentation will reflect the original intention.”

  Both of them looked at me. Nicholas pointed at me slowly.

  “See?” He nodded toward the kitchen. “That’s exactly the problem.”

  Before the conversation could deteriorate further, a voice from the kitchen called out.

  “Chief! We need you here!”

  The kitchen chief raised a hand. “One moment. I’ll be right back.”

  She stepped out of the break room and disappeared into the kitchen. The door shut behind her.

  For approximately three seconds there was silence. Then Nicholas turned to me. Not calmly. “You cannot do that.”

  I looked at him. “Do what?”

  “You cannot just casually rewrite hygiene standards for an entire kitchen and accidentally cause a mass shaving event.”

  “That was not the intention.”

  “That is not the point.”

  He leaned forward across the table. “Normally you’re obsessively precise. Every word measured. Every instruction documented. But this time you write something vague and suddenly the kitchen staff looks like polished cannonballs.”

  I considered the accusation.

  He was correct about one thing: my documentation usually minimized interpretive deviation. I reviewed the original memorandum in memory.

  Then I noticed the error.

  The directive had not been written for this kitchen. It had been written for kitchens in general—a generalized sanitation guideline. The interpretation gap had therefore been significant.

  Nicholas watched me think. Several seconds passed. Eventually he narrowed his eyes.

  “Well?”

  He waited. “Do you have something to say?”

  I evaluated the potential impact of explaining the distinction between general procedural guidance and local implementation interpretation.

  Conclusion: negligible operational benefit.

  “It would not meaningfully improve the situation.”

  Nicholas stared at me. “That might be the most bureaucratic confession I’ve ever heard.”

  We continued eating. The bread was acceptable.

  The silence lasted until the door opened again.

  The kitchen chief stepped back inside. Her expression had shifted from mild panic to operational focus.

  “The royal scribe is here,” she said. “And the court mage.”

  Nicholas blinked. “They’re here?”

  She nodded toward the corridor. “They said something about engineers.”

  She looked at me. “They’re here to collect you.”

  A pause followed. Then she added, “Apparently someone is awaiting your instructions.”

  Structural Addendum:

  General of a Store.