Four seconds.
The dark oak torso of the first automaton leaned forward over Landing 3A, its articulated joints clicking like a pocket watch dropped on flagstones.
Above its headless neck, the five-pound solid brass notary stamp began its downward stroke. The wet purple-black ink on the raised letters of FAILED / EXPULSION caught the dim amber light, ready to crush bone and sever civil registration in a single blow.
Julian Vance did not retreat.
There was no space to retreat. Behind him, the iron gate to the third floor was locked solid, and thirty feet below lay the inverted abyss of the municipal void.
In retail shift work, panic was an operational failure. When thirty customers mobbed a register during a power outage or a customer without a face tried to force unverified scrip across the counter, the clerk did not argue with the machine.
The clerk corrected the ledger.
Julian dropped to both knees, laying the three white silk armbands flat on the cold flagstones with their interior orange-glowing linings facing upward.
