The spike in traffic caught Riku’s attention before anything else did.

Early afternoon numbers didn’t move like that without a trigger. He checked the referral source. It wasn’t a major outlet. It was a legal affairs blog he barely recognized — the kind that specialized in procedural discrepancies and document analysis.

His inbox began filling almost immediately: journalists asking for clarification, two legal analysts requesting comment, a producer from a political panel show asking if he would be available that evening...

Riku opened the blog post.

The tone was controlled and precise. The author claimed to have reviewed a version of the procurement annex cited in his article and identified a mismatch in the metadata. According to their source, the modification timestamp on the file they had obtained did not align with the Tribunal’s official archive log.

The argument was clear: if the timestamps differed, the document could have been altered before publication.

The annex wasn’t peripheral. It linked the deputy minister’s authorization to a specific expedited vendor approval. Without it, the article still stood — but the chain of responsibility became easier to dispute.

Riku reopened his copy on the laptop and pulled up the file properties. The modification timestamp matched the official archive. He checked the digital hash as well. It aligned with the version he had downloaded from the Tribunal’s public records office.

If the blog was working from a file with altered metadata, it hadn’t come from him.

His phone vibrated across the desk.

Editor.

The voice on the other end was neutral. “Conference room. Bring your laptop.”

The conference room’s glass walls exposed everything to the newsroom floor. Riku noticed that before he registered the two members of the legal team already seated at the table.

His editor stood near the display screen, tablet in hand. The blog post was projected in full, with the relevant paragraph highlighted.

“We’ve received a formal inquiry from the Press Ethics Council,” one of the lawyers said as Riku took a seat. “They’re requesting documentation of your source chain and the file handling process for the annex.”

“On the basis of this post?” Riku asked.

“On the basis of the discrepancy it describes.”

Riku connected his laptop to the screen and opened the annex file properties. The timestamps were clearly visible. 

“This is the file I used. It matches the Tribunal’s archive log. I verified it prior to publication.”

The editor studied the screen without comment. “Forward the original file to legal again,” he said. “Including the email chain from when you received it.”

“I already sent it this morning.”

“We’ll need it documented formally.”

Riku complied, forwarding the encrypted archive and the initial correspondence from the Tribunal records department.

The legal counsel reviewed the blog post once more. 

“Their source claims the file was modified six hours after archival entry.”

“That doesn’t match this version,” Riku said. “If they’re citing a modified file, then they weren’t given this one.”

The room fell into a brief, thoughtful silence.

“You understand how this appears externally,” the editor said at last. Riku met his gaze. “Explain it.”

“The annex significantly strengthens the case against the deputy minister. If someone believes it was adjusted to sharpen the narrative, the credibility of the entire article becomes vulnerable.”

“I did not alter it.”

“No one is making a formal accusation,” the editor replied. “But the paper has to assess exposure risk.”

Exposure risk, liability and reputational containment. Riku felt the direction of the conversation shift from verification to positioning.

“Have we requested confirmation from the Tribunal archive?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because contacting them immediately could reinforce the perception of coordination,” the editor said evenly. “We need to establish our internal review first.”

The phrasing was careful, institutional. Riku recognized it. He had used similar language when reporting on organizations attempting to manage fallout.

“You reviewed the annex before publication,” he said. “You confirmed it was intact.”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Now we suspend you pending review.”

The legal counsel added, “Your access to internal servers will be temporarily restricted while we conduct the audit. This is procedural.”

Riku absorbed the words in silence. Suspension meant more than public optics. It removed him from the newsroom at a critical moment in the investigation and signaled distance between him and the institution that had published his work.

“Is this primarily about liability,” he asked carefully, “or about demonstrating independence from the Tribunal?”

The editor held his gaze. “It’s about preserving the paper’s credibility during political escalation.”

Riku gathered his laptop and stepped back onto the newsroom floor. Conversations softened as he passed. A holding statement was already circulating in a shared channel, drafted in language that emphasized the paper’s commitment to transparency and ethical review.

He closed his computer before his access credentials expired.

The annex file had been forwarded in raw format only once outside his encrypted archive — to his editor for pre-publication verification.                                                                         

If an altered version had reached the blog, it had not originated from his system.

                                                                                              ***

Riku didn’t wait this time. He called Takamori the moment he stepped into his apartment, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

“They suspended me before verifying the archive,” he said.

“How formal,” Takamori asked, “and who was present?”

“Legal was in the room. They announced an internal review before they contacted you.”

Riku set his keys down sharply.

“They haven’t contacted the Tribunal,” Takamori replied.

“That’s the point,” Riku said. “If the archive matches my copy — and it does — then someone gave that blog a modified file. The only place the document left my system was my editor’s inbox.”

Takamori didn’t interrupt.

“You don’t even question it?” Riku pressed.

“There is nothing to question,” Takamori said. “If your file is intact, the alteration happened elsewhere.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Riku replied, the edge in his voice no longer concealed.

The edge slipped into his voice before he could smooth it. There was a subtle shift on the other end — fabric moving, perhaps Takamori straightening.

“It isn’t easy,” Takamori replied. “It’s simply clear.”

Riku let out a breath.

“They acted too quickly. No verification, no call to you. They just cut me loose.”

He leaned back against the wall, needing something solid behind him.

“You said there would be retaliation,” he continued. “Did you think it would come through me?”

“I expected pressure on the investigation,” Takamori said. “I didn’t expect your own paper to make it easier.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am.”

Riku absorbed that.

“Not at me?”

“No.”

There was no hesitation in the answer, and that steadiness unsettled him more than doubt would have.

“You could end this tonight,” Riku said. “One statement confirming the archive integrity.”

“I am deciding whether that protects you or exposes you further.”

The tone was controlled, but Riku could hear the restraint under it — the careful narrowing of options.

“They’ve already exposed me,” Riku said. “I’m marked.” There was silence long enough that Riku could hear his own breathing.

“If you’re already marked,” Takamori said, more measured now, “then my public intervention carries less additional risk.”

Riku felt his pulse spike at the word damage.

“I’m going to trace it,” Riku said. “If the file was altered, I want proof of where it happened.”

“You should,” Takamori replied. “Only proof will hold.”

“And if that proof leads back to my newsroom.”

“Then you confront it,” Takamori said. “Even if it means facing your editor.”

Riku turned toward the window. His reflection stared back at him, sharper, more strained than he expected.

“Have you already considered that possibility?”

“Yes,” Takamori replied.

“They’re using me to shield themselves,” Riky said.

“Discrediting you is a crude method,” Takamori said.

Riku almost laughed.

“That’s what bothers you?”

“It bothers me that they calculated you as expendable.”

Riku’s pacing stopped completely.

“Don’t think I am?” he said.

“No...”

Riku closed his eyes briefly.

“You didn’t answer one thing...”

“What?”

“Why you didn’t call me first?”

There was a small intake of breath on the other end almost imperceptible.

“I was confirming the archive,” Takamori said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Silence. Then, lower:

“I did not want you to think I was directing your response.”

The honesty in that admission shifted something between them. Riku let the quiet stretch.

“I’m not stepping back,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“And I’m not asking you to shield me...”

“I know.”

Riku remained by the window after the call should have ended.

The city below moved with its usual indifference, headlights threading through intersections, office lights switching off one floor at a time. Nothing in the skyline suggested that his position had shifted within the last thirty minutes.

On the other end of the line, Takamori did not disconnect either.

“You shouldn’t discuss the rest of this over an unsecured line,” he said at last.

Riku glanced at the screen of his phone as if it might offer reassurance.

“When?” Riku asked.

“Tonight, my office,” Takamori said. “This won’t be procedural.”

Riku paused, thinking it through. A late visit to the Tribunal would be logged. Entry records were kept, and unusual movement rarely went unnoticed.

“All right.”

“If you’re coming,” Takamori continued, “leave the recorder behind.”

Riku didn’t respond at once. He had never met Takamori without one.

After a moment, he said, “I’ll be there.”

The line disconnected. Riku picked up his jacket and headed back toward the Tribunal.