The Tribunal building was almost unrecognizable after nine.

The public corridors were dimmed, reception unmanned, the soundscape reduced to the low hum of climate control and the distant metallic echo of a closing door somewhere deep inside the structure. Riku signed in at security without being asked for press credentials. His name alone was enough. That, more than anything, confirmed that the evening would not follow protocol.

Takamori was standing by the window when Riku entered.

The city lights traced the outline of his shoulders, catching on the clean line of his collar and the faint tension held in his posture. He looked as though he had been waiting without allowing himself to appear as if he were.

For a moment, Riku felt disoriented.

Takamori turned slightly at the sound of the door closing. The movement was unhurried, yet Riku noticed the faint tightness along his jaw — the only sign that this evening was not routine.

It occurred to Riku, suddenly and uncomfortably, that he had never seen Takamori without the machinery of the Tribunal framing him.

Now there was only the man and the space between them. They didn’t sit at the desk. That was the first thing Riku noticed.

Takamori gestured toward the lower seating area instead, removing the physical barrier that usually defined their conversations.

“I want the unfiltered version,” Riku said. “Who pushed this, who benefits. And don’t give me institutional phrasing.”

Takamori didn’t look irritated.

“You believe your suspension was coordinated?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences that precise,” Riku replied. “The blog post went live before the internal memo hit the newsroom feed.”

Takamori inclined his head slightly.

“Your managing director has ongoing regulatory exposure,” he said. “The deputy minister’s office has leverage over it.”

Riku’s eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to piece the implication together.

“What kind of exposure?'' he asked, his tone steadier than the tension running underneath it.

“Regulatory,” Takamori replied. “Licensing reviews that can be reopened, tax audits that never quite conclude, procedural delays that stretch just long enough to become leverage.”

Riku let that settle.

“And in exchange for easing that pressure,” he said slowly, “they expected cooperation?”

Takamori did not contradict him.

“That would be the practical arrangement.”

Riku let out a slow breath.

“So they trade me for administrative mercy?”

“They trade doubt,” Takamori said, his voice steady. “If they undermine your credibility, they don’t need to disprove the annex. They only need to make people question it.”

Riku understood immediately.

“And once it’s contested in public, it stops being evidence and starts being opinion.”

"That buys them time.” Takamori said. 

“Time for what?”

“To challenge admissibility through oversight committees,” he replied. “To slow the confirmation process and consolidate support.”

Riku crossed his arms, as if holding the pieces in place while the structure rearranged itself in his mind.

“So this isn’t just about me, it’s about your nomination?"

“It’s about leverage on me.'' Takamori said. ''If I look compromised, my appointment stalls. That’s the point. They don’t even have to win the argument — just have to make me look partial.”

He continued, “A committee begins to ask whether I can oversee an investigation tied to a journalist I’m publicly aligned with.”

“So they isolate me,” Riku said, more to himself than to Takamori. “Then they wait for you to either defend me or step back. Either way, they frame it.”

“Yes.”

“What do you intend to publish?” Takamori asked.

Riku let out a quiet breath.

“I traced the routing logs. The raw annex was accessed by your deputy minister’s office proxy account twelve minutes after it left my system.”

“Are you certain it’s not spoofed?”

“I verified the IP chain twice.”

“If you publish the routing data,” Takamori said, more directly now, “you make it impossible for them to pretend this was an internal newsroom issue. It becomes political interference.”

“And if you confirm the archive at the same time,” Riku added, already thinking ahead, “they can’t keep the focus on whether I manipulated anything.”

“They lose the ability to question the document without exposing their involvement,” Takamori replied. “The discussion moves from you to them.”

Riku watched him closely.

“You’ve already decided you’re going to do it?”

“I decided I would if you had something solid,” Takamori said.

“And now that I do...”

“If we move together,” Takamori continued, “we escalate once, cleanly. They won’t have time to build a counter-narrative before the connection is public.”

Riku narrowed his eyes.

“And if we don’t?”

“They continue isolating you,” Takamori said. “They let doubt spread and slow the confirmation vote quietly. And win time without appearing aggressive.”

Takamori’s gaze dropped briefly to Riku’s hands resting on the chair back, then lifted again.

“You’re not telling me everything,” Riku said quietly.

“I am telling you what is relevant.”

“No,” Riku shook his head slightly. “You’re telling me the surface mechanics. I want the rest. Who’s backing the deputy minister. Who stands to gain if your nomination collapses. And don’t simplify it for me.”

Takamori studied him for a moment.

“The deputy minister is positioning himself for the Justice portfolio if my confirmation fails,” he said. “He has support from two regional prosecutors who prefer a controlled Tribunal rather than an independent one. Your managing director’s board ties give him access to funding and regulatory cover.”

“And the committee?”

“Split,” Takamori replied. “Three members are undecided. If the perception shifts that I am personally entangled with a journalist tied to the indictment, they gain justification to delay the vote.”

Riku’s fingers tightened around the chair.

“And you knew they’d try to use me?”

“You think I’m using you as well? Takamori said.

Riku didn’t look away.

“Aren’t you?”

“If I wanted distance,” Takamori replied, his voice lower now, “you would not be here after hours.”

For a second neither of them moved.

“You don’t actually need me for the reform,” Riku said after a moment, watching him carefully.

“I need independent scrutiny,” Takamori replied without hesitation. “If you’re pushed out of this, it becomes much easier for them to dilute what I’m trying to change.”

Riku absorbed that, then shook his head slightly.

“That’s still strategy.”

“It is.”

Riku let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

“And outside of strategy?”

The question lingered between them. Takamori didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out.

His fingers closed over Riku’s wrist where it rested on the chair. The contact was firm and steady — not possessive. It stopped Riku mid-breath.

For a moment Takamori didn’t speak. He seemed to be weighing something.

“I don’t make impulsive decisions,” he said quietly. “Not professionally and not personally.”

Riku felt the warmth of his hand, the measured pressure. Takamori’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I told you who stands to gain from discrediting you. I told you what it does to the vote and what it risks for me.”

His thumb shifted slightly against Riku’s pulse — almost analytical, as if confirming that it was there.

““I’m asking you to act with me because you see the board the way I do.”

Riku’s voice dropped.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. You want clarity,” he said. “Then here it is.”

He didn’t step back.

“I don’t separate the professional from the personal as cleanly as I pretend to.”

“When they moved against you,” he continued, “my first response was not strategic.”

Riku searched his face.

“What was it?”

“Anger.”

The honesty in that single word shifted something in the room.

“I am offering alignment,” Takamori said, holding his gaze. “Publicly, strategically... and privately.”

The last word wasn’t emphasized, but it changed the temperature.