The Tokyo Shimbun headquarters was a glass tower in the center of the city—modern, cold, and utterly indifferent to the people who walked through its doors. Ren stood outside for a full minute, staring at his reflection in the polished lobby. He looked like hell—dark circles under his eyes, his clothes rumpled, his hair a mess. But he didn't care. He had come too far to care about appearances.
Takeshi had called ahead. Murata Saori was waiting for them on the fifth floor, in a small office cluttered with newspapers and coffee cups and the smell of old cigarettes.
She was younger than Ren expected—maybe thirty, with short black hair and eyes that missed nothing. She wore a simple blouse and slacks, no jewelry, no makeup. Her voice was low and steady, the voice of someone who had interviewed criminals and victims alike.
"Akiyama-kun," she said, gesturing to a chair. "Sit down. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I haven't."
"I can tell." She sat across from him, her notebook open on her knee. "Takeshi told me you have something. Something big."
Ren pulled out the USB drive—a copy, not the original. The original was with Kobayashi, locked in her safe. This one was for Murata.
"Everything is on here," he said. "Financial records. Photographs. Witness statements. Evidence linking Kenji Takahashi to Sakamoto Tetsuya's trafficking network."
Murata's eyes widened. She reached for the drive, then stopped. "What do you want in exchange?"
"I want you to publish the story. Everything. No redactions. No holding back."
"That's not how journalism works. We have to verify—"
"I've verified everything. The bank records are from Nakamura Reiko, Kenji's former lawyer. The photographs are from his own computer. The witness statements are from Lee Mina and Tanaka Yui—both of whom are willing to go on the record."
Murata stared at him. "Nakamura Reiko gave you this? Kenji's own lawyer?"
"She has a conscience. Apparently."
Murata was silent for a long moment. Then she took the USB drive.
"I'll look at everything. If it's real—if the evidence holds up—I'll publish. But I have one condition."
"What?"
"You give me an interview. About your past. About being a prodigy. About why you disappeared."
Ren's jaw tightened. "That's not relevant."
"It is relevant. The public needs to know who you are. Why you're involved. Why they should believe you." She leaned forward. "You're not just a witness, Akiyama-kun. You're a character in this story. And if people don't trust you, they won't trust the evidence."
"I don't care if people trust me. I care about stopping Kenji."
"Then trust me. This is how you stop him. The court of public opinion is faster than the court of law. If I publish this story, Kenji becomes a pariah. His connections abandon him. The police have no choice but to act."
Ren looked at Takeshi. Takeshi nodded.
"Fine," Ren said. "One interview. But I choose the questions."
"Within reason."
"Within my reason."
Murata smiled—a thin, sharp smile. "Deal."
---
The interview lasted two hours.
Murata asked about his mother. About his father. About the competitions, the television appearances, the night he ran away. Ren answered every question, his voice flat, his face blank. He didn't cry. He didn't show emotion. He just told the truth.
By the end, Murata's notebook was full.
"You're remarkable," she said. "Most people would have broken down."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're not." She closed her notebook. "I'll have the story ready by tomorrow morning. Front page. But you need to understand—once this publishes, there's no going back. Kenji will know you're the source. He'll come after you."
"He's already after me."
"Then you'd better be ready."
---
Ren walked out of the Tokyo Shimbun building with the sun in his eyes and a weight on his chest.
Takeshi was waiting by the car. "How did it go?"
"She's publishing tomorrow. Front page."
"That's good."
"It's dangerous. Kenji will know."
"Kenji already knows." Takeshi opened the car door. "Come on. We need to check on Hikari."
---
The new group home was in Suginami—a quiet residential neighborhood with tree-lined streets and small parks. The building was newer than the last one, with security cameras at every entrance and a gate that required a code to open. Ren had called ahead, so the social worker—a young man named Mr. Tanaka, no relation to the investigator—was waiting for them at the entrance.
"Hikari is settling in well," Mr. Tanaka said as he led them inside. "She's been asking about you constantly."
"I'm here now."
"I know. But remember the rules—no touching, no private conversations, no passing of items. The supervisor will be in the room at all times."
Ren nodded. He had expected nothing less.
The common room was smaller than the last one, but cozier—warm lighting, soft couches, a bookshelf filled with actual books instead of worn paperbacks. Hikari was sitting on the couch, a book in her hands, but she looked up the moment Ren walked in.
"Ren—"
She started to stand, then remembered the rules. She sat back down, her hands gripping the book, her eyes shining.
"You came."
"I said I would."
"You look terrible."
"You look beautiful."
She laughed—a real laugh, the first one he had heard in days. "You're such a liar."
"I'm not lying."
The social worker—a woman in her forties, stern but not unkind—sat in the corner, watching them. Ren sat on the couch across from Hikari, the same distance as always. Too close to touch. Too far to hold.
"The journalist is publishing the story tomorrow," Ren said quietly. "Everything. The evidence. The witnesses. Kenji's connections."
Hikari's eyes widened. "Will it work?"
"It has to."
"And if it doesn't?"
Ren didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the truth was, he didn't know. He had done everything he could. The evidence was solid. The witnesses were willing. The journalist was competent. But the system was broken, and Kenji had friends in places Ren couldn't reach.
"It will work," he said finally. "It has to."
Hikari looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, "I believe you."
"You shouldn't. I'm not always right."
"You're right about this. I can feel it."
Ren wanted to reach out. To touch her hand. To hold her. But the social worker was watching, and the rules were clear, and he couldn't risk losing the right to visit her.
So he sat there, three feet away, and pretended that was enough.
---
The visit ended at 4 PM.
Ren walked out of the group home with the sun setting behind him, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Takeshi was waiting in the car, his phone in his hand.
"We have a problem," Takeshi said.
Ren's heart stopped. "What?"
"Kobayashi called. The prosecutor's office—the special investigations unit—they want to meet with you. Tomorrow. Before the story publishes."
"That's not a problem. That's an opportunity."
"It's a problem because the meeting is at the same police station where we talked to Captain Ishida. The same building. The same people."
Ren's jaw tightened. "Did Kobayashi say who the prosecutor is?"
"A man named Ito. She says he's clean. She trusts him."
"Do you trust him?"
Takeshi was silent for a moment. Then: "I trust Kobayashi. That's all I can say."
"Then we go. Tomorrow. Before the story publishes."
"And if it's a trap?"
Ren looked at the group home—at the window where Hikari was probably watching him leave, her face pressed against the glass.
"Then we walk into it together."
---
That night, Ren couldn't sleep.
He lay on Takeshi's couch, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible scenario. The prosecutor could be clean. The prosecutor could be corrupt. The meeting could be a trap. The meeting could be a breakthrough.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. All he could do was prepare.
At 2 AM, his phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number. Not Kenji. Someone else.
You're doing the right thing, Akiyama-kun. Don't stop now.
Ren stared at the message. Who had sent it? Akemi? Nakamura? Someone else entirely?
He typed back: Who is this?
No response.
He tried calling. The number was disconnected.
Ren put the phone down and closed his eyes.
He didn't sleep. But he rested. And in the darkness, he dreamed of Hikari—her smile, her voice, her hand in his.
When he woke, the sun was rising.
And the war was still waiting.