The notification, small and unassuming, blinked once on Kakeru's phone screen, then again, just to ensure he hadn’t missed it. ‘Northwood Exposé: First Edition Live.’ He didn't miss it. He'd been refreshing the page every ten seconds for the past half hour, fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on his thigh. Asahi, across the narrow dorm room desk, had been trying to appear engrossed in a particularly dense textbook on microeconomics, but the slight tremor in his knee, visible beneath the worn denim of his jeans, gave him away. They both knew.
Kakeru cleared his throat, a dry rasp. “It’s up.”
Asahi’s head snapped up, textbook thudding gently against the particleboard desk. His eyes, usually a calm, deep brown, were wide, reflecting the faint blue glow of Kakeru’s phone. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down to his jawline, despite the air conditioning humming its low, consistent drone. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, elbow knocking over an empty coffee mug that spun precariously before settling. He was a tightly wound spring, vibrating with a nervous energy Kakeru found both captivating and slightly irritating.
“Halloran’s ‘wellness initiatives’,” Kakeru murmured, scrolling, a slow smile spreading across his face. He felt a surge, hot and bright, like adrenaline mixed with something purer, more fulfilling. “The ones with the remarkably opaque funding structure? Yeah. We nailed it.”
The article was… everything. A meticulous dissection of shell corporations masquerading as philanthropic foundations, all funneling untraceable cash into Halloran’s pet projects – a new, absurdly expensive 'meditation garden' that looked suspiciously like a gravel pit, and a 'mindfulness retreat' to a five-star resort in Fiji for 'select faculty'. The satire was subtle, woven into the dry, journalistic prose, highlighting the hypocrisy without explicitly stating it. And there, at the bottom, small but distinct: *By Kakeru Sato, Contributing Editor.*
Asahi flinched at the sight of Kakeru’s name. A soft, almost imperceptible sound, like air escaping a punctured tire. “Your byline,” he said, the words barely audible. His gaze was fixed on the screen, not the content, but that one line, a bright flag waving in front of an unseen danger. His breath hitched, a faint, almost imperceptible sound in the quiet room.
Kakeru leaned back, stretching his arms above his head, a crack sounding in his spine. “Yeah. My byline. You want me to remove it? Now? After all that work?” He let his arms drop, a deliberate, easy movement meant to convey nonchalance, but the tension in Asahi’s posture was already rubbing off on him, a static charge in the air. He felt a prickle of annoyance, a familiar one that rose whenever Asahi’s caution bumped up against his own impulsive drive. He liked the rush. He liked the recognition. It wasn't just about uncovering the truth; it was about *showing* it, loudly, unmistakably.
“Not *now*,” Asahi said, pushing back from the desk, standing up. He started pacing, a tight, constrained circuit from the desk to the bed, the bed to the door, his movements quick and jerky. His hands were clasped, white-knuckled, in front of him. “Just… we talked about anonymity. What if someone connects the dots? What if Halloran finds out who’s behind this?” The last phrase was a whisper, lost in the hum of the AC.
“And what if he does?” Kakeru challenged, pushing off the desk. He stood, towering slightly over Asahi, who was still retreating, physically shrinking. Kakeru felt a strange, almost magnetic pull to close the distance Asahi was creating. “It’s factual. We have the receipts. We have the paper trail. What’s he going to do? Sue the student paper for telling the truth?” He took a step forward, then another, until Asahi’s back was almost against the closed door, no more room to pace. The air grew thick, charged with unspoken anxieties.
Asahi swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He finally looked up, meeting Kakeru’s eyes. His gaze wasn’t angry, but something akin to fear, a deep-seated apprehension that sent an unwelcome tremor through Kakeru’s chest. “Halloran isn’t just some clueless administrator, Kakeru. He’s connected. His family has… pull. And you think he’ll just shrug it off?” Asahi gestured vaguely, his hand shaking. “This isn’t just about a few inconvenient truths. This is about challenging someone with power.”
The campus, meanwhile, had begun its delightful descent into controlled chaos. By the time Kakeru and Asahi dared to venture out for a late lunch, the article was the only topic of conversation. Students huddled in clusters, eyes glued to phone screens, whispering behind cupped hands. In the cafeteria line, a group of theatre majors were already dramatizing Halloran’s potential reaction, one student doing a remarkably convincing, if exaggerated, impression of the dean sputtering into his artisanal oat milk latte.
“Did you see this?” a girl with bright pink hair shrieked to her friend, jostling Kakeru’s elbow. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the general hum of the hall. “It’s about Halloran! And his Fiji retreat! My tuition money funding *that*?” Her indignation was palpable, and entirely satisfying to Kakeru. He felt a swell of pride, hot and gratifying, ignoring the tight, almost pained expression on Asahi’s face beside him. This was exactly what they wanted. Exposure. Outrage. Change, maybe.
Asahi pulled his hoodie strings tighter, ducking his head. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the chipped linoleum floor. His shoulder brushed Kakeru’s, a quick, electric jolt that made Kakeru's skin tingle, a strange counterpoint to the growing friction between them. Asahi was shrinking, trying to make himself invisible, while Kakeru felt himself expand, a chest puffed out with a mixture of righteous indignation and pure, unadulterated thrill.
“It’s too much,” Asahi muttered, almost to himself, as they finally found a table at the very edge of the bustling room, far from the loudest conversations. He picked at his rubbery fries, not meeting Kakeru’s gaze. “People are talking. That’s good, yes, but… this isn’t a game, Kakeru. We don’t know who’s listening. Who’s watching.” He lifted his head then, his eyes searching, darting around the room as if expecting a shadowy figure in a trench coat to materialize between the salad bar and the vending machines. The satirical tone of the day hadn't touched him; he was genuinely, deeply worried.
Kakeru scoffed, spearing a piece of grilled chicken. “Oh, please. It’s a university cafeteria, Asahi, not a spy den. We’re not MI6, we’re student journalists. A slightly more aggressive form of student journalism, maybe, but still. The worst that could happen is a stern talking-to from the Dean of Students.” He tried to sound reassuring, but the way Asahi’s gaze kept flitting over his shoulder made him feel a subtle unease. A cold spot. He didn’t like that feeling. He wanted Asahi to share his triumph, not retreat into paranoia.
“That’s exactly my point!” Asahi leaned across the table, his voice low, intense, a sharp contrast to his earlier quietness. His breath, smelling faintly of mint, brushed Kakeru’s cheek, sending a shiver through him. “A stern talking-to? What if it’s more? What if they expel us? Or worse, what if Halloran leverages his ‘pull’ to ruin our academic records, our career prospects?” His eyes, dark and earnest, pleaded with Kakeru. “It’s not just your name on the article. We worked on this together. If one of us goes down, we both do. And I… I need my scholarship. My parents… they’re counting on me.”
The mention of his parents, the sudden vulnerability, made Kakeru pause. He saw the tight knot in Asahi’s stomach, a familiar one that had been there since they'd first met, a constant anxiety about disappointing those he loved. It was a pressure Kakeru, with his own fiercely independent streak and a family that offered a comfortable, if emotionally distant, safety net, didn't fully understand, but he felt its weight on Asahi. It made him want to both shake Asahi for his fear and pull him close, shield him from it.
“Okay,” Kakeru said, his voice softer, recognizing that the situation was, for Asahi, not a game at all. “Okay. What do you want to do?”
“We need to be smarter,” Asahi insisted, pushing his untouched plate away. “We need to remove your byline. Immediately. And we need to set up better encryption, use a VPN for everything. Create a new, anonymous email address for submissions. Anything that makes it harder for them to trace us.” His words tumbled out, a rapid-fire list born of genuine terror, practical and precise.
Kakeru stared at him, the half-eaten chicken forgotten on his fork. The idea of removing his name… it felt like a betrayal. Not just of himself, but of the truth they'd unearthed. It felt like hiding. He’d signed his name to it. That was the point. That was the *impact*. “No,” he said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. “No, Asahi. We put our names to our work. That’s integrity. That’s what makes this real, not just some anonymous hit piece.”
Asahi recoiled slightly, as if struck. His hand shot out, gripping Kakeru’s forearm, a desperate plea in his touch. The unexpected contact, hot and urgent, sent a jolt up Kakeru's arm, silencing the burgeoning anger. “Integrity isn’t worth losing everything, Kakeru! If we’re silenced, if we’re gone, who’s going to keep looking? Who’s going to keep fighting? We can’t do any good if we’re expelled.” He squeezed Kakeru's arm, his fingers digging in, a sharp, almost painful pressure. “We have to be strategic.”
Kakeru looked down at Asahi’s hand, then back up into his eyes. There was a desperate earnestness there, a raw fear that warred with the quiet intensity that usually defined him. He saw Asahi's point, logically. If they were expelled, the Exposé would die. The thought stung, a cold, hard knot forming in his stomach. But the idea of retracting his name… it felt like a retreat, a surrender of the very thing he'd found so exhilarating just moments ago. It was a blow to his burgeoning sense of pride, his desire to be recognized as the one who dared to speak truth to power.
“We stand by our work,” Kakeru insisted, pulling his arm back gently, breaking the contact. The warmth where Asahi’s hand had been vanished, leaving a sudden chill. “My name stays. We knew the risks when we started this, Asahi. We agreed. This isn’t just about the donations; this is about showing them that students aren’t going to roll over anymore.” He felt a fierce conviction, a stubborn certainty that this was the right path. To back down now felt cowardly, a betrayal of their shared mission.
Asahi stared at him, his face pale, lips pressed into a thin, white line. His gaze, usually so gentle, was now sharp, almost accusing. The air between them, once so thick with shared secrets and burgeoning excitement, had thinned, growing brittle, ready to snap. The cafeteria noise, once a background hum, now seemed to press in, a cacophony of careless chatter. He pushed himself up from the table, his chair scraping loudly across the floor, drawing a few curious glances. He didn’t bother to pick up his backpack, just walked away, his stride stiff and fast, disappearing into the stream of students, leaving Kakeru alone with his lukewarm chicken and the sudden, aching silence.
Later that afternoon, Naomi found Kakeru in the nearly empty student newspaper office, staring at the Exposé's website, his byline still emblazoned at the bottom. She leaned against the doorframe, a half-eaten apple in her hand, its skin a brilliant, polished red. “So,” she said, her voice unusually subdued, “Halloran’s department just announced a new ‘Ethics in Philanthropy’ seminar series. Mandatory for all faculty receiving departmental grants.” She bit into the apple, a loud, crunching sound. “Someone’s rattled.”
Kakeru managed a weak smile. “Good. That’s the point, isn’t it?” He tried to sound triumphant, but the edge of his satisfaction was dulled by the cold space Asahi had left beside him. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Asahi’s fingers on his arm, a desperate, urgent plea that he had, in the end, refused.
Naomi watched him, her expression unreadable. “Sure. That’s the point. But the price of making points usually comes in the form of some… counterpoint.” She paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Heard a rumor the IT department is doing a ‘security audit’ of all student-run sites. Random, of course.” Her eyes, sharp and knowing, met Kakeru’s. She didn’t need to say more. The implication hung heavy in the air, a cold, metallic tang. Asahi's paranoia, it turned out, wasn't so paranoid after all.
The screensaver on Kakeru’s laptop flickered, displaying a constellation map. He looked at it, then at the website, his name glowing, almost defiant. The exhilaration had ebbed, replaced by a hollow thrum beneath his ribs. The stir they’d created was indeed a storm, and he’d been so focused on the lightning, he hadn’t considered the damage the rain might do. He thought of Asahi, walking away, his back rigid. He’d wanted to be seen, to be heard. But maybe, just maybe, Asahi had been right. Maybe being truly seen meant accepting the vulnerability, the potential for harm, that came with it. And perhaps, Asahi's caution wasn't weakness, but a different, more profound kind of strength.
The fluorescent lights hummed above, a low, persistent drone. Kakeru traced the lines of the constellation on his screen, the distant, untouchable stars. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, a thousand thoughts warring in his head. The heat of Asahi’s touch, the fear in his eyes, the undeniable truth of their work. The weight of his own name, now a beacon, now a target. The fight had only just begun, and already, it was fracturing the very foundation they’d built it on.