The town officials arrived two days after the typhoon, which in village time counted as both “fast” and “too late.” Trucks rumbled in with orange cones and clipboards, and men in rain jackets stood at the collapsed hill road frowning at the earth like they could shame it into behaving. The road still looked raw—one lane chewed away, the shoulder gone, mud streaking down the exposed slope like the hill had bled and refused to stop. Someone had tied rope across the base with a handwritten sign that read NO ENTRY, as if the hill might be persuaded by manners.

  Clark arrived with Koji and Mrs. Nakamura, carrying a folder of printed photos, timestamps, and witness notes. His shoulder still ached, but the ache had shifted into the background—less a warning now, more a reminder. Koji walked like he was escorting a dangerous criminal to court. Nakamura walked like she’d done this kind of thing her whole life, even if she hadn’t. When the officials saw them approach, one of them—middle-aged, tired eyes, polite posture—stepped forward and bowed. “Shibata-san,” he said. “Kojima-san.” His gaze flicked to Nakamura. “Nakamura-san.” He looked relieved to see locals who weren’t shouting.

  Koji didn’t bow. He nodded like he was granting permission for the meeting to exist. Clark bowed properly, then opened his folder and held it up slightly. “We brought documentation,” Clark said. The official nodded, grateful. “Good,” he said. “We need as much as we can get.” Behind him, another worker prodded the slope with a stick like the ground might confess its intentions.

  Ayame Lane was already there, standing near a guardrail with her notebook open, hair pulled back, eyes alert. She looked like she’d been waiting for this scene to happen so she could pin it to paper before it wriggled away. When she spotted Clark, her gaze sharpened. Koji muttered, “Here we go,” like he was bracing for an earthquake. Ayame didn’t greet with warmth; she greeted with focus. “Takumi-san,” she said, pen ready. “You said you had logs.” Clark nodded. “I do,” he said. “And video of the collapse.” Ayame’s pen moved immediately.

  Then Kobayashi arrived, and the temperature dropped.

  His car was clean again, somehow, even though half the village still wore mud like a second skin. He stepped out with the same neat jacket and the same laminated smile, carrying a hard case that looked like it held contracts and quiet threats. He approached the officials first, bowing with practiced familiarity. “Saito-san,” he said warmly, as if they were old friends. “I’m sorry we meet under such conditions.” The official stiffened slightly—politely, but noticeably—as if he didn’t want to be “friends” with anyone in a disaster zone.

  Koji’s jaw clenched. “He’s inserting himself,” Koji muttered. Clark didn’t answer, because yes—Kobayashi was doing exactly that. He wasn’t just a broker. He was trying to become a necessary intermediary, the man who “handles” things, the one who speaks for the village because the village was tired.

  Kobayashi turned to Clark with that clean smile. “Shibata-san,” he said. “Good to see you out. I hope your shoulder is healing.” His eyes flicked briefly to Ayame, then back to Clark. “And Lane-san. Always working.” Ayame’s expression didn’t soften. “Always,” she replied, pen scratching.

  Clark held up his folder. “We brought documentation for the road collapse,” he said calmly. Kobayashi’s smile widened as if Clark had said something adorable. “Excellent,” Kobayashi said. “I also brought paperwork—formal requests, emergency assistance applications, and options for temporary stability.” Koji made a disgusted sound. “There it is,” Koji whispered.

  Saito-san—the official—held up a hand, trying to keep the air from becoming a fight. “We will review damage first,” he said. “Then we will discuss support routes.” Kobayashi bowed. “Of course,” he said, already stepping into position anyway. Clark watched it happen: Kobayashi standing just a little too close to the officials, offering to carry forms, offering to “translate” local concerns, offering to be helpful in a way that made him unavoidable.

  Clark didn’t step between with anger. He stepped in with structure. “Saito-san,” Clark said, tone steady, “we have a timeline. Our first notice was at 3:07 AM. We documented cracks at 3:29. We returned to the shed and notified the co-op at 3:41. The collapse occurred at approximately 3:52.” He handed over printed screenshots with timestamps. “Here are witness names and phone numbers,” he added. “And here is video from Nakamura-san and Kojima-san.”

  Ayame’s pen moved faster. Koji whispered, “You sound like a robot,” then added, grudgingly, “It’s good.”

  Saito-san took the papers and actually looked impressed, which in bureaucrat language was basically a standing ovation. “This is very helpful,” he said. “Thank you.” Kobayashi’s smile tightened slightly. Not outwardly hostile—just the faintest strain of someone who’d expected to be the only adult in the room and found another one.

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  One of the engineers walked back from the edge and said, “It’s worse than we thought.” He pointed to the slope. “The water path undermined the base. Another slide is possible.” Saito-san sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We’ll need a longer closure,” he said. Murmurs rose from locals gathered nearby. Longer closure meant isolation. Isolation meant delayed clinic access, delayed supplies, delayed repair. Fear tried to creep in.

  Kobayashi seized the gap instantly, voice gentle. “Stability becomes critical,” he said. “Temporary arrangements can protect families from uncertainty.” Koji snapped, “Oh my god, shut up,” loud enough that two workers glanced over. Kobayashi didn’t even look at Koji. He looked at Saito-san, eyes concerned. “Some families are already strained,” he said softly. “Debt, damaged equipment, delayed harvest. Without stable support, desperation can lead to rash choices.”

  Clark felt the room tilt. Kobayashi wasn’t wrong about strain. That was what made him dangerous. He told the truth just enough to sell a lie.

  Ayame’s gaze flicked to Clark. “Is he right?” she asked quietly, not hostile—genuinely trying to understand.

  Clark nodded once. “Yes,” he said. “People are strained.” He held Ayame’s gaze, then looked at Saito-san. “That’s why we need transparent aid pathways,” Clark continued. “Public criteria. Clear timelines. And we need to ensure no one is pressured into signing private agreements during emergency conditions.”

  Kobayashi’s smile remained, but something in his eyes hardened. “That’s an accusation,” he said gently.

  Clark kept his voice calm. “It’s a safeguard,” he replied. “A standard one.” He didn’t mention the clause names or the threats. He didn’t need to. He only needed to plant the idea where it mattered: in the officials’ minds.

  Saito-san looked uncomfortable. “We don’t have jurisdiction over private contracts,” he said.

  Clark nodded. “I understand,” he said. “But you do have jurisdiction over how emergency assistance is communicated. If aid information is filtered through private brokers, families will believe they have no choice.”

  Ayame’s pen scratched. Kobayashi’s smile thinned again, just slightly. Koji stared at Clark like he’d just watched him land a punch without swinging.

  The engineer cleared his throat. “We need local volunteers to keep the rope barrier and cones in place,” he said. “People keep trying to drive up.” Koji immediately snapped, “Of course they do,” like stupidity was a personal insult. Clark nodded. “The co-op can assign rotating shifts,” he said. “We already have sign-in logs and a volunteer registry.” He said it loudly enough for the gathered villagers to hear—an anchor. A reminder: we have a system.

  Kobayashi spoke smoothly, “I can coordinate that. I can provide liability waivers—” Koji actually made a choking noise. Clark cut in without raising his voice. “The co-op will coordinate,” Clark said. “We’ll share logs with the town office.” He turned slightly to Saito-san. “Directly.”

  For the first time, Kobayashi’s mask cracked more visibly—not rage, but irritation. Not loud, but sharp. He took a breath, then smiled again as if nothing had happened. “Of course,” he said. “Directly is best.” His gaze shifted briefly to Ayame, then back to Clark, and his voice lowered just enough to carry. “Still, Shibata-san… it’s impressive. This level of organization. This language.” He tilted his head. “You didn’t speak like this before your accident.”

  Koji went rigid beside Clark. Ayame’s eyes snapped up, pen pausing mid-air. Even Saito-san looked up, brow furrowing.

  Clark felt the trap’s jaws close a little.

  He forced his expression neutral and answered with the safest truth he could. “Almost drowning changes your priorities,” Clark said calmly. “It changed mine.”

  Ayame watched him like she was trying to see through his skin. Koji stared like he wanted to jump in front of the question with his body. Saito-san cleared his throat and said, too loudly, “We should proceed with measurements.”

  The meeting moved on, but something had shifted. The hill road wasn’t the only unstable ground anymore. The suspicion Kobayashi had voiced was now in the open air, floating where others could breathe it in.

  As the officials continued their inspection, Ayame drifted closer to Clark, notebook held low. “He’s pushing at your identity,” she said quietly.

  Clark nodded once. “Yes,” he admitted.

  Ayame’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” she asked.

  Clark’s stomach tightened. He couldn’t say because I am not Takumi. He couldn’t say because I am a man whose life is printed on cheap paper. He couldn’t say because the villain understands leverage and I’m learning to fight without a cape.

  So he gave her a grounded truth that still mattered. “Because it’s easier to control someone if you can make people doubt them,” Clark said.

  Ayame stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slightly, as if she’d filed it away as both quote and warning. “I’ll be careful with what I print,” she said.

  Clark exhaled softly. “Thank you,” he said.

  Koji stepped in immediately, suspicious. “Don’t,” Koji warned Ayame, then realized that sounded like he was threatening a journalist and immediately looked offended at himself. “I mean… don’t make it worse,” Koji corrected.

  Ayame’s mouth twitched. “Noted,” she said dryly.

  Kobayashi watched from a distance, hands folded, smile polite, eyes cold. He was losing ground with officials and gaining ground with rumor. He didn’t need to win today. He just needed to plant doubt and let it grow.

  Clark looked at the collapsed road again, at the raw wound in the earth. It would be patched eventually. With time, money, and work. This was how villages survived: slow repair, stubborn effort.

  But the other collapse—the one Kobayashi was engineering—was harder. It wasn’t asphalt. It was trust. It was cohesion. It was the fragile belief that the person organizing help was one of them.

  Clark tightened his grip on the folder and forced himself to breathe. In. Out.

  He didn’t have superpowers.

  So he couldn’t stop the hill from sliding.

  He could only keep the village from sliding with it.