A system doesn't collapse when it's attacked.
It collapses when it can no longer pretend.
By morning, the freeze was no longer holding.
Not officially—
but functionally.
People had begun routing decisions around it, copying Compliance instead of Management, asking Legal for interpretation instead of approval.
Interpretation is where power leaks.
The unfamiliar executive ID resolved itself at 09:03.
Risk Oversight.
Not internal.
Not external.
The kind of role that exists solely because things go wrong quietly.
Meeting request confirmed, the message read. Confidential.
I accepted.
The room was neutral by design.
No branding.
No hierarchy signals.
Two chairs.
A recorder placed openly on the table.
Transparency theater—but the honest kind.
"We're not here to assign blame," the Oversight Director began. "We're here to determine exposure."
I nodded. "Exposure is measurable."
"That's what concerns us," they said.
They asked precise questions.
When did I first notice divergence?
Who else had access to raw logs?
What corrective actions were bypassed?
I answered without embellishment.
Facts don't need momentum.
"What happens," the Director asked finally, "if the discrepancies become public?"
"They already are," I replied. "Just not externally."
They didn't contradict me.
Silence is a form of agreement when denial costs too much.
At 11:47, Compliance issued a notice.
An internal review.
Independent auditors.
Scope: model integrity and procedural alignment.
The wording was careful.
But the meaning was simple.
The system had crossed a threshold.
Han Zhe sent a single word:
Triggered.
Yes.
Once Oversight enters, the narrative is no longer controllable—only survivable.
The Interim Lead requested another meeting.
This time, the subject line was honest.
Alignment discussion.
No euphemisms left.
They spoke first.
"You've forced escalation."
"I revealed it," I corrected.
They didn't argue.
That, too, was new.
"What do you want?" they asked.
The most dangerous question a system can ask.
Because the answer defines the future.
"I want traceability codified," I said.
"Independent audit access preserved."
"And no retaliation against contributors."
They listened.
Calculated.
"That would limit discretion," they said.
"Yes," I agreed. "That's the point."
A long pause.
Then, slowly: "We can't promise no retaliation."
"Then you can promise consequences for it."
Another pause.
This one heavier.
By afternoon, the first concession arrived.
A policy addendum.
Narrow, but real.
Protection language.
Not perfect.
But enforceable.
That's how change enters—
through clauses.
Gu Chengyi called as the sun set.
"You crossed the threshold," he said.
"Yes."
"You know there's no going back."
I looked out at the city.
"I didn't come to reverse anything."
That night, the internal forum reopened.
Moderated.
Monitored.
But open.
And the first post wasn't a chart.
It was a question:
If the synthesis can diverge, what else has?
No one answered immediately.
They didn't need to.
Questions, once allowed, propagate.
They replicate.
They survive freezes.
And they don't care who's in charge.
I closed the laptop.
Thresholds, once crossed, don't announce themselves.
They simply make the old rules impossible to follow.
Tomorrow, the system would learn that lesson in full.