They convene again the next morning, but something is already off before anyone speaks.
The chairs are the same. The ledger is on the table in the same place. The clock keeps its tax-collector time.
What’s different is the air. The air has that quiet pressure you feel in rooms where decisions have been made elsewhere.
Discipline arrives early as usual. That’s how he knows, immediately, that early no longer means first.
Ambition is already seated.
Not in Discipline’s chair—Ambition hasn’t committed that kind of overt treason—but in a posture that says the chair is negotiable. A folder lies on the table in front of him, neat, prepared. Ambition doesn’t look up when Discipline enters; he looks at the folder as if the folder has authority.
Shame sits in his shadowed corner, hands folded, calm. His calm is new. Usually Shame is hungry-calm, the calm of someone waiting for you to slip. This is administrative calm. This is the calm of someone who knows the outcome.
Addiction stands by the window, back to them, watching nothing. He is humming under his breath, a small tune that is almost cheerful. It is the tune of a man who has found a way to profit from transition.
Discipline pauses in the doorway. He hates pausing. He hates that his body pauses without permission.
“Call to order,” Discipline says, forcing the words out as if saying them can still make them true.
Ambition looks up now, with a look that is almost respectful. Almost.
“Of course,” Ambition says. “Let’s.”
Discipline sits in his chair. He places the ledger in front of him like a shield. “Report.”
Ambition doesn’t wait for the ledger to open. “Before we do the report, there’s a motion on the floor.”
Discipline’s pen stops. “There is always a report first.”
Ambition nods. “That’s the tradition.”
Tradition. Discipline hates the word when it comes from anyone else. It implies that Discipline is not law but habit.
Shame’s mouth curves slightly.
Discipline looks at Shame. “Do you know about this?”
Shame spreads his hands. “I know about everything eventually.”
Addiction turns from the window. “Can we not make this dramatic? We’re all on the same team.”
“We are not a team,” Discipline says. “We are a structure.”
Ambition slides the folder forward. “Exactly. And the structure isn’t working.”
Discipline’s throat tightens. “Define ‘working.’”
Ambition flips open the folder. Inside are pages, typed, numbered. A prepared case.
“Output is inconsistent,” Ambition says. “Follow-through is brittle. Our policies collapse under stress. We are spending more energy on enforcement than on progress.”
Discipline stares at the pages. The pages look like him—order, articulation, neatness—turned against him.
“We have survived,” Discipline says. “That is working.”
Addiction smiles gently. “Surviving is a low bar.”
Discipline’s eyes flash. “You do not get to say that.”
Addiction shrugs. “I’m just stating facts.”
Shame’s voice is soft. “Facts are weapons too.”
Ambition continues, voice steady. “We tried your forty-five/fifteen compromise. It held for three days. Then we had a slip. Then we had a spiral. Then we had two days of recovery. That’s not governance. That’s crisis management.”
Discipline tightens his grip on the pen. “Slips happen. That is not evidence of failure. That is evidence of being human.”
Ambition leans in. “Being human isn’t an excuse. It’s the terrain. We have to build for it.”
Discipline’s face hardens. “So what is your motion?”
Ambition closes the folder with a soft thud. “A vote of no confidence.”
The words land like a gavel.
Even the clock seems to listen.
Discipline looks from Ambition to Shame to Addiction, and he understands, with a sharp internal clarity, that this has been discussed. That alliances have formed.
“No confidence,” Discipline repeats, as if repetition can make it absurd.
Ambition’s tone is controlled. “A restructure. Not a punishment. We replace your role with a council. More flexible. Less rigid. Less—”
“Less me,” Discipline says.
Shame’s smile widens. He loves when someone names their own displacement. It makes it feel inevitable.
Discipline’s voice is tight. “And who proposed this?”
Ambition doesn’t look at Shame, but his body tilts toward him as if drawn by gravity. “It emerged.”
Discipline laughs once, sharply. “Nothing emerges. Everything is chosen.”
Addiction steps in, mediating, voice warm. “Discipline, listen. This is not an attack. It’s an adaptation. You’ve been carrying too much. You’re exhausted.”
Discipline’s eyes flicker. “I don’t get exhausted.”
Shame says quietly, “That’s one of your better lies.”
Ambition speaks again. “We can’t keep running a kingdom on punishment and scarcity. People don’t thrive under that.”
“People don’t thrive under indulgence,” Discipline snaps. He points the pen at Addiction. “Look at him.”
Addiction lifts his hands. “I’m not indulgence. I’m relief. I’m maintenance.”
“You’re a leak,” Discipline says.
Addiction smiles. “I’m a valve. Without me, the pressure explodes.”
Shame nods as if in agreement. “He’s right.”
Discipline’s stomach drops. Shame agreeing with Addiction is not a natural coalition. Shame doesn’t agree; Shame corrodes. If Shame is agreeing, something has shifted at the constitutional level.
Discipline looks at Ambition. “So you and Shame are aligned now?”
Ambition’s jaw tightens. “I’m aligned with outcomes.”
“Outcomes,” Discipline repeats, disgusted. “As if the means don’t matter.”
Ambition’s eyes sharpen. “The means matter. That’s why we’re here.”
Shame leans forward slightly, voice like velvet. “He is not saying the means don’t matter. He is saying your means are failing.”
Discipline’s voice goes quiet. “You want me gone.”
Shame answers honestly, which is how Discipline knows it is dangerous. “I want jurisdiction.”
Addiction laughs softly, as if appreciating the candor. “We all want jurisdiction.”
Discipline turns to Addiction. “What do you want?”
Addiction’s friendly face doesn’t change. “To not feel like I’m dying.”
The room stills.
That is always the real referendum. Not virtue. Not progress. Not identity.
Pain.
Discipline looks down at his ledger. He wants to say something like: I can reduce pain. I can create stability. I can make life livable.
But Discipline does not speak in those terms. Discipline speaks in “should.” Discipline speaks in schedules. Discipline speaks in denial of need.
Ambition opens the folder again. “We have a proposed structure.”
Discipline raises a hand. “We have rules.”
Ambition meets his gaze. “We have a constitution. The constitution is being amended.”
Discipline’s mouth is dry. “By what authority?”
Shame’s answer is immediate. “By necessity.”
Discipline turns toward the doorway. He feels, without looking, that the citizenry is there.
The citizenry stands half-in, half-out as before, but different. Last time it entered like a tired subject. This time it hovers like a voter who has been promised change.
It is carrying something: an ache behind the eyes, a tightness in the chest, the exhaustion of trying and failing and trying again. But there is also a thin thread of anger, and anger is always political.
Discipline gestures to the third chair. “Sit.”
The citizenry sits. Slowly. It does not avoid anyone’s eyes.
Ambition speaks to it, voice gentle now, warm as a campaign ad. “We’re proposing a change. A better system. Less harsh. More realistic. You deserve that.”
Discipline watches the words land. He recognizes the tactic: appeal to dignity. Offer a story where the suffering has a villain and the change has a hero.
Addiction steps closer too, softer. “You’ve been working so hard. You’re allowed to rest.”
Shame says nothing. Shame doesn’t need to promise; Shame only needs to be present as a quiet threat: if you choose wrong, I will interpret it against you.
Discipline leans forward, addressing the citizenry directly. “Promises are easy. Policy is hard.”
Ambition smiles politely. “So let’s vote.”
Discipline’s pen taps the ledger once. “Read the charges.”
