The first time Chen Liang heard the offer, he laughed. He thought it was a joke—a co-worker playing with him, or a spam email. Who would offer a mid-level statistician at a charitable trust a triple salary to "consult on predictive models" for a shipping conglomerate? But the email came through an encrypted channel he recognized from internal communications, and the name on the signature line was unmistakable: EastSea Advisors. One of the shell companies Lin Ze had challenged at the board meeting.
Chen sat at his desk staring at the message for a long time. Around him, the analytics team hummed with the clatter of keyboards and soft conversations. The air smelled faintly of coffee and warmed plastic. On his second monitor, lines of code scrolled as he ran diagnostics on the longevity index. His sister's photo was taped to the edge of his screen: a smiling girl in a school uniform, hair in pigtails, eyes bright. She was sixteen, studying hard, waiting to see if she'd get a scholarship. Her longevity score was low, not because she was unhealthy, but because the model weighted certain socio-economic factors that didn't favor her. Chen had argued with his team lead about that weighting. He'd been told to trust the algorithm.
He reread the email. "Your work has been noticed. We believe your talents are underutilized. We can offer you an opportunity to lead a team developing next-generation predictive models. Compensation and benefits commensurate with your skills. We understand you have family obligations; we can assist. Please respond to arrange a confidential conversation."
Under other circumstances, he would have deleted it. But he had heard whispers about performance reviews being used as weapons. He'd seen security logs flagged. He knew people were choosing sides.
He clicked reply.
The HR office on the 12th floor was painted a soothing beige and decorated with potted palms. E. Liu sat across from a woman in a pastel blazer who smiled too much. A man with glasses sat beside the woman, laptop open, fingers poised above the keyboard.
"Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Liu," the woman said. "We just want to have a candid conversation about your role and performance."
E. Liu clasped her hands in her lap. "Of course," she said. Her voice was steady. She had spent the morning going over her job description and emails to ensure she was prepared.
"We've received feedback that you might be overstepping your responsibilities," the man said without looking up.
"From whom?" she asked.
"We can't disclose sources," the woman cooed. "But there are concerns that you've been accessing files outside your authorization."
"I'm the compliance officer," E. Liu said. "My job is to review files for irregularities."
"Yes, but some files are restricted," the man interjected. "For example, you pulled the finance committee minutes without prior approval."
"They should be accessible to all board members and relevant staff," she countered. "Transparency is part of our charter."
The woman's smile faltered. "We appreciate your enthusiasm, but you need to understand that compliance must be balanced with respect for hierarchy."
E. Liu met her gaze. "Respect is earned," she said. "I respect processes. I don't respect secrecy that hides misuse of funds."
The man typed something. The woman sighed. "We're going to recommend you undergo additional training," she said. "And we'll put a note in your file. Consider this a warning."
E. Liu nodded. "May I have a copy of this report?" she asked.
The man hesitated. "It's confidential."
"Then I'll document our conversation myself," she said, standing. "Thank you."
She left the room. Her heart was pounding, but not from fear. From anger. They were trying to scare her, to clip her wings. She refused.
That afternoon, Lin Ze, Zhang Yu, Su Yanli and Han sat around the same mahogany table in conference room 17C, this time without the board. The mood was tense. Zhang's eyebrows twitched every time Han spoke. Su sipped tea and observed.
"So this is what it looks like when you plan things," Han said, leaning back in his chair. He wore a tailored suit, a subtle pattern of waves woven into the fabric. "It's almost quaint."
"No comments from the peanut gallery," Zhang muttered.
"We invited him," Lin reminded, glancing at Han. "He knows things we don't. We need his insight."
Han spread his hands. "I'm here to help. The longevity index is your Achilles' heel. Mei Zhao will exploit it. If you hide the model, you look guilty. If you reveal it, you expose yourself to ethical attacks. What's your move?"
"We publish a white paper outlining the methodology," Lin said. "We show the variables, the weighting, the statistical tests. We anonymize data. We invite external experts to review."
Han tilted his head. "You think that will satisfy Huang? Or the mob?"
"It's not about satisfying them," Su replied. "It's about controlling the narrative. If we define our terms, we limit their spin."
"What if you go further?" Han asked. "What if you open-source the model? Release the code. Let anyone see it, replicate it, critique it."
Zhang sat up straighter. "That's insane," he said. "The algorithm is proprietary. It's the trust's competitive advantage."
"It's a scholarship, not a business," Han countered. "And proprietary models are always suspect. If you truly believe in the ethics of your model, prove it. Make it impossible for them to claim you're hiding something. Let everyone see how you decide whose life is worth investing in."
"Open-sourcing would invite misuse," Lin said. "Companies could adopt it for profit, insurance firms could deny coverage based on scores. It could be weaponized."
"People are already weaponizing it," Han said softly. "The moment you introduced the index, you started a race. You can't control who uses it. But you can control how you frame its purpose. Transparency might be your only defense."
Silence settled. Su tapped her pen against the table. "We don't have to decide now," she said. "Let's focus on the immediate threat. The audit is underway. Mei will try to sabotage our data. We need to ensure no unauthorized changes happen. We need to monitor the analytics team."
Lin thought of Chen, of the pressure his team faced. "I'll talk to them," he said.
"And I'll talk to the donors," Su said. "They need reassurance. We also need to prepare for a leak. Assume something will be released—emails, code, financials. We need a response plan."
Zhang sighed. "I miss when my biggest worry was typos in contracts."
Han grinned. "Welcome to the fun part."
Chen met the recruiter from EastSea Advisors in a café across town. The recruiter was a woman with impeccably styled hair and a watch that probably cost more than Chen's yearly salary.
"We're not just offering you a job," she said. "We're offering you freedom. You'll lead a team, design new models. Your sister will never have to worry about tuition again. We have connections with top schools. We can ensure her future."
"And in return?" Chen asked, stirring his coffee.
"You bring your expertise," she replied. "And you help us understand how the longevity index works. We don't need your code, just your insights. We want to build something similar."
"That would violate my NDA," he said.
"NDAs can be negotiated," she countered. "Besides, we're not asking you to steal. We're asking you to join us. Eventually, you'll leave anyway. Think of your career."
Chen hesitated. He thought of the hours he'd spent perfecting the model, of the debates with colleagues, of the criticism from ethicists. He thought of his sister's future. He thought of E. Liu's warning about manipulation. Was he betraying his principles? Or adapting to survive?
"I need time," he said.
"Not too much," she replied. "This opportunity won't last."
Two days later, as rain returned and city lights flickered on like stars, an anonymous account on a social media platform posted a thread: "BREAKING: Evidence that Harbor Private Trust manipulates scholarship eligibility scores to favor certain demographics and regions. Exclusive analysis inside."
The thread contained spreadsheets with variables highlighted, screenshots of code with comments circled, and interpretive text that claimed the longevity index penalized students from rural areas and favored those with family connections. It included graphs that showed correlation between scholarship recipients and investments in their hometowns. It claimed Lin Ze himself had intervened to raise scores for applicants from provinces where Su Yanli's friends had projects.
Within hours, the thread was shared thousands of times. Comment sections filled with anger. Hashtags trended. "A trust that plays God with lives," one post read. "Cancel the algorithm," another demanded.
In conference room 17C, Lin, Zhang, Su, Han, and E. Liu stared at the thread projected onto the screen. The air was thick with shock.
"This is fabricated," Lin said, voice tight. "The correlations are cherry-picked. The code is taken out of context. Those comments aren't from our repository."
"That doesn't matter," Su said, scrolling. "People don't read methodology. They see pictures, they see outrage. We have to respond fast."
"Who leaked this?" Zhang asked. "It had to come from inside."
"Chen?" Lin whispered, feeling a sinking sensation.
E. Liu shook her head. "He didn't have access to these commentary files. Someone higher up, or someone who hacked us. Remember the midnight login?"
Han leaned forward. "Look at the handle," he said. "It's a throwaway account. But the language… it's similar to Mei's. And the timing—right after she failed to freeze the funds."
"Doesn't matter," Su said. "We need a statement. Now. Lin, you must speak. We need to explain, to contextualize. And maybe—maybe we should consider open-sourcing."
Zhang groaned. "Not this again."
Han turned to Lin. "Sometimes the only way to fight misinformation is with radical transparency. Or you can try to patch leaks forever and drown."
Lin stared at the screen. The graph comparing scholarship recipients' hometowns to investment sites was simplistic, but convincing to a casual observer. The comment claiming he manually adjusted scores was a lie, but how would he prove it without exposing the entire system?
He closed his eyes for a moment. He saw his mother texting "Shine brighter than the smear." He saw Professor Qin's brooch glint in the boardroom. He saw Mr. Huang's cold eyes. He saw Chen's sister's hopeful smile. He saw Han's outstretched hand.
He opened his eyes.
"Draft the statement," he said to Su. "We will deny manipulation and reiterate our commitment to transparency. We will invite independent experts to review our data."
"And the code?" Han asked.
Lin met his gaze. "Prepare it," he said. "All of it. If they want to see how we decide who deserves help, they'll see. And then they can judge whether reducing life potential to numbers is the scandal—or the world we live in that forces us to do it."
Zhang inhaled sharply. "This could ruin us," he said.
"Or save us," Su replied.
E. Liu nodded. "People fear what they don't understand. Let them understand."
Han smiled faintly. "Now it's getting interesting."
Outside, thunder rumbled. Servers hummed. The board members checked their phones. Students watched the thread with growing dread or hope. An anonymous account hit "post" and watched chaos unfold. In a quiet apartment, Chen held his sister's acceptance letter, wondering what price he had paid. And in a penthouse office, Mei Zhao sipped wine and waited for the hydra's next head to emerge.