The first hint that Mei Zhao was returning to the public eye came not in a headline but in a video—an expertly edited short that circulated across social media platforms within hours.
In it, Mei stood against a backdrop of soft light and muted colors, wearing a simple white blouse, her hair pulled back. She spoke directly to the camera.
"We built cities on algorithms," she said. "We built economies on data. We built futures on predictions. But somewhere along the way, we forgot that data does not love, algorithms do not grieve, and predictions do not dream. We gave them power over lives. We let them decide who deserves and who doesn't. And when the inevitable happened—when someone used a lifespan prediction to decide who is worthy of employment—we acted surprised."
The camera cut to her face, framed by thoughtful music. "This is not the fault of one man or one model," she continued. "This is the fault of a system that forgot its heart. We must reclaim our humanity before we become numbers ourselves."
The video ended with the hashtag #DataIsNotDestiny.
By the time Lin Ze watched it, the views had surpassed a million. The comments were a battleground: praise, scorn, debate, calls to action. Mei's message, crafted with the precision of a PR campaign, was resonating. It framed the debate not as a technical dispute but as a moral awakening. It cast her as a defender of humanity, a whistleblower of a system gone cold. It all but ignored her role in previous mismanagement. The internet had a short memory when offered a compelling narrative.
"She's good," Su Yanli said grimly, playing the video again. "She's changed tactics. She's no longer attacking corruption. She's attacking your premise."
Zhang Yu frowned. "And the premise itself is contested," he said. "We can't dismiss her out of hand. If we do, we look like the ones ignoring ethics."
Lin nodded. He knew this was coming. In Chapter 21, he had sensed the shift. In Chapter 22, he had felt the fallout. Now, in Chapter 23, he stood at the precipice of a new conflict—a war not over money or control, but over meaning.
"Where is she speaking next?" Lin asked.
"An ethics symposium at the University of Capital," Su replied. "They've titled the panel 'Human Versus Algorithm: Who Decides?' Professor Qin is on the panel. They've invited you too."
"And you?" Lin asked.
"They invited me," Su said. "I declined. My role is behind the scenes. You need a data ethicist on stage."
"E. Liu?" Lin suggested.
"She'll be there," Su said. "As an audience member. You're the face. Qin is the moral anchor. Mei is the provocateur."
Lin sighed. "And Han?"
"Han will watch and send snarky comments," Su said with a small smile. "He's also speaking at another conference on 'Data Sovereignty and Trade.' He's becoming a fixture on panels. He's not aligning with Mei, but he's not aligning with you either."
"Neutrality is a position," Lin muttered.
The auditorium at the university was packed. Students filled the seats, their faces a mixture of curiosity and conviction. Professors stood at the back, arms crossed, some ready to challenge, others ready to cheer. Journalists lined the side aisles, cameras and microphones poised. Signs with slogans dotted the crowd: "Humans Over Numbers," "Data with Dignity," "Decisions = Responsibility."
On stage, four chairs faced the audience. A moderator, a young professor of philosophy, sat on the far left. Next to him sat Mei Zhao, poised and serene. Her white blouse now paired with a delicate silver brooch. Beside her sat Professor Qin, her demeanor as composed as ever, brooch glinting in the light. The fourth chair was empty.
People murmured. The moderator checked his watch. At the last moment, Lin entered from the wings and took his seat. There was a flicker of flash as cameras captured the tableau: the reformer, the critic, the ethicist, and the philosopher.
"Thank you all for coming," the moderator began. "We are here to discuss the role of algorithms in decision-making. Not in abstract, but in the context of our society's urgent and real dilemmas. Ms. Mei Zhao, would you like to start?"
Mei leaned forward, hands folded.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was clear, unhurried. "When we reduce human potential to a score, we strip away individuality. We look at longevity, health, productivity as if they are all that matters. But we forget character, resilience, kindness. These cannot be quantified. And yet we are letting numbers determine whose life is 'worth investing in' and whose is not. We have seen the consequences—a province using lifespan predictions to decide who deserves a job. We should not wait for worse before we act."
She turned slightly toward Lin, but not enough to be confrontational. "Mr. Lin's work was transparent. We should commend transparency. But transparency without responsibility is dangerous. He released a tool with no guardrails. He unleashed a weapon with no instructions. He may have intended good, but good intentions are not enough when harm occurs."
There were murmurs. A few claps. Lin felt a flush creep up his neck. He kept his face neutral.
The moderator turned to him. "Mr. Lin, how do you respond?"
He picked up the microphone.
"I agree with Ms. Zhao on some points," he said, watching her eyebrows lift fractionally. "There are elements of humanity that no algorithm can measure. And we must grapple with that. But I disagree with the framing that data itself is the enemy. Ignorance is not humane. Pretending we can allocate resources fairly without data is naive. I built the longevity model to confront inequity in scholarship allocation. I released it because secrets cause more harm than transparency. And yes, it has been misused. That was a failure of governance, not of data. Our mistake was not anticipating the speed and creativity of misuse. Our responsibility is to adapt, not to retreat."
There were more murmurs. A few nods.
Professor Qin spoke next. "It's important to remember that ethics is not a zero-sum game between data and humanity," she said. "Ethics lives in the space between them. We must ask: What values are encoded in our models? Who gets to decide those values? And how do we adjust when those values clash with reality? Mr. Lin has shown willingness to adjust. Ms. Zhao is reminding us to keep adjusting. But abolition of data will not remove bias. It will simply hide it."
She looked at Mei. "Ms. Zhao, what alternative do you propose? Should we return to purely human judgment, with all its prejudices? Should we trust hiring managers to decide fairness? Should we allocate scholarships based on interviews where unconscious bias thrives? Or do we work to make the data better?"
Mei smiled slightly. "I propose we slow down," she said. "We don't have to build new systems faster than we can think. We can pilot, we can test, we can limit. We can ensure every algorithm is subject to human override. We can ensure no model is used without a rigorous ethical review. We can ensure no one is denied an opportunity because of a number. We can ensure appeals. We can ensure compassion."
"And who ensures that?" Lin asked. "Who defines compassion? Who decides how slow is slow enough? In the time we debate, students go unfunded, resources are misallocated. Slowness benefits those already in power. Those waiting do not have time."
Mei's eyes flashed. "That argument is always used by those who want to move fast and break things," she said. "You broke things, Mr. Lin. They broke in a province where job applicants were told their lives were not long enough. That is not responsible."
Lin felt anger flare. "I broke nothing," he said, more forcefully than intended. "The governor broke ethical boundaries. You broke trust when you hid consultancy contracts. I built a tool and I invited oversight. You weaponized human judgment for personal gain. Don't lecture me about responsibility."
The audience gasped. The moderator raised a hand. "Let's keep this professional," he said, voice firm.
Lin took a breath. He regretted the personal jab, but he couldn't let her rewrite the narrative without acknowledging her past.
Mei's expression hardened. "I admit my mistakes," she said quietly. "I faced consequences. Now I'm advocating for change. That's more than some."
Professor Qin intervened. "This is a discussion about ideas," she said. "Not personal histories. Mr. Lin, Ms. Zhao, please refocus."
Lin nodded. "Fine," he said, swallowing his anger. "Let's talk ideas. Here's one: We cannot stop people from building predictive models. They exist, and they will multiply. Our ethical duty is to shape them, not to deny them. If we retreat, we leave the field to those who do not care about ethics. If we engage, we can set standards."
Mei replied. "And here's mine: There are realms data should not enter. Personal relationships. Artistic endeavors. Hiring. Our duty is to draw lines. To say, here data helps, here data harms. Scholars used to call this 'sphere integrity.' We have lost it. We need to rediscover it."
The moderator interjected. "What if the line is blurred?" he asked. "Hiring someone for a physically demanding job—shouldn't we know their health? Admitting someone to a scholarship—shouldn't we know they're likely to complete? Is there a way to balance?"
"That's what the ethics committee is for," Lin said. "We're expanding it. We're including students, donors, ethicists. We want to hear what the community thinks. We want to codify principles. We're not claiming to have all answers. We're saying, let's build them together."
Mei shrugged. "Committees can be fig leaves," she said. "Unless they have power."
"They will," Lin said. "We're giving them veto power over future models."
There were surprised whispers.
Professor Qin smiled. "You are?" she asked.
Lin nodded. "Yes," he said. "We finalized it this morning. The board approved. No new predictive model will be implemented without ethics committee approval. They can block it."
Mei's face flickered. She hadn't known. "That's a start," she said, conceding a small ground. "But what about existing models?"
"We're subjecting them to review as well," Lin said. "And we're inviting third-party audits. Full transparency."
That announcement landed heavily. It was tangible reform. It undercut Mei's argument that the trust was unaccountable. It signaled that Lin was not clinging to power but distributing it. It showed that he had listened.
The rest of the panel shifted into a more constructive tone. Audience members asked questions about cultural biases in data, about the role of education in preparing people for algorithmic decision-making, about safeguards against discrimination. Lin took notes. Mei answered some, often with emotive appeals. Qin grounded the conversation in theory and practice.
At the end, the moderator asked each panelist to summarize in one sentence what they hoped the audience would take away.
"Caution," Mei said. "Be wary of systems that promise efficiency at the cost of empathy."
"Engagement," Lin said. "Don't abdicate your voice because the subject is technical. Ethics belongs to everyone."
"Balance," Qin said. "Hold two truths at once: data can enlighten, and data can harm. Your job is to discern when."
There was applause. As the panel ended, people swarmed the stage, students handing Lin notes, journalists waving microphones. Mei slipped through a side door, her posture calm. She had said what she came to say. She would speak again.
Backstage, Han waited. He raised an eyebrow. "That got spicy," he said. "How does it feel to be called a weapon-wielder?"
Lin sighed. "Heavy," he said. "How does it feel to be neutral?"
Han shrugged. "I'm not neutral," he said. "I'm strategic. There's a difference."
Lin smiled. "Same thing."
"Not at all," Han replied, grinning. "Neutral people don't act. I act. For instance, I just made a donation to the ethics committee's operating fund."
"On behalf of Dongyang Shipping?" Lin asked.
"On behalf of me," Han said. "My father would never."
Lin laughed. "Thank you."
They walked out together. Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows. Protesters and supporters mingled, talking, arguing, drinking coffee, taking selfies. The debate had not been settled. It had been reframed. Ethics was now a public battlefield, and Mei had drawn new lines.
Lin looked at the crowd, at the signs, at the faces—angry, hopeful, curious. He looked at the student from the other day, the one who had challenged him about weighting. She was there with her friends, listening to a reporter. He raised his hand in greeting. She smiled and returned it.
He felt a small swell of gratitude. For all its messiness, this was what he wanted: engagement. Not blind trust. Not blind rejection. Engagement.
As he and Han stepped into the street, Han's phone buzzed. "Guess what?" Han said, glancing at the screen. "Mei's video just hit five million views."
Lin groaned. "Of course it did."
Han smirked. "You're at three million."
Lin shook his head. "It's not a competition."
Han raised an eyebrow. "Everything is a competition," he said. "But in this case, the prize is humanity's soul. No pressure."
Lin laughed. It was a brittle sound, but it was real.
He looked up at the sky, then back at the people. The battle for ethics had begun. It would be long. It would be exhausting. It would be essential.
And he would be in the middle of it, whether he liked it or not.