The letter arrived on embossed paper, delivered by a uniformed courier with a polite smile that revealed nothing. The seal on the envelope was unmistakable: the Ministry of Social Harmony, a department rarely in the headlines but ever-present in policy decisions that touched everything from neighborhood committees to national campaigns.
Inside, a single page contained an invitation.
Dear Mr. Lin Ze,
Your recent work in the field of lifespan data modeling has garnered national attention. The Ministry of Social Harmony, in cooperation with the National Data Governance Commission, is convening a working group to explore standardized frameworks for ethical and equitable use of predictive analytics in public services. Your presence and insight would be invaluable. We request your attendance at 10:00 AM on Monday in the Great Hall.
Respectfully,
Director Wei Jun
Ministry of Social Harmony
It read like an honor. It felt like an ultimatum.
Lin held the letter in his hand, thinking of the province that had tried to rank applicants by projected lifespan. He thought of the debate with Mei Zhao, where the word "responsibility" had become a weapon. He thought of Han's warning: "Not choosing is a choice."
He summoned Zhang and Su to his office.
"They're going to ask us to give them the model," Zhang said immediately, scanning the letter. "Or at least to participate in a process that ends with them controlling it."
"Or they'll ask us to legitimize their own version," Su added. "They'll say it's for fairness and standardization. They'll frame it as preventing misuse like we saw in the province. They'll claim that only the state can ensure ethics."
"And if we refuse?" Lin asked.
"They'll likely move forward anyway," Zhang said. "They might label us uncooperative. They might pass laws to curtail our operations. They could restrict funding. They could pressure universities not to partner with us. They could even deem our model illegal. Or they could simply ignore us and build something worse."
"So it's a trap," Lin said.
"It's an opportunity," Su replied. "A dangerous one. But if we can shape the standards, we might prevent harm. If we walk away, we lose any influence."
Lin looked at the two people he trusted most with strategy and legality. Zhang looked cautious, already weighing legal language. Su looked engaged, her mind racing through narrative possibilities. Neither looked at ease.
"We need to be prepared," Lin said. "We go. We listen. We set our conditions. We offer cooperation only if our principles are respected: transparency, consent, non-discrimination, oversight. We cannot appear rebellious, but we cannot be a rubber stamp."
"Who else is attending?" Zhang asked.
"I'll find out," Su said. "But expect representatives from various ministries—Health, Education, Labor. Possibly a delegate from the security apparatus. And maybe Mei Zhao, if she positions herself as the moral compass. She's aligned herself with ethics."
Lin felt a chill. Mei's pivot was clever; she could easily be invited as a counterpoint, a foil to him.
He nodded. "Inform Professor Qin," he said. "We need her voice. And ask Han if he knows anything."
They entered the Great Hall through a side entrance flanked by tall columns. The building was grand without being ostentatious, designed to convey stability and gravitas. Portraits of leaders past and present lined the walls, their eyes seemingly following each visitor, a reminder of continuity.
Inside, a semicircular table awaited them. On one side sat officials in dark suits, each with a small placard indicating their ministry. At the center sat Director Wei Jun, a man in his fifties with a calm demeanor and a reputation for quietly orchestrating social campaigns. On the other side were chairs for "experts" from civil society and academia.
As Lin took his seat, he saw familiar faces: Professor Qin, dignified as ever; an economist known for his work on social insurance; a public health expert; a young lawyer from a human rights organization. He also saw Mei Zhao, seated at the far end, her expression neutral, her posture impeccable. She wore another white blouse, the simplicity now part of her brand. Their eyes met briefly. She inclined her head, acknowledging his presence without animosity. They were opponents, not enemies. Not today.
Director Wei opened the meeting with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Thank you all for coming," he said. "We find ourselves at an inflection point. Predictive analytics offer tremendous potential for improving public services, but they also pose risks we must manage. We have seen both, sometimes in rapid succession. We are here to discuss how the state should approach such tools—whether through regulation, partnership, or prohibition. Mr. Lin, as the creator of the longevity model that sparked this national conversation, we would like to hear your perspective."
It was both compliment and test.
Lin leaned toward the microphone.
"Thank you, Director Wei," he said. "First, I want to reiterate: The model I developed was intended to allocate limited scholarship resources fairly. It was not designed for employment screening or social stratification. Its misuse in the province was unethical and harmful. I believe that predictive models can aid fairness if used responsibly—if they are transparent, if those affected give informed consent, and if there is independent oversight with the power to halt implementation when harm is identified."
He paused.
"I also believe that any state involvement must uphold these principles. The state is not neutral. You have power that can both protect and oppress. If you standardize models without proper ethical frameworks, you will magnify harm. If you ban models without offering alternatives, inequities persist. I'm here because I want to contribute to a process that centers ethics and accountability."
There was a murmur among the officials. Director Wei nodded thoughtfully.
"Transparency and accountability," he said. "Commendable. But let us be practical. The province's misuse was partly due to the absence of national standards. If each locality experiments independently, chaos ensues. Do you agree that standardization under state supervision could prevent such misuse?"
"Standardization could," Lin said carefully. "State supervision does not guarantee ethical use. We need independent oversight. We need a multi-stakeholder ethics council, with civil society and subject-matter experts, with veto power. We need clear boundaries—models must not be used for employment decisions, for example. We need appeal mechanisms. We need to ensure data is anonymized and consent is real, not coerced by economic necessity."
"What about national security?" a man from the security apparatus interjected. "Predictive analytics could foresee health crises, labor shortages. If foreign entities develop models of our population, we are at a disadvantage. Shouldn't we secure this domain?"
"National security should not be an excuse to bypass ethics," Professor Qin responded before Lin could. "And security can be enhanced by open cooperation. We can develop models collaboratively while adhering to ethical guidelines. We can open-source methodologies while protecting personal data. Secrecy breeds misuse. Look at how closed systems in history have been abused."
"An open-source model can be copied and misused," the security official said.
"Closed models can be stolen and misused," Mei interjected, her voice calm. "We've already seen this. The genie is out. The question is: Do we guide it or chase it?"
Director Wei smiled. "Perhaps a middle ground is possible," he said. "We propose creating a National Lifespan Data Council. It would include ministry representatives, experts like Mr. Lin and Professor Qin, and perhaps Ms. Zhao. Its mandate would be to oversee any use of lifespan projections in public policy. No model could be implemented without Council approval. The Council could recommend legislation. It could issue ethical guidelines. It would be chaired by this ministry but operate independently."
"And what power would it have?" Lin asked. "Advisory? Or binding?"
"We envision it as advisory," Wei said smoothly. "Binding authority would remain with the ministries. We cannot cede governance to unelected experts."
"Then it's a fig leaf," the human rights lawyer murmured. "We need real teeth. Advisory bodies are ignored when convenient."
Wei's smile tightened. "We can debate structure," he said. "But we must start. Our citizens are anxious. They fear becoming numbers. We cannot leave a void."
Mei spoke again. "I support a Council," she said. "Provided it centers human judgment. Algorithms must be transparent and contestable. The Council must have the ability to veto. If the state truly wants to protect people, it must accept that some decisions are not its to make."
Wei looked at her. There was no love lost between them, but she served a purpose. He pivoted.
"What if the Council's decisions were public?" he offered. "Ministries would need to justify any deviation. Transparency with accountability."
Lin heard the compromise, thin as it was. He also heard the underlying assertion: The ministries would retain ultimate authority.
He thought of the protesters. He thought of the province. He thought of the father in the elevator. He thought of his mother's email. He thought of Han's cynicism and Professor Qin's balance.
"Transparency is non-negotiable," he said. "If the Council is public, if its deliberations are open, if the ministry must publicly justify decisions to ignore its recommendations, then the people can hold you accountable. If you accept those conditions, I can consider participating."
Wei inclined his head. "Noted," he said. "We will draft a charter."
Lin recognized the deferral. This was a negotiation, not a decision. They would attempt to water it down. He would need to be vigilant.
The meeting continued, delving into technicalities, legislation, international comparisons. Lin listened, spoke when needed, and noted the alignments forming. Professor Qin pressed for inclusive governance. The human rights lawyer pushed for legal safeguards. The health expert warned about misinterpreting data. The security official kept returning to threats. Mei positioned herself as a moderate moralist. Wei navigated, shaping outcomes with calm words.
As the session adjourned, Wei approached Lin.
"We appreciate your candor," he said. "We hope you will join the Council."
"I need to see the charter," Lin replied. "And I need to consult with my team."
Wei smiled. "Of course," he said. "We are all on the same side."
Lin returned the smile with a neutral one. He had been in enough rooms to know that words like "same side" meant different things to different people.
Outside, the sky was a bleak gray. A light rain had begun to fall, making the courtyard glisten. Lin paused on the steps, inhaled the damp air, and let it cool his mind. Mei emerged behind him.
"That went better than I expected," she said, stepping under a shared umbrella without asking.
"It's not over," Lin said.
"It never is," she replied. "You should know something: They invited me separately. They want me on the Council. They want a 'critic.'"
"And will you join?" he asked.
"If the charter is meaningless, no," she said. "I don't need another title. But if I can shape it, maybe. This isn't about revenge anymore. It's about lines that should never be crossed."
He glanced at her. She seemed sincere. Or she was acting. Both could be true.
"Do you trust them?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But I might trust the process if we create it."
He nodded slowly. "Then we fight for a process worth trusting," he said.
She smiled. "For once," she said, "we agree."
They walked down the steps and went their separate ways.
Later that evening, Lin met Han at a small bar. It was nearly empty. They sat in a corner booth. Han swirled his drink.
"So," Han said. "The state wants your baby."
"They want to adopt it and change its name," Lin replied.
Han laughed. "Will you let them?"
"I don't know yet," Lin said. "If I refuse, they might build something worse without me. If I agree under weak conditions, I legitimize their misuse. If I push for strong conditions, I might lose and get blamed anyway."
"So you're trapped," Han observed.
"I'm responsible," Lin corrected. "There's a difference."
Han tilted his head. "You could walk away," he said. "You could say, 'I've done enough. Let someone else burn.'"
"I could," Lin said. "But then I'd be letting this thing become exactly what Mei warns about. I can't do that. Not yet."
"Quốc gia không trung lập," Han murmured, switching to Vietnamese. "The state is not neutral. They will use whatever you give them for their goals."
"I know," Lin said. "But maybe their goals can be influenced."
Han smiled, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "You're either naive or brave," he said. "Either way, it's good theater."
"It's more than theater," Lin said softly. "It's life."
Han clinked his glass against Lin's. "To life," he said. "And to whichever side we end up on."
They drank. Outside, rain continued to fall. Inside, decisions loomed. Lin felt the weight of his choices pressing against him. He thought of Wei's smile, Mei's pivot, Qin's patience. He thought of the ethics committee he had empowered, the Council he might join, the models proliferating beyond his grasp.
He realized, not for the first time, that every decision he made was political. There was no neutral ground. Only ground he could try to hold long enough to build something better. He was not sure he would succeed. But he would act.
Volume Two was tightening its threads, weaving him deeper into systems he could no longer avoid. And he was ready, as ready as anyone could be, to pull at them until they either held or snapped.