The room was small compared to the halls Lin had been summoned to recently, but the sense of significance was greater. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the windows sealed by thick curtains, the table oval and narrow to force proximity. This was not a room designed for public theatre; it was for negotiation, persuasion, alliance-building, and the unrecorded deals that shaped policy long before the announcements.
Lin stood just inside the doorway, taking in the attendees. He recognized some immediately: a senior official from the Ministry of Commerce, a vice-president from a major insurance conglomerate, an economist who advised the central bank, a tech CEO known for his data mining platforms. There were also faces from academia and civil society—an ethicist from a rural university, a labor union representative, a physician who had spoken out against algorithmic triage. At the far end sat Han, of course, leaning back with his arms crossed, watching the room with amused detachment. Mei Zhao was nowhere in sight. Professor Qin sat near the center, hands folded calmly.
Zhang Yu and Su Yanli stood behind Lin, quietly evaluating. Zhang carried his notebook, ready to scribble, Su held her tablet, eyes flicking between names and affiliations.
"Please," said the organizer, a bland man from the National Data Governance Commission, "take your seats. We'll begin shortly." He smiled as if they were about to discuss lunch options rather than the future of data-driven life.
When everyone was seated, he started with a statement.
"This working group has been convened at the request of several ministries and industry leaders who believe that we need a coordinated approach to predictive analytics," he said. "Our goal is to find consensus on how and where lifespan projections and similar models may be used, and under what oversight. We ask for candor and pragmatism. This is off the record."
Everyone nodded. Off the record meant free expression; it also meant plausible deniability. It was both liberating and treacherous.
"Let's hear from our industry partners first," the organizer said. He gestured to the insurance executive.
The man smoothed his suit jacket. "From the perspective of insurers, predictive models are essential," he said. "We already use actuarial tables to set premiums. Lifespan projections allow us to offer more tailored products, to manage risk, and to expand coverage to those who might otherwise be excluded. Of course, we need ethical guidelines. We don't deny coverage based on age alone. We factor in behavior, family history, environment. We can design products that reward healthy living."
The labor representative leaned forward. "Tailored products," she said, voice edged. "Does that mean higher premiums for those whose projections are lower? Because of poverty or poor air quality? You call that fairness?"
"It's actuarial fairness," the executive replied. "Those who present higher risks pay more. That's the basis of insurance."
"Which entrenches inequality," the ethicist interjected. "Your fairness is a circle that keeps out the poor."
The executive shrugged. "We're businesses, not charities. We can't subsidize indefinitely."
The discussion heated quickly. The economist chimed in about systemic risk, the physician warned about discrimination, the tech CEO spoke about innovation and competitiveness. Lin listened, watching alliances form around shared interests. The Ministry official occasionally intervened, steering the conversation when it veered too far into ideological territory.
Then the organizer turned to Lin. "Mr. Lin, you've heard the concerns and the aspirations. You've created a model that many see as a template. How do you see your role in future applications?"
Lin chose his words carefully. "I see my role as a cautionary example," he said. "We created something to allocate scholarships fairly. We released it openly. We thought transparency would be a shield. It wasn't. Others used it for purposes we never intended. That doesn't mean all predictive models are bad. It means context matters. Governance matters. Oversight matters. And scale matters. A scholarship fund is not the same as national healthcare or employment or insurance. We cannot assume one model fits all."
The insurance executive nodded. "So we tailor."
"We also limit," Lin said. "We restrict certain uses. We ensure appeals. We include affected communities in decision-making. We invest in alternatives. We don't let the data speak alone."
The economist leaned in. "But there will be adoption regardless," he said. "If we don't lead, others will. International companies are already using this technology. Our local conglomerates are experimenting. If we impose too many restrictions, we lose competitiveness."
"Competitiveness is a business goal," Professor Qin said calmly. "Ethical governance is a societal goal. They are not always aligned."
Han spoke for the first time. "We're missing the geopolitical angle," he said, his voice cutting through the din. "My family's company has interests in shipping and logistics. We move goods globally. We also collect a lot of data. We've been approached by governments outside our own asking for access to lifespan data analytics. They see it as a tool for planning. They see it as a lever for negotiations. If we don't standardize, they will create their own standards and impose them on us."
"Which governments?" the tech CEO asked, eyes narrowing.
Han smiled. "Multiple. Europe. Southeast Asia. Africa. They're all watching. And they're building. Some want to buy models. Some want to co-develop. Some want to regulate. If we bicker too long, we might end up following their rules instead of making our own. That's the reality."
"It's also an argument used to justify hasty decisions," the ethicist retorted. "Fear of being left behind leads to compromised values."
Han shrugged. "Perhaps. But the train is leaving. We decide whether to drive it or ride in the last car."
Lin looked at Han, seeing the strategist at work. Han wasn't taking sides on ethics. He was framing choices as power plays. And he was right. Power was part of this.
Zhang spoke quietly. "I'm concerned that this discussion keeps returning to inevitability," he said. "As if ethical frameworks are obstacles rather than foundations. If we rush, we will face backlash, lawsuits, international condemnation. We need consensus that principles come first. Then we design competitiveness around them."
The Ministry official nodded. "We hear you," he said. "Let me propose something. We adopt a phased approach. Phase one: We prohibit predictive models from being used in decisions about employment, basic healthcare eligibility, and fundamental rights. Phase two: We permit models for optional services—insurance, elective programs—provided there is strict oversight, transparency, consent, and appeal. Phase three: We consider broader applications, but only after evaluating the first phases. We create a Council, as discussed, to enforce this."
It was a reasonable proposal on the surface. It allowed government to maintain control while appearing ethical. It created categories of permissible and impermissible uses. It offered time to observe outcomes.
Han glanced at Lin, a hint of amusement. Han had likely influenced this structure; it mirrored his earlier advice to make things burdensome so bad actors would abandon them. Mei, had she been here, would likely call it a bureaucratic labyrinth meant to delay rather than decide. Professor Qin looked thoughtful.
"The categories make sense," Qin said slowly. "But we must define 'basic healthcare,' 'fundamental rights,' and 'optional services.' Without clear definitions, everything becomes optional. And appeals must be accessible. And the Council must have real veto power. Otherwise, phases are meaningless."
"And we need public consultation," the ethicist added. "No decisions behind closed doors."
"This is a closed-door meeting," the tech CEO muttered.
"That's why we need a public process after this," she replied sharply.
Lin saw an opportunity. "I propose a different structure," he said. "Instead of phases controlled by the state alone, we implement a sandbox model. Organizations can propose uses of predictive analytics. These proposals are published publicly. They are reviewed by the Council. There is a period for public comment. Then a decision. Only approved applications proceed, and they must report outcomes. If harms arise, approvals can be revoked. We treat these tools as experimental, not established. That way, we innovate responsibly."
The insurance executive frowned. "That's too slow," he said. "We need faster timelines."
"It's faster than bans and lawsuits," Lin countered. "And it builds trust, which is the foundation of any sustainable use."
The organizer scribbled notes. "These are valuable suggestions," he said. "We will incorporate them into a draft framework. We will reconvene in a month to review. Thank you for your candor."
The meeting broke into smaller conversations. People exchanged cards, whispered alliances. The tech CEO made a beeline for the insurance executive. The labor representative cornered the human rights lawyer. Han was approached by the Ministry official; they shook hands, both smiling politely.
Lin found himself momentarily alone. He stepped to the side, watching. The future was being shaped in increments. No one looked happy. That was, perhaps, a good sign. Compromise rarely pleased.
Professor Qin approached him.
"You handled yourself well," she said. "You kept the ethics at the center. You were not swayed by fear or pride."
"I tried," Lin said. "It feels like threading a needle with a rope."
Qin smiled. "It always does. The Council will be crucial. You must fight for its teeth. Without them, this will be a show."
"I know," he said. "And Mei?"
"She wasn't here, but she will be at the public forums," Qin said. "She will argue that the state cannot be trusted, that all models should be optional and voluntary. She will gain support. We must be ready."
"I'm tired," Lin admitted. "This feels endless."
Qin looked at him with a mixture of compassion and sternness. "Responsibility is endless," she said. "You can step back whenever you need. But if you stay, you must accept that the battle lines keep moving."
Han joined them, hands in his pockets.
"Well, that was fun," he said lightly. "Did you like my inclusion of international pressure?"
"You're playing chess," Lin said.
"I'm playing Go," Han corrected. "Too many pieces for chess."
"Why are you helping?" Qin asked him.
He shrugged. "Chaos is bad for business," he said. "A stable framework helps. And I find it amusing to see the government squirm when faced with its own lack of neutrality."
Qin shook her head, smiling. "You're incorrigible."
"I'm honest," Han said.
Lin looked at him. "Are you going to join the Council?" he asked.
"Maybe," Han said. "If it's worthwhile. If not, I'll watch from the sidelines and pester you with advice."
Lin laughed softly. "You'd do that anyway."
They left the building together. Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky was clearing, sunlight breaking through clouds. The city glistened. People rushed by, unaware of the debates behind closed doors that would influence their lives.
Lin felt a mix of exhaustion and resolve. The state was not neutral. Businesses were not altruistic. Activists were not detached. Everyone had interests. His task was to carve out space for ethics amid those interests, to build structures that could hold. It was naive to think he could do it alone. It was pragmatic to try with allies.
He turned to Zhang and Su, who had been waiting.
"We need to draft our own framework before they do," he said. "And we need to mobilize the ethics committee. And we need to prepare for public consultation. And we need to counter Mei's narrative without erasing her valid points."
Zhang sighed. "So, business as usual," he said dryly.
Su smiled. "At least we're not bored," she said.
"Yet," Han added.
They all laughed, briefly breaking the tension. The work would resume in minutes. But for that moment, they shared a quiet acknowledgment of the absurdity and necessity of their task.
Volume Two's threads were tightening indeed. The next chapter would see them tested in rooms less polite, under lights less forgiving. But they would keep pulling, because if they didn't, someone else would, and the rope might strangle rather than bind.