Morning arrived with a grey drizzle that smeared the skyline, turning the glass towers of the financial district into shadowy outlines. Lin Ze stood by the kitchen window, watching water bead and race down the pane. His coffee went cold before he realized his fingers were wrapped around the mug. Sleep had been fitful. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Mr. Huang's thin smile and heard his warning: "Are you ruthless?"
He rinsed the mug, grabbed his umbrella and the folders he'd organized the night before, and headed to the office. Traffic was slow; horns bleated like restless animals. He used the time to review his schedule on his phone: a meeting with Zhang Yu and Su Yanli at nine, then a call with the auditors at ten, then the usual avalanche of emails and updates from scholarship applicants. At lunchtime he planned to meet E. Liu off-site. He wasn't sure if that was wise, but she'd insisted.
At Harbor Tower, the receptionist greeted him with the same professional smile, but her eyes lingered. News of the board meeting had travelled fast. Some people looked away as he passed; others nodded in subtle support. He couldn't tell which mattered more.
Zhang and Su were already in the small conference room they had commandeered. The air smelled of stale coffee and highlighter ink. Charts and timelines were taped to the walls: columns of numbers, lists of board members, deadlines.
"You look tired," Su said, eyeing him over her glasses.
"Didn't sleep much," he admitted. "You?"
"I don't sleep," she replied, deadpan, then smiled. She gestured to a folder. "Our auditors."
Zhang tapped the table with his pen. "I've spoken to three firms so far. We need one that's independent enough to be credible but not so aggressive that they alienate the board. I'm thinking we go with Sun & Partners. They have international experience and a reputation for discretion."
Lin Ze flipped through the profile. Sun & Partners' logo was understated, their references impeccable. "Who recommended them?"
"Professor Qin," Su said. "She used them for a university endowment audit last year. They were thorough without being sensational."
"Let's do it," Lin said. "But tell them to expect obstruction. Mr. Huang won't make this easy."
Zhang nodded. "I already warned them. Also, I think we should prepare a statement for the press. The smear campaign is quieting down since Meiqi's video, but the narrative could shift again. We need to stay ahead."
Su leaned back. "I can draft something. Focus on transparency and continuity—highlight how we're cooperating with the audit and how scholarship disbursement continues uninterrupted. Emphasize the stories of students; donors respond to faces, not spreadsheets."
Lin Ze agreed. "And what about internal security?" he asked. "If we're exposing shady contracts, we could be targeted. Data sabotage, more leaks."
Su exchanged a glance with Zhang. "Funny you mention that," she said. "There's chatter in the backend. Our IT lead flagged some unusual access logs last night."
Zhang slid a printed report across the table. "Someone attempted to access archived disbursement files from an unsecured IP. They failed, but it means they're probing."
Lin studied the logs. "Time stamp?"
"Two a.m.," Zhang said. "After the board meeting. Could be Huang's people, could be someone else."
"It's not just the board we have to worry about," Su added. "Once word spreads that there's potential malfeasance, opportunists appear. Hackers, journalists hungry for exclusives, rival organizations. They don't care about context—just about clicks and leverage."
"We'll secure the servers," Lin said. "Encrypt, double authentication, physical locks if needed. I'll talk to IT. No more midnight login attempts."
The meeting ran on, granular and exhausting. They drafted emails, scripts, and checklists. By ten o'clock, Sun & Partners confirmed their engagement. By eleven, social media buzzed with news of an "upcoming audit" and speculation about what secrets a charity might hide. Some accused Lin of deflection; others cheered his stand. He ignored most of it.
At noon, he slipped out a side door and walked two blocks to a small teahouse tucked between a tailor and an electronics shop. E. Liu was already there, sitting in a corner, a steaming pot of green tea in front of her. She wore a simple blouse and jeans; her hair was pulled into a ponytail.
"You chose this place," he said, sliding into the seat opposite her.
"It's noisy enough," she replied. The hum of conversation provided cover, and the owners knew better than to hover.
"How are you?" he asked.
She laughed softly. "No one's yelled at me yet. That's good, I think." Then her expression turned serious. "HR emailed me this morning. They scheduled a 'performance review' for next week."
"Retaliation," he said.
"Probably. I have nothing in my file to warrant it."
"Do you want me to talk to them?" he offered.
"No." She shook her head. "If you intervene, they'll say you're favoring me because I helped you. I'll go through the review. I've documented everything." She tapped her bag. "But I wanted to warn you. They're looking for levers."
He poured tea into her cup. "Thank you," he said. "For the risk you took."
"I did it for the trust," she replied. "And for myself. I didn't join this organization to watch it turn into a slush fund." She leaned forward. "Also, I wanted to tell you something else. Yesterday, in the server room, I overheard Mei Zhao talking to someone on the phone. She didn't know I was there. She said, 'We need the longevity data.'"
Lin's heartbeat quickened. "What does that mean?"
"She said the smear campaign didn't work. That the audit would be superficial unless they could show mismanagement of the core product. She mentioned 'the longevity index algorithms' and 'proprietary datasets.' Then she told whoever was on the other end that she had a plan to force your hand."
He frowned. "Our longevity index is our proprietary scoring model for scholarship eligibility," he said. "No one outside the analytics team should even know how it works. And it's not mismanaged. It's a statistical model."
"She wants to make it look like you've rigged it," E. Liu said. "If she can suggest that you manipulated data to select students for personal gain, that's not just mismanagement; it's fraud."
He leaned back, considering. The longevity index had been touted as one of the trust's innovations: blending demographic data, academic performance, and health metrics to predict a student's future productive years—their "return on investment." It had been controversial when introduced, criticized by ethicists like Professor Qin, who argued that reducing human potential to a number risked devaluing those who didn't score high. Lin had always defended it by pointing to transparency and the fund's limited resources. "We can't help everyone," he'd said. "We prioritize those with the best chance of success." But if someone tampered with the algorithm—or claimed he did—it could destroy his credibility and the trust's.
"Can she access the model?" he asked.
E. Liu shook her head. "She doesn't have clearance. But she could find someone who does. Or she could leak enough pieces to suggest impropriety. If they spin a narrative that you only select students from regions where your friends invest, even if it's coincidence…"
"It doesn't matter if it's true," he finished. "Perception becomes reality."
He sipped his tea. It tasted bitter.
"I'll increase oversight," he said. "We'll log every query, every change. We'll publish the algorithm parameters if we have to."
"That might provoke other backlash," she cautioned. "People will question the ethics again."
"I'd rather defend the ethics than defend against lies," he replied. "Transparency is the only shield we have."
After they separated, he returned to Harbor Tower with an uneasy weight in his chest. The longevity index had been his brainchild. It made him a star in data science circles and a target for ethicists. Now it was a weapon his enemies could use. He spent the afternoon with the analytics team, reviewing access protocols, discussing the possibility of releasing a sanitized version of the model. Some engineers balked at sharing intellectual property; others saw the merit. They agreed to write a white paper that outlined the methodology without exposing proprietary code. It wouldn't appease everyone, but it would show they weren't hiding.
During a break, his phone buzzed. A new message from the unknown number.
: "Did you like my email gift?"
He typed back.
: "More like a bomb."
: "Bombs can be gifts," came the reply. "Depends on your perspective."
He smiled despite himself. Han's sense of humor was dry. He considered asking Han about Mei Zhao's plan, but decided against it. Trusting Han had been a gamble; he couldn't bank on more help.
Instead, he wrote: "Can we meet?"
A few minutes later, Han responded: "Tonight. Eight. Same place we first met."
He stared at the message. The first place they'd met had been an art gallery, during a charity auction where Han had bid on a painting for an obscene amount and then ignored everyone. It was neutral territory.
"Round three," he murmured.
Across town, in a plush office with a view of the river, Mei Zhao stood by a window, phone pressed to her ear. Rain streaks broke the reflection of her sharp features.
"Lin Ze is moving fast," she said into the handset. "He's bringing in Sun & Partners. He's locking down the servers. And he knows about the retainers now. Huang is furious, but he can't overturn the motion without looking like he's hiding something."
The voice on the other end was smooth, male. "Then we accelerate. Can you get the data?"
"Not directly," she admitted. "But I know someone who can. A statistician in the analytics team. He thinks he's underappreciated. He also thinks Lin Ze is arrogant. Offer him a promotion at Dongyang Shipping's foundation. He'll be tempted."
"And if he refuses?"
She smiled. "Everyone has a longevity score, Mr. Liao. And everyone has a family. His sister's score is low. She's on the scholarship waitlist. He'd do anything to ensure she gets funded."
There was a pause. "That's ruthless," Mr. Liao said.
"That's reality," she replied. "You taught me that."
From across the room, Mr. Huang listened. His expression was unreadable. When Mei ended the call, he spoke.
"What about the audit?" he asked.
"It will find nothing illegal on our side," she said confidently. "We used shell companies, yes, but the contracts are for legitimate services. Overpriced, perhaps, but not fraudulent. The real danger to us is if they dig into our personal connections with those companies. We can stonewall long enough to make it irrelevant. Meanwhile, if we can make Lin look like a manipulator, the board will beg us to remove him."
Mr. Huang's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. "The silver-haired woman—Qin—she's stirring trouble. And that young man, Shen, he sided with Lin. We cannot rely on the old alliances."
"Then we create new ones," Mei said. "Money speaks. Promises speak."
"And if that fails?"
"We can always leak something to the press," she said. "Call it a whistleblower. They love a corruption story."
Mr. Huang's thin smile returned. "Be careful," he said. "Lin is popular. Remove him too soon, we look like tyrants. But if we let the public feel disappointed in him first…" He let the thought trail off.
Mei nodded. "We'll give them a scandal."
At eight o'clock, Lin Ze walked into the gallery. The walls were painted charcoal; spotlights illuminated canvases of abstract swirls and grayscale landscapes. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers. The room was empty except for Han, who stood before a triptych of monochrome cityscapes.
"You came," Han said without turning.
"You invited me," Lin replied.
They stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the paintings. Each depicted a city from a different angle—one at dawn, with empty streets; one at noon, bustling; one at night, lights reflected on wet pavement. Each city could be any city. Or all.
"You know they'll come after the longevity index," Lin said at last.
Han folded his arms. "Mei Zhao thinks it's your Achilles' heel. So does my father."
"Is it?" Lin asked.
Han shrugged. "You built it. You believe in it. That makes it a target. My family doesn't care about its ethics. They care that it concentrates power. They want that power."
"Why did you help me?" Lin asked. "You and your father don't always agree, but you're still family. You risked his wrath."
Han's lips curled slightly. "I'm bored," he said. "Business is dull. Watching you struggle amuses me."
Lin laughed despite himself. "That can't be the only reason."
Han looked at him. For the first time, there was no mocking in his gaze. "Because you remind me of what I could have been if I'd chosen differently. Because you're stubborn enough to fight people no one else would challenge. Because I want to see if someone like you can win." He paused. "And because you didn't treat me like a spoiled prince when we first met. You insulted me. It was refreshing."
Lin remembered. He'd told Han that buying art at inflated prices didn't make him a patron. Han had laughed then, too.
"What do you want?" Lin asked.
Han considered. "The world is changing," he said. "This longevity data—it's going to be used for more than scholarships. Healthcare, insurance, employment. My father wants Dongyang Shipping to own the pipelines. Mei wants to run them. If Mr. Huang gets in the way, they'll remove him too. Everyone thinks they can control it. They can't. Data has a way of escaping. I want to ensure it doesn't destroy us."
"And you think I can help?"
"I think you're naïve enough to try to safeguard it," Han said. "I'm cynical enough to help you do that if it benefits me."
Lin studied him. "What's your price?"
Han smiled. "Invite me to your next strategy meeting."
Lin laughed. "Zhang will have a heart attack."
"Probably," Han agreed. "But you need someone who can think like your enemies. I can do that. In return, I get to watch the chaos up close. And maybe, when this is over, we build something that isn't rotten from the start."
It was an absurd offer. It was also tempting. Lin thought of Professor Qin's admonitions about ethics, of E. Liu's whispers, of Mr. Huang's smirk. He thought of the students waiting for funds, of donors signing checks, of algorithms predicting potential.
"You're not a philanthropist," he said. "You just want entertainment."
"Perhaps," Han said. "But sometimes entertainment leads to unexpected outcomes."
Lin extended his hand. Han took it.
"Round three, then," Lin said.
"Round three," Han echoed.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city glistened. Somewhere, servers hummed, crunching data about lives and futures. Somewhere else, people plotted and people dreamed. The next move was already being planned.
Lin Ze walked out of the gallery, feeling the strange comfort of an ally he couldn't fully trust. He had learned that trust was a luxury. He had learned that righteousness was not enough. He had yet to learn how ruthless he might need to become.