The phone wouldn't stop vibrating. Lin Ze glanced at the screen: missed calls from donors, messages from journalists, an email from a university partner asking for clarification. Notifications scrolled like a ticker tape. He set the phone face down on the table and forced himself to breathe. It was the morning after the leak, and the world had erupted.
Sun & Partners had called at six a.m. to say they were continuing the audit but that the scope might need to expand given the public allegations. Professor Qin left him a voicemail: "Stay calm. The truth will survive hysteria. But you must tell it quickly." His mother texted, simply: "Are you okay? We believe you." He read that one twice.
They gathered in the small war room again: Lin, Zhang, Su, Han, and E. Liu. On the wall, Su had pinned a timeline of the next 48 hours. Press conference, social media statement, meeting with scholarship recipients' families, emergency board meeting. Every hour was accounted for.
"We have to control the message," Su said, pacing. "Silence reads as guilt. We need Lin to speak directly to the camera. We need simple language. Explain what the algorithm does and why. Acknowledge concerns. Invite scrutiny. Emphasize transparency. Highlight the audit. Offer Q&A."
Zhang rubbed his temples. "There are legal implications to what we say. If we admit the algorithm is flawed, we open ourselves to lawsuits. If we insist it's perfect, we look arrogant."
"Be honest," Han said. "People can smell spin. Tell them the algorithm was designed to allocate limited resources based on predicted outcomes, that it was built by a diverse team, that you're open to feedback. People want to feel heard."
E. Liu nodded. "And mention the safeguards," she said. "We have an ethics committee. We adjust weights regularly. We don't make decisions in a vacuum. Show them the process."
"Do we release the code now?" Lin asked.
Su glanced at Zhang. "We can't release the entire code before reviewing it for proprietary libraries," Zhang said. "But we can release the white paper immediately. And we can commit to releasing the code within a week, after consultation. That buys us time and shows intent."
"Do it," Lin decided. "And I'll speak on livestream in two hours."
Su scribbled on a note. "I'll write your talking points," she said. "But speak from the heart too. People responded to Meiqi's video because it felt real. Don't read like a robot."
Han smirked. "That might be a challenge."
Lin rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the support."
They dispersed to their tasks. Lin went to the server room to check with the analytics team. He found them clustered around a whiteboard, arguing over variable weights and color-coded charts. Chen Liang was there, hair disheveled, eyes red.
When Chen saw Lin, he froze. "Mr. Lin," he said, voice thin.
"Chen," Lin acknowledged. "Rough night?"
"You could say that," Chen replied.
Lin looked at the board. "We're going to release the methodology," he said. "I'll need your help to draft the technical notes. It needs to be clear but not condescending. Can you do that?"
Chen swallowed. "Yes," he said. "I'll do it."
Lin hesitated. He wanted to ask about the leak, about EastSea. But he decided against confronting him here. "Meet me in an hour," he said. "We'll review."
As he turned to leave, Chen spoke. "Mr. Lin," he said quietly. "If someone offers you something that could help your family, but it hurts others, what do you do?"
Lin faced him. Chen looked exhausted, torn. The guilt was evident.
"You talk to your team," Lin said. "You don't make that choice alone. And you remember why you took this job in the first place." He held Chen's gaze until the younger man nodded. Then he left.
The press conference was set in the atrium of Harbor Tower. Camera crews lined up, microphones pointed toward a podium. Reporters murmured among themselves, glancing at their phones. Scholarship recipients and their parents stood off to the side, some with folded arms, others with worried expressions. Donors watched from the back.
Lin stepped up to the podium, wearing a simple suit, no tie. He took a breath and looked directly into the cameras.
"Good morning," he began. "My name is Lin Ze. I am the executive director of the Harbor Private Trust Scholarship Fund. Yesterday, an anonymous post claimed that we manipulate scholarship eligibility scores to favor certain groups. That is a serious allegation. I am here to address it."
His voice echoed in the atrium. He spoke about the longevity index: how it was created to allocate limited resources objectively, how it integrated multiple factors—academic performance, health indicators, socio-economic background—to predict a student's ability to thrive. He acknowledged criticism. He admitted the model was imperfect. He explained the ethics committee, the regular audits, the adjustments.
"We do not, and never will, manipulate scores to benefit our friends or hurt those we dislike," he said. "We welcome scrutiny. Today, we are releasing a detailed white paper on our methodology. In the coming days, we will release the code itself, so that experts can review and suggest improvements. We invite dialogue. Our goal is not to play God with lives. Our goal is to maximize impact with fairness."
He paused. "I understand that some of you may still doubt us. Doubt is healthy. But I ask you to look at the students whose lives have been changed. I ask you to join us in making this system better, not tearing it down with misinformation."
He stepped away. Questions erupted. Su fielded some, directing technical ones to Zhang and E. Liu. A parent stood up and said, "My son got a scholarship from you. He was the first in our family to go to university. If this is true, will his future be in question?" Lin answered gently: "No one's scholarship is being revoked. We stand by our students."
A reporter asked, "Mr. Lin, rumors are circulating that you have a personal relationship with influencers that affects your decision-making. How do you respond?" He replied, "My personal relationships do not influence our criteria. Our process is documented and audited. Personal lives should not be weaponized against public service."
After the conference, he went back to his office. His phone had hundreds of notifications. He ignored most. One, from Han, simply read: "Well said. But the board will be furious you promised to release the code."
Another message was from an unknown number. It contained a single line: "Good luck." He suspected it was Chen.
The board convened an emergency session that afternoon. The atmosphere was charged. Mr. Huang sat at the head of the table, face like stone. Mei Zhao was to his right, lips pressed thin.
"You promised to release proprietary code without board approval," Mr. Huang began, his tone icy. "You've exposed us to legal liability and competitive theft."
"I acted within my authority as executive director in a crisis," Lin replied, keeping his voice calm. "The integrity of the trust is at stake. Transparency is the only path forward."
"You don't get to make that decision alone," Mei snapped. "This trust is governed by this board. You are under observation. Your actions are insubordinate."
Professor Qin spoke up. "Mr. Huang, if I may. The public outcry demands a response. Refusing transparency will only fuel suspicion. We risk donor confidence."
A young board member, Shen, nodded. "I agree. We need to adapt to modern expectations. Open-source is standard in many fields. And it's our responsibility to ensure our algorithms do not perpetuate bias."
Mr. Huang's gaze swept the table. "And what about intellectual property?" he asked. "What about competitors?"
"This is philanthropy," Professor Qin said pointedly. "We don't compete. We serve."
The room murmured. Mei's eyes narrowed.
"Regardless," Mr. Huang said, lifting his gavel slightly, "we must address the leak. It suggests inside collusion. Our data has been stolen. We need to launch an internal investigation. I propose we suspend Lin Ze pending completion of the audit."
"You can't be serious," Shen protested. "Suspending him now would imply guilt. It would be a capitulation to a smear campaign."
"He's already compromised our IP," Mei said.
"He saved our reputation," Qin countered.
Voices rose. The board divided. A vote was called. Hands lifted. Counting began. In the end, five were in favor of suspension, six against. The motion failed by one vote.
Mr. Huang's jaw clenched. "Very well," he said. "But we will appoint an oversight committee to monitor every action. And we will pursue legal action against whoever leaked our data."
"Agreed," Lin said. "We want to find the culprit as much as you do."
Chen sat at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard. An encrypted chat window was open. He had written a message to EastSea's recruiter: "I can't help you anymore. I'm staying. Don't contact me again." But he hadn't sent it yet.
He thought of his sister. He thought of Lin's words: remember why you took this job. He remembered the day he read the post about the scholarship fund accepting applications. He had believed in the promise of data-driven philanthropy. He had believed in fairness. He wanted to believe still.
He hit send. A minute later, a reply came: "You made your choice. We hope you don't regret it."
He closed the chat. His hands trembled. He felt simultaneously relieved and terrified.
That evening, Mei Zhao sat in her office, staring at her reflection in the window. The city's lights glittered like the jewelry she wore. Mr. Huang had stormed out after the meeting, muttering about ingratitude. Mr. Liao had called to say the leak had backfired—it had forced transparency but also made the trust more popular among donors who valued openness. Donations had spiked since the conference.
She poured herself a drink and dialed a number. "We need a new strategy," she said when the line connected. "They're slipping through our fingers."
The voice on the other end was amused. "Patience," it said. "Every fracture expands under pressure. We'll find another fault line."
She hung up and stared out at the river. She hated losing. She wouldn't lose.
Lin went home late. He stood on his balcony, looking at the city, the distant glow of the harbor. He thought of the day he'd first been offered the job. He thought of the promise he made to himself: to build something clean. He felt the weight of that promise now.
His phone buzzed. A message from Han: "Dinner tomorrow? You need to eat."
He smiled. "Fine," he replied. "But I'm choosing the restaurant."
He pocketed the phone and took a deep breath. The fight was far from over. But he wasn't alone. And for now, that was enough.