Rain slicked the streets the morning the auditors delivered their final report. Lin Ze sat at the long mahogany table in conference room 17C again, but the mood was different. Nervous energy crackled as board members shuffled papers and whispered. Mr. Huang stared straight ahead, expression carved from stone. Mei Zhao checked her phone, then tucked it away. Professor Qin adjusted her glasses and met Lin's gaze with a small nod. E. Liu sat two seats down from him, her hands folded neatly on top of a notebook. Chen waited outside, along with other staff, peering through the glass.
Sun & Partners' lead auditor, a woman with silver hair and a calm demeanor, took her place at the head of the table. She opened the thick binder in front of her, then looked at the room.
"We have completed our examination of the Harbor Private Trust's scholarship fund, including financial statements, management practices, contract approvals, and disbursement procedures," she began. Her voice carried without being loud. "Our findings are as follows."
Silence settled, heavy and expectant.
"First, regarding allegations of misappropriation of funds: We found no evidence that scholarship monies were diverted for personal use by the executive director or staff. Disbursements matched bank statements and university acknowledgments."
Lin exhaled softly. A faint rustle of relief crossed the room.
"Second, regarding management contracts: We identified two consulting agreements—Tianyu Management and EastSea Advisors—totaling twenty million yuan, approved without full board review. These contracts fall outside standard procurement practices. The services provided were not adequately documented, and the payment amounts exceed market rates."
Mr. Huang's jaw tightened. Mei's expression remained neutral, but a muscle in her cheek twitched.
"Third, regarding the longevity index and allegations of manipulation: We found no evidence that scores were altered for individual applicants. We did note that socio-economic factors carried significant weight. While this is not illegal, it raises ethical questions."
Professor Qin leaned forward slightly, attentive.
"In conclusion," the auditor said, "we recommend the following: Immediate suspension of all contracts with Tianyu Management and EastSea Advisors pending further investigation; refund of any unearned fees; establishment of a procurement policy requiring full board approval for large expenditures; creation of an independent ethics committee to oversee algorithmic decision-making; and public disclosure of all board committee minutes within thirty days."
She closed the binder. "This concludes our report."
The room erupted into noise. Mr. Huang slammed his palm on the table. "Those contracts were authorized by the finance subcommittee," he snapped. "We had discretion."
Professor Qin spoke calmly. "Discretion is not a shield for opacity," she said. "You did not inform us. That is a breach of trust."
Shen, the young board member, chimed in. "I move that we follow the recommendations: terminate those contracts, demand refunds, and censure the parties responsible."
"I second," Qin said.
Mei's eyes flashed. "This is political," she said. "You're using this to undermine the chair."
"It's accountability," Shen retorted. "If we want donors and students to trust us, we must hold ourselves accountable."
A vote was called. Hands were raised. Seven in favor, three against. The motion passed.
Mr. Huang stood. "This is outrageous," he said, voice sharp. "You are destroying the board's integrity."
"You destroyed it yourself when you hid contracts," Qin replied.
He looked at Mei. She met his gaze, then looked away. Betrayal flickered in his eyes. He realized he no longer had the numbers. Without a word, he gathered his papers and left the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Later that afternoon, Mr. Huang submitted his resignation as chair. He remained on the board but stripped of his leadership. The finance subcommittee was reconstituted with Shen as chair. The board unanimously appointed Professor Qin as interim chair, pending a formal election. Mei kept her seat but was removed from the finance committee. Her face did not betray her emotions, but her grip on her folder was white-knuckled.
After the meeting, Lin stepped into the hallway. Staff gathered, waiting. He raised his hand. "We have work to do," he said simply. Applause broke out, loud and genuine. He smiled, exhausted but relieved.
The next weeks were a whirlwind. The trust published all board minutes as promised. They terminated the dubious contracts and sued to recover funds. They invited ethicists, students, donors, and community leaders to join the new ethics committee. They held public forums on the longevity index, where heated debates unfolded. Some called for scrapping algorithms altogether. Others praised the trust's willingness to adjust. Lin listened, took notes, and promised further transparency.
The first use of the new weighting scheme was hailed by some and criticized by others. It favored applicants who had overcome adversity, not just those with high test scores. A newspaper ran a headline: "Trust Chooses Grit Over Grades." On social media, people argued. The trust responded with data and stories. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress.
E. Liu's anonymous threats ceased after security cameras caught a delivery person dropping an envelope at her door. The person turned out to be a low-level assistant in Mei's department, who claimed ignorance. HR disciplined him. E. Liu continued her work, now with the respect of her colleagues, who admired her courage.
Chen's sister started her university studies. She sent her brother photos of campus and messages like "It's so big!" and "I got lost in the library!" Chen framed her acceptance letter and hung it above his desk. He told everyone who would listen that his sister was going to change the city.
Han's father called him into his office. The elder Mr. Han stared at his son across a mahogany desk. "You're meddling in charity," he said, tone disapproving.
"I'm learning," Han replied. "About data, power, ethics. Things you said didn't matter."
"Everything matters if it's profitable," his father said.
"Not everything is about profit," Han said quietly. His father looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He didn't reply.
Mei met with Mr. Liao in a different restaurant this time, away from prying eyes. "We lost the battle," she said. "But not the war. People like algorithms—until they don't. We'll show them the ugly side. We'll make them beg for human judgment again. We'll be ready to provide it."
"You sound like a zealot," Mr. Liao replied.
"I sound like someone who knows when to change tactics," she said, sipping her tea. "Besides, I have other allies. International allies."
He raised an eyebrow. "The game expands."
She smiled. "Always."
One evening, after a long day of forums and meetings, Lin visited Professor Qin in her university office. Books and papers covered her desk. She poured him tea from a clay pot.
"You did well," she said. "You listened, you adapted, you stood firm when needed."
"I made a lot of mistakes," he replied.
"We all did," she said. "But we corrected them. That's leadership."
He looked at her brooch, the one his mother had remarked on. "My mother sends her thanks," he said. "She said you remind her of my grandmother."
Professor Qin chuckled. "I'm honored," she said. "Tell her I said hello."
"I will," Lin said. "What's next?"
"Next," she said, leaning back, "we prepare for broader scrutiny. Governments are paying attention. They're forming committees on AI ethics. They'll invite us. We need to be ready. Also, other organizations are adopting your model. Some will misuse it. We must help them use it responsibly."
"Are we still fighting Mr. Huang and Mei?" he asked.
"We're always fighting someone," she said. "But for now, focus on building something better. Let their pettiness erode them. You have bigger battles ahead."
He nodded. He stood to leave. "Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet," she replied with a wry smile. "You're only at the beginning."
He laughed. "It's the end of this volume at least," he said.
She tilted her head. "Volumes don't end. They just turn pages."
On a quiet Sunday morning, Lin walked along the river with his mother. The water glimmered under the rising sun. Vendors set up their stalls. Runners jogged past. His mother linked her arm through his.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm okay," he replied. "It's been a lot."
"Your grandmother used to say, 'When the fish jumps, the water splashes. But the river keeps flowing,'" she said. "You made big splashes. The river will continue. Don't forget to swim."
He smiled. "I won't."
They stopped at a vendor selling hot soy milk. He bought two cups. Steam curled in the cool air. He handed one to his mother.
"To grandmothers, and fish, and rivers," he said.
She laughed. "To stubborn sons," she replied, clinking her cup against his.
As they sipped, he felt a sense of calm. The fight was far from over. Mei would scheme. Regulators would scrutinize. New problems would emerge. But he had allies, purpose, and the resilience of a river. He was ready for the next chapter.