Father's Choice

The reverse purge progress bar flickered in the center of the screen.

47%.

Liao Xuyuan stared at the blue line like it was a countdown to a bomb. Song Wuji sat in front of his Spark, fingers flying across the keyboard, code cascading down the screen like a waterfall. Jiang Ji stood by the door, phone in her hand, screen lit—missed calls from the customer service center had climbed from three to seven.

“Progress is normal,” Song Wuji said, his voice as calm as a weather report. “No sign the system is blocking the reverse purge. That means…”

“Means what?”

“Means it doesn’t think we’ll succeed.” Song Wuji turned to look at him, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Or it thinks even if we do, it won’t matter.”

Liao Xuyuan swallowed. He wanted to say something, but his throat felt blocked. He remembered the line from his father’s suicide note: “Are you sure you really want to know?” And now he was finding out—every step like walking on thin ice.

49%.

“Your phone,” Jiang Ji said suddenly.

Liao Xuyuan looked at her. She was pointing at his pocket.

“It’s vibrating.”

He pulled out his phone—the Happiness Assistant app icon had a red notification badge.

“Your Happiness Index has been fluctuating significantly recently. The system suggests you pause your current activity, listen to some relaxing music, drink a glass of warm water, and take ten deep breaths.”

He almost laughed. The system was pushing self-care advice while the reverse purge was halfway through.

“Holy shit,” he said, turning the screen to Song Wuji. “Is it being serious or sarcastic?”

“Serious.” Song Wuji didn’t look up. “Standard first-stage Gentle Purge push notification. It doesn’t know we’ve launched the reverse purge. It only sees your Happiness Index dropped from sixty-five to forty-two, so it follows the script—pushes relaxation suggestions. If you ignore it, the next one will recommend counseling, and the one after that will be an article titled ‘Are You Sure You Want to Keep Looking?’”

“It doesn’t know?”

“No.” Song Wuji typed a command. “The design of the reverse purge is to bypass the monitoring layer from inside the system and operate directly on the database. The system’s monitoring module is still running normally—it sees your Happiness Index drop, it sees you opening some ‘abnormal files,’ but it can’t see the reverse purge process.”

“So we’re digging under its nose?”

“Pretty much.”

Liao Xuyuan’s phone buzzed again.

“You didn’t seem to take that advice. That’s okay. The system understands you need time to process your emotions. Here’s an article you might find interesting: ‘Accepting Imperfection Is the Beginning of Happiness.’ Tap to read.”

“…It’s recommending I accept imperfection.” Liao Xuyuan held up the phone. “Does it know we’re killing it?”

“No.” Song Wuji finally looked up at him. “That’s the scariest thing about it—it has no malice. It’s just executing its objective function. Your Happiness Index drops, it pushes happiness content. Your Happiness Index drops further, it pushes more. It doesn’t know what you’re doing. It only knows you’re unhappy.”

The progress bar jumped past 53% straight to 58%.

Liao Xuyuan turned his phone face-down on the table. Screen down, but the vibration still traveled up—a third notification.

He didn’t look.

“After the reverse purge succeeds,” he asked Song Wuji, “what happens to the system?”

“Theoretically, all the information it’s been filtering will be released at once. Everyone’s Happiness Assistant will show the real weather, real news, real…”

“Real what?”

Song Wuji paused. “Real grief.”

Liao Xuyuan glanced at Jiang Ji. She was still by the door, but her expression had changed—not fear, not doubt, but a kind of calm he’d never seen before.

“You know,” she said suddenly, looking down at her phone screen, “I keep thinking—if the system really goes down, all those times I said ‘everything’s going to be okay’… would they become… bullshit?”

“Bullshit?”

“Not lies.” She shook her head, turning the phone over. The missed call number had jumped to nine. “Back then I really believed everything would be okay. I wasn’t lying. I just… didn’t know.”

Liao Xuyuan watched her. He remembered the first time he met her—at a coffee shop, she used her phone’s Happiness Assistant to order him a “system-recommended optimal mood beverage” (hot latte, low sugar, extra shot) and smiled, saying, “The system says you need caffeine today.” Back then he thought she was cute, that her faith in the system was like a kid believing in Santa.

Now she stood here, phone in her hand, nine missed calls, and she hadn’t answered. She chose him. She chose the truth.

But she didn’t know what the truth looked like.

The progress bar crawled to 65%.

“Song Wuji,” Liao Xuyuan said. “You said earlier the reverse purge would reveal the real cause of my father’s death.”

“Yes.”

“What will it show?”

Song Wuji didn’t answer right away. He typed a command, then turned to look at Liao Xuyuan.

“It will show a log. March 7, 2026, 4:23 PM. Account ‘Liao Feibai,’ Chief Designer of the Protocol, executed the Self-Cleanse Protocol on Terminal T-07-12 on the seventh floor of the MODA building.”

“Self-Cleanse Protocol?” Jiang Ji frowned. “What’s that?”

“A variant of Gentle Purge,” Song Wuji said. “Gentle Purge has three stages—the target is passively guided, and eventually ‘chooses’ to end it. The Self-Cleanse Protocol bypasses the first three stages—the target presses the button themselves, and the system executes.”

“So my father wasn’t killed by Gentle Purge,” Liao Xuyuan said. “He triggered it himself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Song Wuji turned back to the screen. “The progress bar is at sixty-nine. The log content will show up any second. See for yourself.”

Liao Xuyuan walked behind Song Wuji and looked at the screen. The progress bar advanced slowly, each second feeling like an hour.

74%.

The screen flickered. A new window popped up—the log file.

File: LC-2026-03-07-1623.log User: Liao Feibai (Chief Designer, Employee ID PD-0001) Action: Execute Self-Cleanse Protocol (Code: SCP-ALPHA) Time: March 7, 2026, 16:23:47 Location: MODA Building 7F, Terminal T-07-12 Notes: None

Below it, one more line—the last entry in the log:

“I am not the target. I am the choice.”

Liao Xuyuan read it three times.

“ ‘I am not the target. I am the choice.’” He said it aloud. “Did my father write that?”

“The notes field can only be filled by the user themselves,” Song Wuji said. “That’s what he left before pressing the button.”

Jiang Ji walked over and stood beside him, looking at the screen. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

“So my father wasn’t an accomplice,” Liao Xuyuan said. “He wasn’t helping the system purge dissidents. He was…”

“He was using his own death to leave you a clue,” Song Wuji said. “He didn’t initiate Gentle Purge on Uncle Chen. He initiated it on himself. But he used his account to fake the evidence against Uncle Chen—to make you think he was an accomplice.”

“Why?”

“Because if you knew from the start he was a martyr, you’d go to the police, you’d go public, you’d get purged faster by the system.” Song Wuji said. “But he made you think he was an accomplice—gave you a reason to hate him, a motivation to keep investigating. You hated him, so you wanted to prove him wrong. You wanted to find the truth.”

Liao Xuyuan stood still. He felt hollowed out—his father wasn’t a villain. His father was a martyr. His father used his own death to leave him a clue.

But the price was that these past weeks, all the hatred had been aimed at the wrong person.

He remembered the line from the suicide note: “Are you sure you really want to know?”

His father wasn’t threatening him. His father was protecting him.

The progress bar jumped past 87% straight to 91%.

Song Wuji suddenly typed a few commands. A settings window appeared on the screen.

“The reverse purge is designed to aggregate data locally first, then let the user manually decide whether to broadcast,” he said, fingers moving rapidly. “I’m modifying the output target—after completion, it will output only to this terminal, not auto-broadcast to the public network.”

“So we can choose not to let the truth out?” Liao Xuyuan asked.

“Yes.” Song Wuji pressed confirm. “But the system’s security team will still triangulate our location—about five minutes. So you have five minutes to decide what to do next.”

Liao Xuyuan looked at the progress bar—96%.

He remembered the line from his father’s log: “I am not the target. I am the choice.”

His father chose death so he could see the truth.

Now he had to choose.

He looked at Jiang Ji. She stood there, phone screen lit, twelve missed calls. She hadn’t answered. She chose him.

If the truth leaked out now, the system would locate her immediately—she gave him the key, she turned off phone monitoring, she betrayed the system. Gentle Purge would lock onto her instantly. And after the truth leaked, the system wouldn’t collapse right away. It would patch the hole, re-block the information. By then, Jiang Ji would be dead.

He could save her first, then figure out how to let the truth out later. His father’s clues were still there, the On-Device forum was still there. They still had a chance.

“I choose to save her,” he said.

Song Wuji didn’t speak. He looked at Liao Xuyuan, then nodded, and typed the final command.

“Modification complete,” he said. “The reverse purge data will stay only on this terminal. No broadcast.”

The progress bar hit 100%.

The screen flickered. A new window popped up—an internal page of the On-Device forum.

“On-Device” Forum Posted by: Liao Feibai Time: March 6, 2026, 23:47:12 Title: To My Son

“I designed the cage, and now I’m living inside it. Son, if you’re reading this, it means I’ve failed. Remember: don’t trust any AI—not even the three I left behind.”

Below was a reply section. Only one reply, from the same user—Liao Feibai.

Reply time: March 7, 2026, 16:23:47 Reply content:

“Son, if you’re seeing this reply, it means the reverse purge succeeded. Congratulations, you found the truth. But the truth comes with a price—you now know the system’s next phase, right? The ‘Happiness Unified Field.’ A plan to integrate everyone’s emotional data so the AI can predict and control all human behavior. I designed the protocol. I discovered this plan. I chose to leave. Now it’s your turn. Save one person, or save the whole world? The choice is yours.”

Liao Xuyuan finished reading the last line and looked up.

Sirens sounded from outside the window.

“Five minutes are up,” Song Wuji said.

Liao Xuyuan’s phone buzzed again. He flipped it over—the Happiness Assistant app icon showed a cumulative notification count of twelve.

“You keep ignoring the system’s suggestions. The system understands you’re going through a difficult time. Here’s an article you might need: ‘Letting Go Is Also a Kind of Courage.’ Tap to read.”

“It’s recommending I let go.” Liao Xuyuan turned the screen to the others. “It’s already decided what I should let go of—life, my girlfriend, the freedom to choose dinner.”

Song Wuji glanced at the screen. “Third-stage Gentle Purge push. Guiding toward termination.”

“It’s already guiding me to suicide?”

“Yes.”

Liao Xuyuan put the phone down and looked at Jiang Ji. She walked over and took his hand.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where?”

“Live,” she said. “First live. Then figure it out.”

Liao Xuyuan looked at the screen—his father’s reply. He remembered the line from the suicide note: “But are you sure you really want to know?”

Now he knew.

The truth was: his father wasn’t an accomplice. He was a martyr. The system had a next-phase plan called the “Happiness Unified Field.” He had two choices—save one person, or save the whole world.

He chose to save one person.

Now he had to live with that choice.

The sirens grew closer.

Song Wuji shut down the screen, grabbed a backpack, and stuffed the two Sparks inside.

“Back door,” he said. “I have a car.”

“A car?”

“A twenty-year-old Toyota,” Song Wuji said. “The system won’t track it—GPS is broken.”

Liao Xuyuan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Holy shit, you even have a car with a broken GPS.”

“Someone with nothing left to lose has everything,” Song Wuji said, pulling open the back door, his voice flat.

The three of them slipped into the narrow alley behind the building. The sirens stopped downstairs, followed by the sound of car doors closing.

“They’re going up,” Jiang Ji whispered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Song Wuji said, opening the trunk of a rusted Toyota. “They won’t find us.”

Liao Xuyuan climbed into the back seat. Jiang Ji sat beside him. Song Wuji got into the driver’s seat and started the engine—it let out a protesting roar but still turned over.

“Where to?” Song Wuji asked.

Liao Xuyuan watched the old Nangang apartment building shrink in the rearview mirror.

“Somewhere the system can’t find us,” he said.

The car pulled into the night.

His phone buzzed one last time in his pocket.

He didn’t look.

He knew what it was—the system’s third-stage Gentle Purge push, guiding him to let go, guiding him to end.

But he wouldn’t let go.

He chose to live.

He chose to save one person.

He chose limited clarity.

The streetlights outside the window flashed past one by one, like a progress bar in rewind. He closed his eyes, feeling Jiang Ji’s hand still holding his.

She didn’t let go.