📘 CHAPTER 18 — THE CHESS GAME
735 Words
Friday evening wasn't as noisy as Lam had imagined.
The small café at the corner of the North Street intersection—where the chess group usually gathered—had a few yellow lights, simple wooden chairs, and no Wi-Fi (but it was quite crowded, like a favorite spot).
Hai walked in, feeling a little awkward.
Not because he was unfamiliar with the new place.
But because the atmosphere wasn't about optimization or data—it was just people.
A few people were already seated at a chess table. A greeting came:
—Hai! Long time no see!
A thin man with slightly graying hair—Tri—stood up and pulled up a chair.
Not everyone in the group remembered Hai clearly.
But they remembered the feeling of having faced each other, of having lost a few games, of having laughed when recalling unexpected situations.
Perhaps that was why they were here tonight.
Lam stood close to the wall, watching them from a distance.
He didn't sit right next to them.
Not because he wasn't invited.
But because—for the first time—he allowed himself to be an outsider observing a real game of chess.
They didn't use jargon.
No code numbers.
No talk of "optimal or not."
Only the clicking of chess pieces, small laughs, and opponents asking each other:
— How do you calculate this move?
It was Hai's turn.
He sat down, his eyes following the chessboard as if looking at another life.
An old friend made a difficult move:
— Watch out—this move is a bit… biased.
Hai frowned.
He wasn't calculating the most precise move in the algorithm.
He was only calculating a move that would surprise his opponent.
And that—was the kind of interaction that algorithms never appreciated.
He won the first game.
Not "optimal."
Not "maximizing points."
Just a move that surprised the other side—and made them laugh.
Laughter spread through the cafe.
They knew nothing of “link value,” “community compatibility index,” or any data terminology.
They only knew that the feeling of winning—and losing—was… real.
Around the middle of the second game, Hai's phone vibrated.
A message from the bank system:
Your account has just had a new transaction accepted.
No warning.
No verification required.
A data response sufficient to avoid violating the rules.
Hai frowned.
"It seems… I'm getting a real 'response,'" he said, turning to smile at his friend.
No one at the chess table looked down at their phone screens as if they were looking at a stream of data.
They looked at each other—smiled—and continued the game.
Lam sat in the corner of the cafe, watching it all unfold.
He didn't see the "compatibility index" numbers change on the screen.
He only saw:
People were talking genuinely—not for data, but for the connection in each moment.
The moves weren't technically "optimized"—but driven by intuition and joy.
A person who had almost disappeared—was now remembered not by algorithms—but by genuine reactions.
He took out his notebook.
No numbers.
No tables.
Just one line:
Not every response is data.
He closed the notebook.
When Hai left the cafe, the night was leisurely.
The streetlights were soft.
The sound of passing cars was steady.
Tri shook his hand:
— It was fun tonight, wasn't it?
Hai looked up at the small sky between the two buildings:
— Very fun.
No algorithms.
No models.
Just a game of chess, and the people around.
Back home, Hai turned on his phone.
A small notification:
Interaction level updated: +1.
No red.
No warning.
Just… a slight increase.
And in another corner of the screen, Lam's personal dashboard appeared:
Interaction index: 87 → 89
Link value: (Hai) slightly increased
No explosion.
No uproar.
Just… the first data response from a real action.
That night, Lam didn't open the Bug Bank.
He sat at his desk, holding a cup of cold tea.
Smoke rose slightly, shimmering in the lamplight.
He recalled the laughter, the click of the chess pieces, Hai's eyes when he won the first game.
And he wrote in his notebook—a very different line:
Being remembered isn't about the index.
It's about the action others choose to do to you.
Not an algorithm.
Not a model.
Just — human.
- Writer
