📘 CHAPTER 8 — REQUIREMENTS
668 Words
The man knocked on Lin's apartment door the following evening.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Three knocks spaced evenly apart, as if he had carefully considered disturbing someone.
Lin opened the door.
"Excuse me for disturbing you," the man said. "But… you work at the warehouse, right?"
The question wasn't accusatory.
Just a weary confirmation.
Lin remained silent.
In the hallway, motion-activated lights flicked on and off, on and off again—no one could tell who was standing there.
"I don't know who else to ask," the man continued. "These past few days, things have started… not recognizing me anymore."
He held out his ID card.
"They said the card is still valid. But the system can't find me."
Lin looked at the card.
Not fake.
Not damaged.
The code was still sharp.
A valid object… no longer a valid subject.
They sat in Lam's apartment, no music, no screen.
The man's name was Hai.
Forty-six years old.
A power maintenance worker, on a sub-line.
"—Initially, it was just minor issues," Hai said. "My bank account was frozen for a few minutes. My train ticket wouldn't scan. The receptionist said my name wasn't on the resident list."
He chuckled softly.
"—They were very polite. Everyone said, 'It's probably just a system error.'"
Lam nodded.
That phrase was painfully familiar.
"—This morning," Hai continued, "the company called. They said my contract 'is no longer linked to the individual.'"
Lam clenched his fist.
Those words…
They were exactly the same as the description in the f*******n query.
"—I wasn't fired," Hai said. "It's just… I'm no longer being called to work."
Silence fell over the room.
"—What do you want me to help you with?" Lam asked, finally.
Hai looked up.
"—I just want to know…" he hesitated. "What did I do wrong?"
The question was so simple that Lam couldn't answer it immediately.
The Error Database was built around questions like this.
But this was the first time the question came from someone who no longer had records to look up.
"—I don't know," Lam said truthfully. "But… there are cases where the system processes without labeling the error."
Hai looked at him.
"—That means I didn't do anything wrong," he said. "It's just… unnecessary?"
That word hung between them.
Unnecessary.
"—I don't want to break anything," Hai said softly. "I just want to… exist again as before."
Lam stood up.
He took a few steps around the room, then stopped by the window.
Outside, the city lights shone.
Millions of individuals are identified, remembered, and responded to.
"—I'm not allowed to interfere," Lam said. "But… I can take a look."
Hai didn't ask any further questions.
He just nodded, as if he had long prepared for this answer.
That night, Lam opened his personal computer.
No connection to the main network.
No login to the Warehouse system.
He just opened his notebook.
Three dots stared back at him.
He added another stroke—connecting the third dot with a space.
A meaningless diagram.
But in his mind, it meant very clearly:
If the system doesn't register errors,
perhaps it's optimizing by eliminating them.
And if so…
Lam sat down and wrote another line that he knew, from this moment on, would never be erased from his memory:
Helping someone who is no longer identifiable
is also putting yourself outside the realm of validity.
He closed the notebook.
In the living room, Hai sat waiting, his back straight, his hands on his knees—the posture of someone ready to hear a verdict.
Lam turned and looked at him.
"I can't promise anything," he said. "But if you agree… I'll try to find out."
Hai sighed.
Not relieved.
Just… less alone.
And in the Error Warehouse, somewhere very deep, a new pattern of behavior had just formed:
An Archivist who chooses people over systems.
No warning sounded.
Not yet.
- Writer
