Part One: The Hardworking Person

I.

The mortgage still was not paid off.

When Lin Wan-ting signed her own confession, this was what she thought of.

A redevelopment zone in New Taipei City, two bedrooms, elevator building. Bought in 2015, thirty-year loan, twenty-three thousand a month. She had calculated—eighteen years left.

The interrogation room's fluorescent tubes were that sickly white kind, buzzing, like the corridors in the facility. But the facility's lights were quieter, more expensive. Everything here was cheaper—table was iron, chairs were plastic, the man across from her did not have a Taiwanese accent.

"Finished signing?"

She put down the pen. Ballpoint, blue, tip a bit worn. At the facility they used black fountain pens, for official signatures, with a logo.

"Finished."

The man collected those few sheets of paper, did not look at her. His uniform was very new, shoulder insignia very bright, movements very standard. Some kind of trained standard. She recognized this kind of standard—she had trained people too.

The door closed behind her.

She sat there alone, listening to the fluorescent hum, suddenly feeling a strange lightness.

No more taking the hour-long bus to work every day. No more writing observation evaluation reports. No more pretending to be interested in employee trips. No more expense reports.

She laughed a little. Or the corner of her mouth moved, she was not sure.

This was the ending.

Not the dramatic kind of ending from movies—no guns, no blood, no one shouting treason. Just a very ordinary room, a very ordinary table, a man without a Taiwanese accent, and a document in simplified characters she could barely read.

She signed.

Anyway, there was not much other choice.

II.

The waiting time was long.

She began to think about things. Not deliberately, the kind of thoughts that drift during traffic jams, no direction, just drifting.

She thought of her best student.

—I called her that in my diary, though in the files she was A-13.

That was 2014. She spent two days reading through all the literature cited in my research notes. Especially the algorithmic governance school.

Then she wrote something I could never write in my entire life.

Not "very good." Not "exceeded expectations." The kind of thing that after reading, you quietly put the paper down, then stare at the wall for a long time.

That essay was later expanded and published in an international journal.

The title was mine. The framework was mine. The literature review was mine.

But the thinking inside—those parts that connected theories from three different fields and derived an entirely new conclusion—that was not me.

I submitted it. Polished it, put my name on it. First submitted to the "Global Forum on Emerging Technology and Human Security" call for papers.

It was accepted. I went abroad to present.

That was the highlight of my life.

And that paper was written by a sixteen-year-old girl, in a short time, as if playing a game.

III.

Lin Wan-ting remembered her own educational experience.

Third grade. Homeroom teacher wrote in the contact book: Attentive in class, but lacks initiative. Suggest more encouragement to speak up.

Her mother saw it, signed her up for a children's public speaking class. Every Saturday morning, eight kids standing in a row, practicing "The weather is nice today, hello everyone, I am Lin Wan-ting."

She never learned to speak up on her own. But she learned to give the standard answer when called upon.

Before elementary graduation, the cram school teacher told her mother: She's very obedient. That's a strength, but also be careful. Children who are too obedient sometimes don't know what they want.

Her mother said: Not knowing what you want is fine. Get into a good school first.

---

Junior high. Gifted class exam.

She remembered that afternoon, when results were announced. She was three points short. Three points.

Walking home, she walked very slowly. Backpack was heavy, sunset was long, shadow dragging on the asphalt. She did not cry. She just thought: from now on, every step cannot fall three points short again.

Regular class. But top three.

Homeroom teacher said: Your level is actually not worse than the gifted class, you just didn't perform well on test day.

She said nothing. What she thought was: Not performing well is not performing well. No excuses.

That year she started cram school. Math. English. Physics and chemistry. Monday through Friday, straight to cram school after class, home at nine-thirty, eat, school homework, cram school homework, sleep at midnight.

Weekends at another cram school, full-day sessions.

She did not complain. Because classmates were all like this. Because this was normal.

One time on a monthly exam, she got first in class. Told her mother at home. Mother said: "What about the whole school?"

She said: "Seventeenth."

Mother said: "Keep working hard."

---

High school. Advanced class at the second-choice school.

Good enough. Good enough for relatives to nod, good enough for mother to say on the phone "my daughter is at a top-three school."

Studying until 1 AM every day.

Not that she was especially driven. Everyone was like this. Of thirty-eight people in class, at least thirty slept past midnight every day. No one thought this was a problem. This was high school. This was the life you were supposed to live if you wanted to get into college.

On her desk was a sticky note: XXX days until the college entrance exam.

Every day she crossed off a number. Like some kind of countdown timer. Like some kind of sentence.

Senior year, she lost five kilograms. Not intentional dieting, just could not eat. Stomach would hurt, but she did not tell anyone.

She told herself: After the exam it will be fine. Once I get in it will be fine. Just get through it.

---

College. Psychology department at a national university.

Two points short on the main exam. Made it up on the supplementary exam.

She had not particularly wanted to study psychology. But the score landed there. Her mother said psychology was nice, could become a counselor later, office work, stable job.

She did not object. She never particularly wanted to do anything.

College was freer than she imagined. No one cared what time you slept, no one checked your homework.

But she did not know how to use this kind of freedom.

She still went to the library every day. Still sat in the same spot. Still read until closing.

Not because coursework required it. Because she did not know what to do with herself when she was not studying.

Roommate asked her: How come you never go out for fun?

She said: I prefer reading.

This was a lie. She did not prefer reading. She did not know what she was without reading.

---

Junior year. Research methods class. Individual meeting for final project.

The professor was well-known in the department. Gray hair, spoke slowly, supposedly won some big award in America when young.

She sat in the professor's office, waiting for him to finish reading her report.

He read for a long time.

Then he looked up and said: "Your literature review is very thorough. Methodology is fine too."

She waited for the "but."

"But," he said as expected, "what exactly do you want to ask?"

She did not understand.

"You compiled thirty papers. All other people's questions, other people's answers." He put the report down. "What is your own question?"

She opened her mouth, wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

That day back at the dorm, she wrote in her journal: Professor's comment—solid foundation, lacks originality.

She posted that sentence in front of her desk, as motivation.

But she never found what "her own question" was.

---

Government scholarship study abroad. A state university, not Ivy League, but had funding.

Good enough. Good enough for mother to feel at ease. Good enough to have something to say at family gatherings. "My daughter is getting a PhD in America."

American courses were harder than Taiwan's, but different in approach. More discussion, more "What do you think."

She was not used to it.

She was used to "standard answers." To "what are the three key points of this theory." To "please list five examples."

One class discussion, the professor asked her: "Linda, do you agree with this argument?"

She said: "The argument has its merits, but there are also some limitations…"

The professor cut her off: "I didn't ask you to evaluate the argument. I asked if you agree."

She froze.

She did not know if she agreed or not. She had never thought about this question.

---

Second year in America, assigned reading for a class.

A paper. Author was an Israeli scholar.

Title: Voluntary Compliance Cascade: A Three-Stage Model of Soft Control.

She read it three times.

First time: This makes sense.

Second time: This explains a lot of things.

Third time: This explains me.

She wrote a line in the margin: This explains everything.

Three stages. Entry, adaptation, internalization.

First let you enter a framework. Not forced, chosen. "Do you want to go to cram school?" "Do you want to try for the gifted class?" "Do you want to get into a good university?"

Then let you adapt to the framework's rules. "Everyone is like this." "This is normal." "Just get through it."

Finally let you internalize the framework's values. "I like studying." "Working hard is right." "I chose this life."

By the third stage, you no longer need to be forced.

You will force yourself.

And you will think this is freedom.

---

She closed the paper, looked out the window.

American campus, autumn, leaves were golden.

She remembered her high school self, studying until 1 AM every day. Remembered her college self, not knowing what to do when not studying. Remembered that professor's question: "What is your own question?"

She never had an answer.

Because she was never allowed to have her own questions.

The framework came first. The framework told her what to ask, what to answer, what to become. Then she entered, adapted, internalized.

Now she sat in an American library, reading a paper about "soft control," discovering she was the case study in that paper.

But she was not angry.

She just thought: So that's how it is. So this is the principle.

Then she thought: This principle can be used.

---

Later she used that paper as the basis for her own dissertation.

Not critiquing soft control. Researching how to make soft control more effective.

Her advisor said: "Your research is solid, but the angle is a bit… unusual. Most people approach this topic from a critical perspective."

She said: "Criticism doesn't change anything. Understanding does."

The advisor looked at her, did not say more.

She graduated smoothly. Got the degree. Returned to Taiwan.

Then, in some normal job search process, she received an interview notice.

She had not heard of the organization's name. But the salary was good, twice her other offers.

At the interview, they asked her: "Do you think human behavior can be designed?"

She said: "Of course it can. Our behavior is being designed every day. The only difference is who the designer is, and what the purpose is."

They looked at her, smiled slightly.

"When can you start?"

---

She never asked what that organization actually did.

Not that she had not thought about it. She had already learned not to ask questions that no one answers.

The framework came. She entered.

This time, she did not even need to adapt and internalize.

Because she had already completed those three stages. More than twenty years ago, in a cram school classroom, or even earlier, in a comment in a contact book.

She just switched to a different framework.

Continued being solid. Continued working hard. Continued lacking originality.

IV.

Then came marriage.

Husband was an engineer. Stable, normal, did not talk much. Knew each other seven years, dated three years, married eight years.

He did not really know what her work involved. She did not say either.

Sometimes he would ask: "What have you been busy with lately?"

She would say: "The usual."

He would not press further.

This was one of their understandings.

Two-bedroom apartment in New Taipei City. In her circles this counted as "not bad."

Friends? A few college classmates, occasional dinners. Topics were housing prices, travel, TV shows.

No one really knew what she did.

Her life was "normal."

Under the sickly white light of the interrogation room, she remembered all this, suddenly felt that "normal" was like some kind of joke.

Then she remembered—

That girl.

No, not just herself.

Everyone around her—the best students, the smartest colleagues—compared to that girl, all fell far short.

Even imagining it was difficult.

She felt that kind of person was not the same species as herself.

And that girl was the reason she was now sitting in this interrogation room.

V.

Early 2012.

Lin Wan-ting was thirty-four, had worked at the "Special Research Unit" for two years.

That day she was called into the director's office.

The office was ordinary, the government agency kind of ordinary. Metal cabinets, calendar, potted plant. Plant was fake, dust on plastic leaves.

The director's surname was Chen, in his fifties, close to retirement. His way of speaking had already solidified, every sentence like an official document.

"There's a difficult case. Came in at thirteen, now fourteen. One year, standard methods have all failed."

He pushed a folder across.

"You've read the digital discipline theory stuff. Try a different approach."

Lin Wan-ting opened the folder.

ID number A-13. Female. Date of birth. Blood type. Brain imaging. Neural conduction tests. Electromagnetic sensitivity curves. Psychological evaluation.

And one column: Treatment record.

Very long. She scanned quickly.

Results: Non-compliant, hunger strike, won't speak.

Last line note: Standard methods ineffective. Considering termination.

Lin Wan-ting looked at that line.

This is an opportunity, she thought. Opportunity to prove myself.

She remembered the concepts from that paper about new forms of discipline she had read: soft entry, framework setting, choice architecture. She knew what to do.

At least, she thought she knew.

VI.

The observation room corridor was very long, lights very white.

Lin Wan-ting stood outside the glass, looking at the girl inside.

Skin and bones. Old marks from plastic restraints on her wrists—not currently bound, left from before. Scars were shallow but very regular, parallel thin lines, as if scraped by something.

She sat on the bed's edge, back to the glass, very quiet.

But not the quiet of giving up.

Lin Wan-ting looked at her posture—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, breathing very slow. This was the posture of someone waiting, not the posture of someone broken.

Then the girl turned her head.

Her eyes were not empty.

Those eyes had a certain light, very bright, gaze stopping on her for less than a second—but Lin Wan-ting felt herself seen from head to toe.

Lin Wan-ting froze for a moment.

She had expected to see fear, or anger, or despair. Those "trauma responses" described in the files she had read.

But none of that was in those eyes.

Only observation.

Very cold, very focused observation. Like an animal locked in a cage—not afraid, studying the cage.

That Israeli scholar had said: True resistance is not rebellion, it's making the other party unable to read your intentions.

This child had already learned. Fourteen years old.

Lin Wan-ting stood outside the glass, thinking: Pressure will not work. She has already proven that.

Need a different entry point.

VII.

After going home, husband was in the study playing games, she heard the mouse clicking, tap tap tap, very rhythmic.

They were thirty-four, no children. Every time someone asked, she said work was busy. Husband explained the same to his mother.

What she did not say was: she looked at children every day.

TV was on, news playing, she was not listening. Legislature was arguing again. Whose policy, whose scandal, whose statement. She changed the channel.

She was thinking about those eyes.

She had seen that kind of gaze before. Not at the facility, at academic conferences. Those people standing at podiums, the ones who had published many books, had many citations—when they looked at people, sometimes they had that kind of gaze.

Not arrogance. Some kind of fundamental... difference.

As if their brains turned as fast as light. As if at the first sentence they already knew what you were going to say next.

But those people were all adults. All experts trained for many years.

This girl was only fourteen.

And she had been in the facility for a year.

Lin Wan-ting later carefully read her treatment records. Sensory deprivation, longest continuous 264 hours. Physical restraint, average three to four times per week. Caloric restriction experiment, 40% of basal metabolic rate, sustained three weeks. And some items her clearance could not access, only numbers and dates.

The terminology in the records was all very standard. "Involuntary sedation." "Enhanced environmental adaptation training." "Neuroplasticity stress test."

She had learned these terms studying in America. In class discussing research ethics, the professor showed slides of declassified files. CIA, fifties, Cold War. At the time she sat in the back row of the lecture hall, thinking: This is history. That era had no IRB, no informed consent forms. It's different now.

Now she sat in her own living room, TV playing a Korean drama commercial.

Those terms were still the same terms. "Sensory deprivation." "Enhanced adaptation." "Stress test."

Only the IRB had changed its name, informed consent forms changed their format.

None of this had broken her.

Lin Wan-ting remembered that line in the folder: Considering termination.

She suddenly felt glad she had taken this case.

Not because she wanted to "save" her—that kind of thinking was too naive, not suitable for this job.

Because "raw material" like this, terminating it was too much of a waste.

She stood up, went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

Outside the window was New Taipei City's night view. In the distance, a few buildings still had lights on.

She thought: Starting tomorrow, let's try.

With a new method.

With a "soft" method.

See if she will open up.

(End of Part One)