Chapter Thirty-Three: The World Is a Hoax
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Today was Saturday, yet Wen Hui still rose punctually at seven.
After washing up, she opened her door and stepped into the corridor.
Sixty to seventy percent of Singapore’s population lived in public housing planned and administered by the Housing and Development Board. This longstanding government policy had enabled countless citizens of ordinary, even meager, means to preserve the dignity of having a home in a country renowned worldwide for its high cost of living.
Many members of the older generation, having made their fortunes, still chose to remain in public housing because they could not bear to give up their familiar neighbors and the intimacy of the community.
Wen Hui liked public housing too, even though she could easily afford to rent a new apartment on Orchard Road or along the East Coast.
Only in these housing estates, where Chinese, Malays, and Indians lived side by side, did she feel that she could quickly become part of the community.
Now she stood in the estate’s common corridor, gazing toward nearby Bukit Timah Hill.
The forested slopes were veiled in the radiance of the rising sun. Lush green mingled with patches of golden light, like an Impressionist oil painting.
Five or six years earlier, when Wen Hui had just moved from China to Singapore, she had asked Hera, “Why do you see the word ‘Bukit’ everywhere in Singapore?”
“It means ‘hill’ in Malay.”
“I like the way it sounds. It’s a little like Bodhi, but sharper somehow. By the way, Hera, I heard you speaking Malay with a neighbor the other day. Did you live in Malaysia too?”
“My best friend at university was Malay.”
“Oh? Then invite her to dinner next time.”
“Yes. Next time.”
The bickering of a mother and son next door interrupted Wen Hui’s recollection.
They were Chinese. The son had a successful career and a handsome annual salary, and was urging his mother to move into the spacious apartment he had bought on Farrer Road.
But his mother would not budge. “I’m not going! So the ceiling is a few dozen centimeters higher, there’s a swimming pool downstairs, and every time you come and go, some doorman pesters you for half an hour. Apart from that, how is it any different from public housing?”
“It’s completely different, Mum. The whole place is smart-enabled. The moment you walk through the door, you just say what you want done, and the intelligent system does it for you.”
The mother curled her lip and gave a scornful laugh. “You mean AI? Isn’t that like living with a ghost? Besides, why should machines do those things? I haven’t yet reached the point where I can’t even pull open the curtains.”
“Mum, there are rats here.”
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“There aren’t anymore. My gracious neighbor here keeps two cats.”
The elderly woman turned to Wen Hui with a beaming smile and nodded in greeting.
In her youth, she had been a Chinese-language teacher at an Anglican school, and her speech retained a touch of classical elegance. She was especially courteous toward Wen Hui, who also enjoyed life in public housing.
Wen Hui returned her friendly smile, but felt deeply awkward witnessing another family’s private quarrel. She hurried downstairs for breakfast.
The large screen in the food court was broadcasting the morning news.
“By the end of the second quarter of this year, the number of large data centers built or granted construction permits in the United States had reached fifteen thousand. According to available data, between 2010 and 2025, the number of large data centers in the United States rose from three hundred to thirteen hundred, an increase of three hundred percent. From 2025 to 2035, however, that figure is expected to increase by more than tenfold. At present, data centers across the United States consume forty terawatt-hours of electricity annually, approximately equivalent to the yearly consumption of four to five million average American households. The total number of households in the country currently stands at around one hundred and thirty million. In other words, if artificial intelligence continues its rapid development without seeking new forms of energy supply, then in the next twenty to thirty years, the data centers supporting AI companies alone will consume the equivalent of all the electricity used by American households.”
“At noon yesterday local time, more than one hundred members of the International Guild of Professional Directors and Actors gathered in Venice, Italy, to protest this year’s film festival awarding its Special Jury Prize to the film The Future Is Here. From its story concept and screenplay outline to its cinematography, characters, and post-production editing, the film was created primarily by the Chinese-language script-generation system A New Account of Tales of the World and the Chinese integrated audio-video model Steam Engine. After contacting representatives of the Shanghai International Film Festival, this station learned that the festival currently refuses to accept entries produced through such methods and processes.”
“We now bring you breaking news from around the city. At approximately eleven last night, a Chinese woman died after being bitten by a venomous snake in Sentosa Cove. The victim was a Chinese national and businesswoman. The case remains under investigation. Singapore’s Ministry of Health advises residents and visitors to the country to avoid entering wooded areas at night whenever possible.”
Wen Hui suddenly set down her coconut-coffee sandwich.
She knew the road shown on the television very well.
It was the road that passed the Hsi Estate.
The small grove cordoned off by police tape was not the estate itself, however. The mansion visible beside it was a typical colonial black-and-white house, and appeared to belong to the neighboring property.
Wen Hui had just taken out her phone to contact Hera when it rang first. The caller’s name was Indian: Mukesh.
He was the head of the technology company who had interviewed alongside Wen Hui at Hsi Zhijie a few days earlier.
“Hi, Mukesh. Good morning!” Wen Hui greeted him brightly.
But a young woman’s voice answered. “May I speak to Ms. Wen?”
“This is she.”
“I’m Mukesh’s younger sister. My name is Madhvi. My brother... he passed away yesterday morning.”
“What?!” Wen Hui raised her voice in shock, causing diners around her to turn and stare.
The woman’s voice trembled slightly. “We were shocked too, and devastated. Ms. Wen, I looked through my brother’s WhatsApp and learned that you attended the investor interviews with him. He told you about how discouraged he was after being rejected, and you kept encouraging and comforting him these past few days. But he still chose to leave this world. My parents and I are very grateful to you. If you are willing, may I keep in touch with you?”
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Wen Hui made an effort to steady her voice. “Of course, Madhvi. Um, I’m from China and I’m not very familiar with Indian customs. Will there be a farewell ceremony?”
“Yes. We may hold a memorial service at a temple. Would you be able to attend? Ms. Wen, you had known my brother for such a short time, yet you were the person who brought him the most comfort during the final days of his life... Oh, I’m sorry. You must be very busy. I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”
The girl ended the conversation with impeccable courtesy.
It was clear that, like her brother, she possessed a deeply ingrained refinement. Even in moments of despair or grief, she did not forget to consider other people’s feelings.
Wen Hui lowered her phone and stared blankly as a cooing bird flew onto the table and pecked at the bread on her plate.
Then she suddenly remembered something and opened the deceased man’s Facebook page.
Sure enough, there was a suicide letter.
The young artificial-intelligence prodigy had plainly written down why he had chosen to end his life.
He had believed that at least half of the major capitalists would, as they claimed in speeches to the public—especially to young people—eagerly anticipate AI’s enormous potential in areas such as medical treatments, rehabilitation, and assistance for people with disabilities. Surely, then, they would invest in AI companies conducting research in those fields.
But the brutality of reality had proved only how naive he was. Every investor who interviewed him had shown no interest in using AI to develop new medicines or help people with disabilities. Along with refusing to invest, they had condescendingly urged him to develop large language models, agentic systems, or various forms of AGI designed to entertain and gratify consumers.
The Wisdom Veil Fund’s rejection became the final straw for Mukesh. He no longer held any idealistic aspirations for humanity’s age of AI. More precisely, he no longer wished to embrace the human world.
More than five thousand comments had already appeared beneath his farewell declaration.
Most people were not concerned with whether the poster had truly died. They were interested only in expressing their contempt—contempt for an engineer foolish enough to remain so naive in the age of artificial intelligence.
Wen Hui closed the page.
She shut her eyes in anguish.
Her phone rang again. This time, it was Hera.
“Xiaohui, let’s meet today at Terminal 4 of Changi Airport.”