The first letter arrived folded inside a plain envelope. No return address. Just a typed question:

"You designed the digital vaulting protocol for the Zurich office of a certain bank. It ran flawlessly for two years, until the fund it protected collapsed under political pressure. What did you feel when they dismantled your work?"

Chang read it twice. He didn’t need the name. He already knew. Only one person would ask that, and ask it this way.

He responded from a different city.

"I felt nothing. It worked. Then they killed it. The code had no say in the matter."

Two weeks later, a second envelope arrived.

"Some would say you should have let it fail faster. That systems like that shouldn’t be stabilized—they should be accelerated into collapse. So something new can emerge from the ashes."

Chang frowned. He knew the type. The ones who quoted Marx or Moldbug. Burn it all. Speed it up. Left or right, it didn’t matter. The fire was always someone else’s to suffer.

He wrote:

"If something breaks, fix it. If it can’t be fixed, replace it. But don’t worship the breaking.

I build so people don’t have to live in ruins."

The reply came quicker this time:

"The last candidate said volatility was beautiful. Called institutions “obsolete shells.” Wanted to weaponize collapse. I never wrote back."

Chang folded his response carefully.

"Collapse is not a strategy. It’s a fantasy. I don’t do fantasies.

You want a system that can't be captured? Fine. But it still needs to hold.

That’s what I do. Quietly. Then I vanish."

There were no more letters.

But weeks later, a courier handed him a sealed package: a one-way ticket, a date, and a set of coordinates in the Alps.

Chang burned the envelope.