The hearing room was quieter than Lin Chen expected.
No cameras.
No raised voices.
No dramatic lighting.
Just a long table, subdued screens, and people who had already read everything twice.
This wasn't a trial meant to convince the public.
It was worse.
It was a room designed to decide whether he remained necessary.
Lin Chen took his seat without adjusting his posture. He didn't bring notes. Everything he needed was already logged somewhere in the system.
A senior council member spoke first.
"Dr. Lin, this session is informal, but the implications are not. We're here to understand something simple."
Simple was never simple.
"Why," the man continued, "does so much of the system's stability appear to converge around you?"
Lin Chen didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the data wall behind them, where timelines overlapped like veins. Decisions, pauses, overrides, abstentions. Months of accumulated weight.
"Because instability converges first," he said finally. "Stability only follows."
A woman across the table frowned. "That sounds like justification after the fact."
"No," Lin Chen replied calmly. "It's an observation."
Another voice joined in. "You've been accused of becoming indispensable by design."
Lin Chen met the speaker's eyes. "Indispensability isn't designed. It's tolerated until replacement becomes too risky."
Silence followed. Not hostile. Measuring.
They weren't looking for guilt.
They were looking for comfort.
Someone cleared their throat. "Let's talk about scarcity."
Lin Chen nodded once.
"You've made several high-impact decisions under limited resources. All of them were defensible individually. But together, they form a pattern. A consistent value hierarchy."
"Yes," Lin Chen said.
"And whose hierarchy is that?" the man asked.
Lin Chen didn't dodge the question.
"Initially, the system's," he said. "Later, mine. And now—shared."
"That's exactly the concern," the woman said. "Values shouldn't belong to one person."
"They don't," Lin Chen replied. "They belong to outcomes. I'm just the one willing to sign my name to them."
The phrase landed harder than he intended. He felt it immediately.
One of the observers shifted in their seat.
"You're asking us to accept personal accountability as a stabilizing factor," someone said.
"I'm saying it already is one," Lin Chen replied. "Whether you acknowledge it or not."
The room grew tense, not because of disagreement, but because the logic was difficult to refute.
Another council member leaned forward. "What happens if you're removed?"
Lin Chen answered without hesitation.
"The system degrades temporarily," he said. "Decision confidence drops. Override hesitation increases. Public trust fluctuates."
"And then?"
"Then it recovers," Lin Chen said. "Assuming someone else accepts the same visibility and liability."
They all knew what that meant.
No one spoke.
Finally, the chair of the session tapped the table lightly. "You're aware that public scrutiny will intensify. The next incident won't be quiet."
"I know," Lin Chen said.
"And you're willing to remain the focal point?"
Lin Chen thought of the delayed bonus. The provisional title. The silent Observer who hadn't sent a message in days.
"Yes," he said. "Because the alternative is diffusion without responsibility."
The chair studied him for a long moment.
"Very well," he said. "Your status remains unchanged."
Provisional.
Necessary.
Uncomfortable.
The meeting ended without ceremony.
Outside the room, Dr. Hart was waiting.
"How bad was it?" she asked.
"They didn't try to remove me," Lin Chen said. "Which means they can't."
"That's… good?" she asked.
"It's expensive," Lin Chen replied.
As they walked down the corridor, Lin Chen's system interface updated quietly.
No alerts.
No warnings.
Just a single line added to the log:
[Authority Load: Sustained.]
Later that night, alone again, Lin Chen reviewed the numbers.
Still no financial improvement.
Still no official confirmation.
Still no guarantees.
But another metric had shifted.
Dependency.
Not on the system.
On him.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes half-closed, and for the first time since the Observer appeared, he allowed himself to think one dangerous thought:
They weren't testing whether the system worked anymore.
They were testing whether the world could function
once it admitted that someone had to decide.
And for now—
That someone was him.
End of Chapter 95