Chapter 64: It’s Not Me Who Filtered You Out, It’s the AI

You need to understand that smartphones and apps are constantly collecting your data. The words you casually say, the search terms you enter—these can all trigger data collection and modeling. At best, they’ll manipulate your consumer habits; at worst, they’ll alter the way you think. If a social app gets its product structure wrong and gives users misleading guidance, it could influence them for years or even their entire lives.

Jian Zhaowen was in high spirits as he reviewed resumes in the office. Recruiting for a startup wasn’t easy. Writing phrases like “great office atmosphere with coffee and snacks,” “programmer motivators,” or “employee birthday parties” on job boards felt outdated. Instead, Jian Zhaowen and Lei Zheng simply posted their recruitment requirements and email addresses on WeChat and Moments. Resumes poured in. Still, if one out of ten met the qualifications, Jian would count himself lucky. Thousands of curious fans sent poorly formatted emails and beginner-level applications—titles inconsistent, resumes unpolished, basic job requirements misunderstood. Jian wrote programs to filter these out automatically. In the end, only forty resumes remained. Jian sat in the office scheduling interviews while posting updates on social media:

Sometimes candidates think they were rejected because HR didn’t carefully read their resumes, but they don’t realize that blindly applying without understanding the requirements means their applications never even reach HR—the first round of rejections is done by AI.

After hiring an assistant product manager and two community operations staff, the office was bustling with activity. Jian bought a capsule coffee machine and a box of pre-Qingming Longjing tea, placing them in the two offices. Add to that the two boxes of snacks purchased by the admin team, and the atmosphere was shaping up nicely. The shared workspace outside their office often had freelancers renting desks, and Jian never missed an opportunity to approach talented freelancers. With Lei Zheng, a god-tier product manager, Day & Night was finally on track. The night mode even introduced a work section where anonymous logins revealed industry exposés. With daily active users stabilizing at 20,000, they were just waiting for the right moment to explode.

But things weren’t so simple. A former operator from LoveDate messaged Jian on WeChat about joining the company. However, when Jian showed him the employment contract, the man hesitated. Jian guessed it was due to dissatisfaction with the salary but didn’t offer a raise—he was trying to save costs. The operator explained that LoveDate was now a large company, and their contracts included a one-year non-compete clause. He had assumed Jian wouldn’t be working on similar apps anymore, but here he was building a dating community. Even worse, he was still bound by his non-compete agreement. Jian wanted to poach this senior product operator badly, especially to boost daily active users, but hearing about the non-compete clause made him lose interest. He replied on WeChat: “Feel free to contact me once your non-compete period is over.”

Putting down his phone, Jian messaged Carl: “Jessie wants to join me. Does Philip still include non-compete clauses in contracts?”

Carl replied quickly: “They revised the contracts after raising Series A funding. Otherwise, how could I still be working at my state-owned enterprise?”

So Carl hadn’t refused to join him out of disinterest—he was simply bound by the non-compete payment. Philip was determined to keep everyone under his control. Lei Zheng showed no interest in recruitment beyond hiring two mid-level product managers and operations staff. After two grueling weeks of meticulous selection, Jian managed to hire a senior operations manager and a developer. Exhausted, he finally hired an administrative assistant to handle tasks like payroll outsourcing—he couldn’t keep running around doing everything himself. With his hands freed from trivial tasks and development responsibilities, Jian could focus on algorithms. Two weeks remained until the new version launch, and four matching zones were still incomplete.

As he sat at his computer writing code, Jian was deep in thought about launching a public account for Day & Night and setting up user operation groups. Though he considered it outdated and unlikely to bring in much benefit, the massive user base of WeChat—with its three billion daily active users—couldn’t be ignored. Bringing his laptop home, he saw Yu Zhimei sitting on the terrace, enjoying the breeze. To Jian, the third floor felt like their private sanctuary, with two terraces and two balconies. The fine drizzle made her stray strands of hair cling to her forehead and temples, and he was the only one who could see her like this. Quietly approaching, he watched as Yu Zhimei pruned dead branches and transplanted a small tomato plant into a larger pot. Around her were various types of soil and blue pellets. Suddenly, she spoke: “I know you’re behind me. Don’t scare me. These roots are delicate—if I break them, all my efforts will be wasted.”

“Aren’t you transplanting tomatoes?”

“Take a closer look.”

Jian squatted down and saw a green flower branch in Yu Zhimei’s hand. Beside her were two pots with tiny sprouts. Confused, he asked, “Aren’t these just green grass?”

“What kind of eyes do you have? These are hydrangeas. Don’t let their similar appearance fool you—they’re called Hanadama , Endless Summer , and Kaleidoscope .”

“What are those little balls?”

“They help with coloration. You can adjust the flower colors using them.”

“Aren’t flowers born with their natural colors?”

“Of course not. Just as software can change people’s perceptions of love, flowers can also be influenced.”

Jian pondered this: “It sounds like you’re deliberately teasing me.”

“Not at all. I’m just explaining.”

“You truly love life more than I do.” Jian crouched on the ground, plucked a cherry tomato, and popped it into his mouth. The sourness made his eyes water uncontrollably. “You drive, ride motorcycles, create content, and grow flowers. It seems like you enjoy every moment of life, while I only work.”

“That’s because my job isn’t as important. You’re the one trying to change the world.”

Jian, ever playful, teased his girlfriend: “If your job isn’t that significant, why not spend more time loving me? For instance, move into my room.”

“I have too many things to do on my own. I don’t want to focus all my attention on you. Life has more to offer than you.”

“No way. I’m your boyfriend.”

Though he protested verbally, Jian wasn’t offended. Instead, he grew increasingly intrigued and plopped down on the ground to watch Yu Zhimei transplant. She pointed to a drooping flower and said, “I just watered it. Sit here for half an hour, and you might see the stem perk up.” Jian didn’t believe her but went to fetch a gimbal to record the process. Sure enough, after half an hour, the stem slowly filled out, and the leaves began to grow upward. Jian’s eyes reflected the bright screen of his phone, and Yu Zhimei laughed: “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how amazing life is. As long as there’s water, plants can survive. And humans are the same. Whatever ‘water’ we pour into ourselves determines the direction we grow.”

“You’re such an artist. You find metaphors everywhere in life.”

“You need to understand that smartphones and apps are constantly collecting your data. The words you casually say, the search terms you enter—these can all trigger data collection and modeling. At best, they’ll manipulate your consumer habits; at worst, they’ll alter the way you think. If a social app gets its product structure wrong and gives users misleading guidance, it could influence them for years or even their entire lives.”

Yu Zhimei looked at Jian, still holding the hydrangea she hadn’t yet transplanted.

Jian thoughtfully asked, “Can you transplant one of these to my balcony?”

“Yes, but hydrangeas prefer shade and moisture. They’ll do better on the shaded side. Adult love grows in dark, damp places—like Sister Ou, or us. By the way, I forgot to tell you, Sister Ou broke up with someone from Day & Night.”

Jian leaned on Yu Zhimei’s shoulder, rubbing his temples: “She’s really a hopeless romantic. Sometimes, seeing her and Shi Rui makes me wonder if it’s a good thing for people like them to use my app.”

“Without your app, Sister Ou would still be the brittle porcelain shop owner at the dessert shop, and Shi Rui would still be wandering aimlessly on forums.”

“What do you mean by ‘wandering’?”

“Nothing.” Yu Zhimei quickly stopped herself from saying more, and Jian didn’t press further. Reluctantly munching on another tomato, he said, “I wish I could spend more time with you. Seeing code gives me a headache right now.”

“You can lean on me for three minutes. Once I’m done here, I’ll take a shower and then go back to work.”

“Well… what about…” Jian pointed to the attic: “Three minutes should be enough.”

“Dream on.”

“Then tonight, you’re sleeping with me. I’m going to use this video to update the banner.” Jian packed up the gimbal, kissed Yu Zhimei lightly on the forehead, and jumped into Room 301.

Jian turned the video of the flower standing upright after being watered into a GIF and short clip, which he uploaded to Day & Night. Then he began revising the product algorithm. The four algorithms Lei Zheng had mentioned were as follows: First, online matching, where users available for chatting appeared on the first screen for swiping. Second, customizable matching based on profile pictures, voice, and mini-tests for similar communities. Third, nebula matching for users interested in deeper discussions, pairing them based on broadcast content. Finally, “universe matching,” which allowed all users to be matched. Each of the four interfaces required different levels of data and types of information. Jian needed to extract fields for user profiling and build several algorithm models.

Once this new version launched with proper promotion and traffic diversion, Jian expected a flood of users. For the first time, he felt confident in his algorithms. Unlike his rigid mindset at LoveDate, this time he approached love with more tolerance and ease. He no longer defaulted users to marriage-age matching but instead encouraged free love and self-expression within relationships.

Recently, Jian received several packages signed by Jessie, who hadn’t joined the company. When the deliveryman knocked, he said he couldn’t reach the operations team and insisted on in-person delivery. Jian picked up the heavy box and shook it. Something about the situation felt suspicious, so he refused delivery and messaged Jessie, feeling uneasy. He logged into Day & Night and checked the anonymous workplace section, searching for “non-compete agreements.” Sure enough, companies now installed software on employees’ computers to monitor submitted resumes and interactions with competitors. Once a package was signed for, the employee could sue the competitor, and the incident would be recorded on Tianyancha, ruining their reputation. Two hours later, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: “Sorry, don’t sign for the package. Non-compete agreement—Jessie.”

Jian thought deeply. Signing a non-compete agreement trapped you in a dark, isolated corner. Big companies knew losing top talent with industry knowledge and connections was a loss, and Jessie wasn’t one to back down quietly. An anonymous post soon appeared: “Don’t join LoveDate. Their non-compete agreements pay peanuts and ban you from similar jobs for a year. They’ll send packages to trick you into signing, install malware on your phone to check compliance, and sue you if you violate it. They paid me 3,000 yuan a month to keep quiet. Back then, I fell for my boss’s sweet talk and stayed loyal to this toxic company.”

The post quickly garnered replies. Looking out at the night sky, Jian smiled. Day & Night’s anonymity feature had already started avenging him. Exhausted from coding, Jian rested his head on the table. He and Lei Zheng were locked in a fierce competition—one-upping each other ruthlessly. Lei Zheng knew Jian worked fast and pushed him relentlessly to finish the new version. Jian spent a week pulling all-nighters to complete the matching algorithms before turning around to pressure Lei Zheng to handle marketing… Too tired, he decided to nap for an hour. Before committing the new code, Jian fell asleep.

When he woke up, the first thing Jian did was check the app’s daily active users. To his dismay, Day & Night had been reported and taken down, with a mandated three-month rectification period.