The film's architecture of power isn't surveillance cameras—it's Kee.

A single human kept alive through radical information scarcity, her existence known only to a compartmentalized cell, moved between safe houses with no digital trail, no metadata, no networked systems that could leak her location.

This is the opposite of what Silicon Valley fears. The Fishes don't need facial recognition or predictive policing—they need people who don't know what they're protecting, who can't accidentally tell anyone what they've seen, who exist in analog darkness by design.

Watch the scenes where Kee moves: no phones discussed, no encrypted messages, no digital breadcrumbs. The film understood something that took fifteen years to become obvious—that in a world of total information infrastructure, the real power move is to weaponize the gaps. Create scarcity in an age of abundance. Make people functionally illiterate about what matters most. She's not hidden by encryption—she's hidden by compartmentalization, by people who genuinely don't know. That's not a bug in information systems. That's the exploit.

Today's AI transparency startups, the blockchain governance schemes, the 'democratized data' platforms—they're all solving for the 2006 version of the threat, the version where too much information is the problem. But the film saw that the actual nightmare is information rationing dressed up as security.