The Algorithm of Spring

Five

As the sliding doors of Gangnam's Shinsegae Department Store hissed open, Seoul, as Maya knew it, slammed into her—a violent, glorious assault of motion, light, and sound. Taxis with their LED roof signs slashed through traffic. Lilies and roses from the entrance stall perfumed the air, the scent almost cloying now, mingling with the chatter of shoppers who felt suddenly, impossibly close.

Beijing's gallery sterility was a pastel dream against Seoul's relentless pulse. Here, the rhythm was overwhelming but reassuringly constant, a steady heartbeat slowly increasing its beats per minute.

As she queued for facial recognition at the luxury floor gates, her device's three-note ringtone played, eliciting knowing glances from others in the line.

In a blink she was back in the white-walled Beijing clinic, raw and tethered, the same three-note chime rising from her bag like a scalpel.

Her screen lit up, displaying the HarmoniQ logo—that sleekly framed heart. Beneath it, a notification blinked: Welcome back, Maya. We've found matches based on your public profile.

Her hand froze mid-motion. Public profile? She hadn't created one. Her thumb pressed against the app's icon, bearing down hard until the uninstall option appeared. She confirmed, watching it vanish again with grim satisfaction.

The gate beeped, and Maya stepped through as the scanner verified her identity. Her face flashed on a digital screen, data points mapped in glowing lines. Floor-to-ceiling screens displayed ads for luxe brands, both international and Korean, promoting diverse products ranging from cosmetics to genetic health services. Most people barely glanced up, sealed off by their earbuds, faces lit by their devices.

Maya couldn't stop cataloguing. Every movement, every slogan, every facial expression passing by like surveillance footage she hadn't agreed to review.

She stepped onto the marble, the polished surface reflecting light like liquid glass. Her device vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. HarmoniQ pulsed. Below it, text appeared beside a small map: Three art professionals within 50m. One shares your interest in textural manipulation techniques.

A chill prickled down her spine. Textural manipulation—a technical term she had only ever used in private drafts, a concept she had never spoken aloud, posted, or documented. Her knuckles whitened as she held down the uninstall button. As the icon disappeared, she caught herself glancing toward the ceiling cameras embedded discreetly in the lighting fixtures.

She took a moment, allowing herself to exhale. She tried to think, but her mind had begun to spiral inward.

The aisles stretched ahead—mannequins positioned like they were mid-thought, lips parted, eyes vacant. Every display was mapped to look effortless. She found herself trying to reverse-engineer the design logic. Triadic colour balance. Height variance. Diagonal eye-paths. A part of her brain began quietly rating compositions. The other part screamed at her to stop. Just shop, Maya.

Digital screens flashed their promises: Better skin in three days. Find your perfect you. Your future. Your rules.

She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror between stores. Though she locked eyes with herself, she barely recognised the face staring back—transformed by the store's diffused glow, another product on display. A face shaped by the system and lit for its approval.

Maya turned off her device, dropping it into her bag, her steps quickening. She'd come to Shinsegae for escape, her retail sanctuary. But as she passed a digital screen, her face flashed again—data points glowing, unasked, unsanctioned.

That old artist's instinct—pattern recognition—had once been her superpower. Now it was the trap, and the marble beneath her no longer felt like solid ground.