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—an 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, mingling with the chatter of shoppers 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.

While she queued for facial recognition at the luxury floor gates, her device's three-note ringtone played, drawing 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 cutting up 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. Matches identified using your public profile.

Her hand froze mid-motion. Public profile? She hadn't created one. Her thumb pressed the icon and held. The uninstall option surfaced beneath it. 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. It was automatic. 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 term she had only ever used in private drafts. Her knuckles whitened as she deleted it again, faster this time. As the icon disappeared, she caught herself glancing toward the ceiling cameras embedded in the lighting.

She took a moment, then exhaled. She tried to think. Her thoughts folded in on themselves.

The aisles stretched ahead—mannequins positioned mid-thought, lips parted, eyes vacant. Every display was engineered 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.

A wall-sized screen shifted beside the escalators, its imagery dissolving into something softer—cast in a watercolour wash, slow-moving figures, a woman standing alone at a window.

The caption appeared in clean, reassuring type:

YOU DON'T HAVE TO FEEL THIS WAY ANYMORE.

Maya slowed without meaning to.

The image changed. A different woman now, similar age, her back to the camera, city lights blurring beyond the glass. Another line faded in beneath the first:

WHEN ROUTINES REPLACE CONNECTION, IT'S TIME TO REALIGN.

Her throat tightened.

She told herself it was generic. Wellness language. The kind of thing designed to catch everyone and mean nothing. And yet the words settled uncomfortably, like a truth she hadn't consciously formed yet—one she'd been skirting around without naming.

A final line appeared, softer still:

YOU'RE NOT BEHIND. YOU'RE JUST WAITING ALONE.

The escalator carried people past her in a steady stream. No one slowed.

She looked around. No one else had stopped. It was as if the image were speaking directly to her.

Maya looked away, suddenly aware of her reflection layered over the screen — her face briefly superimposed on the anonymous woman's silhouette. For a moment, she couldn't tell which of them the message was meant for.

The distinction felt deliberate.

Enough.

She locked eyes with herself and barely recognised the face staring back—transformed by the store's diffused glow, just another product on display. A face shaped by the system.

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 another digital screen, her face flashed again—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.