The Algorithm of Spring

Six

As Maya stepped into her apartment-turned-studio, the pleasing chime of the digital lock signalled home.

The space was sparse but hers—overlooking Hongdae's bustling streets, shelves lined with a few books, clothes squeezed onto an industrial rail with more draped over it, a half-empty mug of tea on the counter.

Against the far wall, her plexiglass workstation stood idle, like someone had lowered a sleeping billboard into her private space. She dropped her bag, traded shoes for slippers, Shinsegae's tension finally fading.

She cracked open a window. Evening air carried the sounds of chatter and traffic. Seoul crawled under your skin—a mix of comfort and chaos that never let you relax.

Her device lit up the moment it touched the charging pad. 

HarmoniQ: Someone who loves the Alan Richards exhibit is 1.6 km away. Tap to connect. 

She hesitated. That was again oddly specific. Targeted advertising at its finest. 

"Not today," she muttered, moving to her desk. She powered up her laptop. Client briefs needed editing, digital compositions needed refining, invoices needed chasing.

The device buzzed again. HarmoniQ: Turn on permissions to enhance your matches further!

Her brows knitted together. She double-checked the settings. No permissions granted. Location sharing off. She deleted it—again. Gone with a flick. Satisfied, she tossed the device onto the sofa.

Minutes passed. She opened her work files, swiping them onto the plexiglass display with an exaggerated arc. The screen, appearing wedged between the floor and ceiling joists, flickered to life, and she fell into the well-worn rhythm of gestural controls.

The client project was demanding in its own way but straightforward—enhancing surreal landscapes, refining code, and manipulating complex lighting effects to match the brief.

Commercial work like this had become her comfort zone of late, the familiar technical challenges providing a reassuring structure, keeping her busy without requiring much artistic risk.

She searched for reviews of the Beijing exhibition whilst taking a break, wanting something intelligent to say when friends asked.

Her search led to Alan Richards' news stories—controversy, bureaucracy, him making the same tired arguments about this or that.

Her device buzzed again as she returned to work.

HarmoniQ: Your digital brush patterns show decreased spontaneity since Florence. Creative blocks resolve 43 % faster with meaningful connection.

The screen dimmed before jolting up again.

HarmoniQ: Evenings at home: 83 % recurrence. Expand your routine with compatible matches who share your preference for domestic spaces.

Another buzz—softer, almost polite.

HarmoniQ: Turn on permissions to enhance your matches further!

Maya's fingers stilled over her workspace. It was more than location tracking. The messages read like an analysis of her private life: her work, her creative process, her lonely evenings at home. It was as if the app had access not just to her device, but to the room itself.

She set the device face-down, the gesture deliberate, final.

Yet as she worked, she felt those messages lingering, as if someone were breathing in an empty room.

Night drew in. The wall display cast fractured bands of colour across her studio as she tried to focus on her client brief.

But the knowledge of being watched—not just tracked but profiled—pressed against her concentration like a thumb testing glass before it breaks.