The Algorithm of Spring

Nine

The sign outside had promised intimacy, but inside, the noise hit like a wall. Laughter tangled with thudding bass and clinking bottles. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke, damp wood, and spilled soju.

Maya paused at the threshold, her eyes adjusting. Strangers glanced her way—fleeting, indifferent—but still her shoulders tensed. The jacket she wore felt tight across her back, like armour. The after-hours feeling should've felt familiar. Instead, it left her feeling unmoored.

A glowing blue sign marked the bar's edge: Dreamer—an odd name for a place so rooted in the flesh.

She spotted Jun-ho in the far booth, half-concealed by shifting holographic graffiti. A neon tiger stalked the wall behind him, its flickering face caught between glitch and snarl.

He saw her immediately. His posture was loose—arms slung across the booth, glass in hand—but his eyes didn't waver. He looked like he'd been waiting. A white shirt, dark jeans, rolled sleeves. A flash of tattoo. The studied plainness of someone trying not to be noticed, fully aware he would be.

Maya hesitated. She'd seen him before—on the periphery of gallery parties, underground shows. Always present, never anchored. Now, in this strange light, he seemed designed to linger in her memory.

"Maya Kim. You came." His voice cut through the ambient thrum, unhurried and sure. The booth softened the noise, creating a pocket of near-privacy. He gestured to the seat across from him. "Wasn't sure you would."

Maya slid in slowly. "Don't look so smug," she said, flipping open the drinks menu to avoid his gaze.

Jun-ho watched her, still and calm.

"You've noticed it too, haven't you?" His voice dropped.

"How far it's overreaching. The app."

The noise of the bar seemed to dull. Maya met his eyes.

"What do you know?"