The Algorithm of Spring

10

A waitress appeared. Maya ordered soju and a beer, her expression unreadable. Jun-ho waited until they were alone again. His confidence was so palpable it was its own kind of pressure.

He swirled his glass. The neon tiger rippled across its surface.

"It's reaching into places it has no business being," he said. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Maya leaned back, arms crossed. She aimed for casual disinterest, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

Jun-ho's mouth curled into something almost pitying. "It presents itself as harmless matchmaking," he said, turning the drink in his hands. "But that's not all it's doing."

Maya rolled her eyes. "People are always paranoid about new tech. It's boring."

"Haven't you noticed people pulling back? How quiet the spaces between them have become?" He leaned in slightly. "HarmoniQ doesn't just match people—it moulds them. Makes them more predictable. More steerable."

She scoffed—but her pulse kicked up. "Sounds like you're the one reaching."

Her eyes flicked to the empty bottles on the table. "How many times have you run this script tonight? Why am I one of the lucky ones?"

Jun-ho didn't take the bait. "Tell me something. How many times have you tried to delete it?"

"Jun-ho." Her voice dropped. "Don't start. If you want to spout conspiracy theories, you could have used a chat room."

He tilted his head. "You have, haven't you? Tried to delete it. Wipe it clean. And yet—there it is again."

He let the moment hang.

He leaned back slightly, a faint sway in his posture—almost imperceptible unless you were watching closely. His words remained measured, though softened by the subtle looseness of someone a drink past relaxed.

Maya looked down at the table. That stupid three-note chime echoed in memory. She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Maybe you're just bad at uninstalling things."

Jun-ho laughed once. No humour. "Dismiss me if you want, Maya. But you're the one flinching."

She didn't like how he said her name. Too familiar. Like he already knew something she didn't.

"What do you want?" she asked. "Why did you ask me to come?"

Jun-ho's tone shifted. Steadier. Intentional. "You're an artist. Well—an AI artist."

"You see patterns. You feel when things don't add up. This doesn't add up. I can't see the shape of it yet. But I know you can."

The words landed like hooks. Admitting he was right meant admitting she'd missed it—or wanted to ignore it, that she'd let herself become muted. That wouldn't be happening.

She tensed. "You don't know me."

"Perhaps," he said. "But I know the app watches you—just like it watches everyone. You start seeing it in your matches, your suggestions, your routines. The way it nudges you. Gently at first. But always toward the same destination." He spread his hands. "You think you're choosing. That's the real trick."

He leaned in. "Have you even looked at the app? Really looked?"

She opened her mouth to argue—then stopped. No words came.

Jun-ho's voice dropped, barely audible over the bass. "It's not just data, Maya. It's behaviour. Prediction. Eventually, it's direction."

Her heart was keeping time with the bass—thudding, irregular. She should leave. This was absurd. Drunken paranoia from a guy in a bar. And yet.

"Have you forgotten which side of the border you're on?" she said, her voice sharpening. "This is South Korea. Last I checked, we're not a surveillance state."

But Min-ji's face flashed through her mind. The surgery tweaks. The tailored ads. Your perfect match is closer than you think. She'd laughed it off at the time. Min-ji being Min-ji. Now she wasn't so sure.

Maya shifted in her seat. "You sound pretty sure of yourself for someone three bottles in."

Jun-ho studied her for a beat. "And you sound like someone trying very hard to pretend this doesn't interest you."

She didn't answer.