The Algorithm of Spring

12

He gestured toward the bar. "It took over so fast. It seemed harmless when it launched—just another local app challenging the international ones, like Naver did with Google, or KakaoTalk vs WhatsApp. Then last week, it rolled out everywhere. Forced system update."

"And you reached out to me because of that?" Maya asked.

"You're one of the only people I know who hasn't touched it," he confirmed. "And the only one I thought might notice if something was off."

Her instinct was still to walk away, to shut it down—but something underneath had shifted. The need to understand. To see what was hiding behind the screen.

Maya was quiet for a long moment.

"This is insane," she said at last, though the edge had drained from her voice. "If you're even partially right... what do we do about it?"

Jun-ho's eyes met hers—clear, grounded, determined.

"We figure out what it actually is," he said. "Then we decide what comes next."

                                                                                           ***

Maya stepped into Seoul's neon-washed night, the warmth of the somaek fading from her system. Jun-ho's words refused to dissolve with the alcohol, lodging deeper with each step.

She pulled out her device. HarmoniQ sat there, no longer just annoying, no longer so innocent. It creates a tailored reality—one that preys on your insecurities. She scoffed again. An algorithm predicting desire—was it really any different from the shopping apps that already knew she wanted new boots?

A group of young women passed, their laughter carrying on the night air, faces lit by screens. Maya watched them disappear around a corner. If he was right, how many were being nudged right now, shaped without fully knowing? Were they shelving ambitions, just like Jun-ho's sister had?

Her screen lit up. Min-ji: Hey, I've got a great recommendation for that clinic I mentioned...you get a discount if I refer you.

Maya's thumb hovered over the screen. Everything felt charged now. Was Min-ji being helpful, or was she another calculated vector of influence?

She pocketed her device without replying and headed for the subway. The streets were still alive with their usual energy—food vendors calling out, couples huddled over shared devices waiting for KakaoTaxis, screens everywhere. Had it always been this saturated?

At the station entrance, she hesitated before the facial recognition gate. A thousand times she'd passed through, but tonight the silent scan felt invasive. Another data point, volunteered without thinking — predictable people are easier to manipulate.

How many of her movements were logged each day? Measured, shaped, used?

It had all been happening for years—but something felt different now. Not faster. Just quieter — almost imperceptibly so.

Her device vibrated again — not HarmoniQ this time.

A message from Jun-ho.

Couple of links. Nothing urgent. Read them when you get a chance.

She hesitated, then opened the first as the train doors slid shut.

A government bulletin loaded — plain, unadorned. Demographic strategy. Cultural resilience. The kind of document designed to be skimmed, not absorbed.

Her eyes drifted.

...long-term social optimisation...
...creative participation as stabilising force...

She almost scrolled past it.

Then she stopped.

Institutional access and cultural funding will prioritise contributors with complete public-facing profiles, ensuring transparency, accountability, and sustainable alignment with national objectives.

Maya read the sentence again.

Public-facing.

The same phrase. Not similar. Identical.

The gallery email surfaced unbidden — the polite vagueness, the sudden dead end. The asset correction. The language that never accused, never explained.

Her chest tightened, not with fear, but with clarity.

It wasn't that HarmoniQ had grown more invasive.

It was that everything was now speaking the same way.

She locked her screen and stared at her reflection in the darkened window, tunnel lights breaking her face into fragments.

Public-facing, she thought.

That was the requirement.

In the carriage, an older man swiped through HarmoniQ profiles, his face washed in blue light. A woman across from him used her screen as a mirror, applying lipstick with precision. A teenager snorted at something on her feed, music leaking tinnily from her earbuds.

The whole carriage seemed to shimmer with unseen signals, each device a beacon, each person tuned into a frequency not quite their own.

What if exposing the app meant being quietly shut out? Of shows, residencies, even friendships? In a world so networked, refusal could be a kind of exile.

Maya leaned against the window. Her reflection stared back — fractured by tunnel lights into a mosaic of questions.

Jun-ho had sounded drunk. Paranoid. 

But what if he wasn't wrong?

She thought again of Min-ji. Her mother's casual pressure. The app that kept returning, even after she'd deleted it—again and again, at least she now knew why.

We figure out what it actually is, he'd said. And then we decide what comes next.

It should have sounded naïve—half-baked.

But it didn't.

It felt reckless in a way she'd almost forgotten.

Her device buzzed.

HarmoniQ: 12 minutes to your destination. Perfect time to browse your matches.

Maya stared at the screen.

Then she looked up, slowly scanning the carriage.

No one was looking at her — yet she'd never felt more seen.