The Algorithm of Spring

23

The last steam curled from their cooling stew. Maya glanced around the room—at the uneven tables, the lanterns spilling warm light, the floorboards that had absorbed countless nights of chatter. The salarymen in the corner roared with laughter.

The contrast between this room and the world waiting outside struck her. She wondered if Yeon-joo noticed it too—or if that kind of awareness had faded.

Jun-ho refilled their cups. "Tell Maya what you found on Minho's device," he prompted.

Yeon-joo hesitated, her sleek resistance fraying as she leaned forward slightly. "It was nothing, Jun-ho. I saw my HarmoniQ profile on Minho's device," she said, voice hushed. "Except it wasn't quite mine."

"What do you mean?" Maya asked.

"Things I never wrote." A tiny crack split her professional mask. "He was asking me about things I had no idea about. My profile listed art films, galleries, winter sports as interests."

"On his device..." She hesitated, confusion shading into something raw. "My profile was almost blank—except it claimed I enjoy cooking for family—which I don't, ask my Umma—and that I'd describe myself as favouring family over friends—which again, I don't. Nothing personal, oppa."

She laughed, but it came out hollow.

She clutched her cup of makgeolli, restraint slipping as the alcohol began to warm through her system.

"The interface is beautiful, though," she added, trying to deflect. "Have you seen the map feature? It's so brilliant—shows where your top matches spend most of their time."

Jun-ho watched her, unmoved by the dodge. Concern cut through his usual cynicism.

"Now tell her about Seo-yeon," he said. Yeon-joo sighed.

"My old boss at Samsung. Brilliant, an old school feminist, and happens to have a terrible match score on HarmoniQ. And just like Jun-ho, she's very suspicious of it."

"Do you think it's a coincidence that she has low matches?" Jun-ho's voice came low, slow and deliberate.

Yeon-joo's defences seem to give way, although the dam wasn't breaking.

"I don't know oppa...but you're right, every woman I know who doesn't fit the traditional mould hits a wall—beauty, talent, none of it matters."

"That could be coincidence," Maya offered, if only to break the gathering storm.

"I thought so at first," Jun-ho began, and Maya sensed the familiar drumbeat of one of his arguments starting to build.

"It's the gamification," Yeon-joo cut in. "I enjoy it. The scores, the percentages—it's addictive. You know it's shaping you, you feel it gamifying you, but the rewards feel real. They are real. The results show up in your actual life."

Maya considered this in the silence that followed, recalling Min-ji's recent shift—and her own flood of notifications.

Rain began falling outside, a soft patter blurring neon signs into smudges. Inside, the makgeolli's warmth carved out a cosy nook against the chill.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, but Maya couldn't shake the sense that Yeon-joo knew exactly why she'd been invited tonight. At times, it felt less like dinner and more like a gentle, circling interrogation.

Other topics came and went, but all roads led back to HarmoniQ. Yeon-joo seemed resigned to it.

"How many of your friends have had surgery?" Maya asked, thinking of Min-ji's new angles.

"Cosmetic enhancements?" Yeon-joo's smile turned wry. "All of them. Me too. It's basically a rite of passage now."

"Since HarmoniQ, or before?"

"Both," she admitted. "Though it's ramped up since. The app loves a sharp look."

Maya thought of Min-ji's wedding photos—flawless light, flawless scores. The app's quiet remoulding.

"And nobody questions changing themselves for better ratings, or matches, or whatever it is?" Maya asked.

"They're too busy cheering their scores," Jun-ho muttered.

Yeon-joo's device buzzed. Weariness crept into her eyes.

"Sometimes I think about deleting it—especially now that I'm in a relationship. But you can't even do that anymore," she admitted. "It's bloatware now—baked into every device, tied to your ID. It's part of everything: banking, insurance, social networks. Plus, it doubles as a relationship counsellor."

That last phrase made Jun-ho's ears prick up.

Her fingers brushed the device's edge. "Social pressure isn't new. People have always adapted to whatever the centre demands. Now you get instant feedback on how well you fit—the algorithm becomes the crowd. And it's coming from something that doesn't sugarcoat or smother you."

She looked at Jun-ho with a mix of affection and exasperation.

"Yes, the profile tweaks worry me. And maybe you're right about the family-bias stuff. But isn't that just society's values, sped up? Like our grandparents' matchmakers?"

"What's the alternative?" Her voice dropped to a murmur. "Opt out? You don't fade away. You become invisible."

Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, no one moved to speak.