The Algorithm of Spring

29

Maya stood at her stovetop, watching coffee bubble up through the Moka pot. Morning light striped the worn floorboards of the place she'd called home since before Hongdae's rent prices had tripled. The bathroom door stood open, humid air still carrying the scent of her shampoo.

Through her fourth-floor window, she could just make out the interactive advertising board at street level. Like everything else these days, it ran on facial recognition—building instant profiles from bone structure, skin texture, micro-expressions. Its surface shimmered as it scanned the morning crowd, the AI picking targets with the precision of a sniper. A group of office workers passed. The board flicked between them before settling on a woman in her thirties, serving up premium dog food.

The woman slowed, just for a moment.

Maya had been wrong again. She'd expected the board to target the younger man with his expensive suit and effortless confidence. This guessing game had become a morning ritual, though the AI's choices still surprised her more often than not. It had learned how to prioritise, based on a variety of external cues and online behaviour.

"That's still creepy," Jun-ho said from behind her, pulling on yesterday's T-shirt. He leaned against her desk, careful not to disturb the interface controls. "The way it itemises them. Like they're just inventory."

Maya poured coffee into the only two clean mugs she could find. "You'd better get used to it," she said. "We're all living in the future now."

"More like being watched by it." Jun-ho took the offered cup, glancing around her cramped space.

"This place is tiny for someone whose work is everywhere. I thought you'd be living somewhere fancy by now."

She leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of her mug. "It doesn't work like that. You own fragments of each piece, get percentages when they're resold or used commercially. After everyone takes their cut..." She shrugged. "Besides, I like it here."

"In this shoebox?"

"I prefer to think of it as a studio with a bathroom, rather than a one-bedroom stuffed with gear."

The coffee was perfect—bitter and the colour of tar.

Maya picked up her tablet from the counter, checking the morning headlines out of habit. Jun-ho glanced over her shoulder at the news feed. "Alan Richards again," he said. "Remember when he used to make actual art instead of spouting propaganda about neural integration and doomsaying about the collapse of civilisation?"

"Funny how it always ends that way," she said.

"Start out radical, get rich, and become conservative. Maybe they know something we don't."

She tried for a laugh, but it came out hollow.

"Every artist starts out wanting to burn down the museum," he deadpanned. "The successful ones just end up on its board of directors."

The advertising board outside caught her attention again. An elderly woman had stopped to tie her shoe, and the board shifted to display traditional medicine products. Maya wondered what tells the AI had picked up—a tremor in her hands, perhaps, or the way she favoured one knee. 

Jun-ho studied her face. "Speaking of knowing things—where did you disappear to last year? You just... vanished."

She kept her eyes on the street below. "Here and there. Europe. Florence for a bit." The lie slipped out too easily.

"Florence?" He raised his eyebrows. "The residency program? I heard that was pretty selective."

"It was." She turned from the window, busying herself with rinsing her mug. "Just not what I expected."

"Want more coffee?"

"I'm good," he said, but his gaze lingered. That look again—the one that suggested he was piecing something together. "Strange, though. You never mentioned Florence before."

A notification lit up her screen—another gallery interested in her latest series. The blue glow caught the edges of Jun-ho's face, reminding her of last night, of the map's strange light painting their skin. She pushed the thought away.

"Not much to tell," she said. "It didn't work out." She glanced at her device, letting her hair fall forward to hide her expression. A HarmoniQ morning notification still sat there, its cheerful exclamation point like an acupuncture needle under her skin.

The advertising board outside flickered again, drawing her attention. A young couple this time—the AI paused for a microsecond before snapping back to its generic commercial. Maya watched their synchronised steps with a hidden smile, taking quiet pleasure as the machine failed to find anything they needed.

"I should get going," Jun-ho said, setting down his mug. "Meeting some people about that thing we discussed."

"The weird HarmoniQ stuff?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

"Among other things." He pulled on his jacket, the leather creaking. "You should come next time. Hear what they're saying—about the patterns they're seeing buried within it."

"Maybe," she said, though they both knew she wouldn't. She watched him head for the door, noticing how carefully he stepped around her protruding interface setup. Last night's urgency had settled into something quieter, uncertain, neither of them sure what to say.

He paused at the door to slip on his shoes. "You know you can talk to me, right? About Florence, about whatever's been going on?"

The advertising board outside chose that moment to change again. From her angle, she could see it cycling through options, analysing each passing face. The constant digital churn of profiles and predictions felt nauseating.

"Nothing's going on," she said. "I'll call you later."

After he left, she stood at the window, watching him emerge onto the street below. The advertising board caught his face in its endless scan, but he passed by too quickly for it to settle on a pitch. Maya waited until he disappeared around the corner before picking up her device again. The HarmoniQ notification still waited there, patient as a trap.

She needed somewhere without screens, without sensors—without anything reading her.

Somewhere she could breathe.

The local jjimjilbang would be quiet this time of morning.