The Algorithm of Spring

31

Maya's device buzzed before she'd even reached her floor.

HarmoniQ Notification: High-compatibility window imminent.

She swiped it away, muscle memory taking over before she registered the words.

The projected light of her interface bloomed to life as she entered her apartment. She gave the active map an admiring glance—somewhere between an 8-bit game and a modern surveillance grid. Even distracted, she could appreciate its strange beauty.

The jjimjilbang's peace still clung to her skin, but another notification shattered it:

Ready for your next chapter? Your peak fertility window begins tomorrow! Optimise your profile for future opportunities today!

Her hand froze on the hairdryer switch.

She hadn't tracked her cycle in months.

Her mind refused to finish the thought.

She opened her health app, checking for any sync permissions she might have forgotten about. Nothing. She dug through her device's settings, hands trembling, searching for anything she might have accidentally enabled or written down.

Everything was still locked down. Just as she'd left it.

Another notification lit up her screen before she could even close the settings menu:

Unexpected shifts detected, Maya. Guidance available.

She nearly dropped the device.

Beneath the message was a line of text.

Five words that bypassed her rational mind and struck something deeper, something primal.

A line that made her blood run cold:

Recovery period—Beijing: 7 days.

The hairdryer slipped from her hand, hitting the sink with a hollow crack.

Beijing.

She hadn't told anyone about that—not Jun-ho, not her friends, not even her mother. Especially not her mother. That week existed in a sealed mental box, the kind you push to the back of a high shelf and pretend doesn't exist.

Her reflection stared back at her from the bathroom mirror, pale beneath the jjimjilbang's lingering flush. Through the open door, she could still see the map on her screen—pixels moving through their maze—but the game-like charm had vanished. Each blinking dot was someone like her. Being watched. Being known.

"How?" she whispered to the device.

Her hands were shaking so badly she had to set it on the counter. There had to be an explanation. Location history maybe. Or some algorithm linking flight records and medical keywords. Just machines, connecting the dots, blind to their meaning.

She lost hours in the attempt to rationalise it.

Checked every permission relentlessly.

Every email account.

Every digital notebook.

Deleted and reinstalled apps.

Scoured privacy policies she'd never read before.

The light outside shifted from white to orange to black without her noticing. Her thoughts kept circling, spiraling, accelerating. Each explanation more frantic than the last.

By the time she reached for the device to call Jun-ho, night had already swallowed the city.