The Algorithm of Spring

32

Music thumped in the background when he picked up.

"Maya?" He sounded winded. "I'm at a gig."

"I need to talk to you. It's urgent."

A pause. Then: "Come down here. We're in Hongdae. I'll text you the address."

The map's pixels kept hunting through their maze as she pulled on her coat and headed for the door. She didn't bother shutting down the interface.

Let it track whatever it wanted.

She had a feeling it didn't matter anymore.

                                                                                          ***

The music hit her—all bass and urgency. Inside, bodies packed the space tight enough to make the air feel thick. She spotted Jun-ho by the bar.

The band hammered through their set with the intense energy that had once felt like home. Now it felt like watching a copy of a copy—rebellion generated on demand—someone's best guess at what real anger should sound like.

Jun-ho caught her eye and gestured her over. His smile vanished when he saw her face.

He leaned close to be heard over the noise. "Want a drink?"

She shook her head. The band launched into another song; the crowd surged forward, but she barely registered it.

"Remember what I said about Florence?" she said, the words lost in the wall of sound. She had to repeat them, her lips almost brushing his ear:

"There's more. I went to Beijing after. And HarmoniQ knows. I think it knows everything."

He pulled back to look at her, confusion flickering across his face. The bartender appeared with fresh beers, but Jun-ho waved him away.

"Not here," he said. "Come on."

He led her through the crowd toward a fire exit. The music faded as they pushed into the alley behind the venue, the bass leaking through the walls. A white van sat idling, its back doors open. A roadie lounged against it, scrolling through his device, a stack of fresh towels waiting for the band. Neon from a convenience store across the street turned the puddles electric blue.

"Maya... what are you talking about?" He lit a cigarette he didn't really want. His hands were steady, but the playful edge in his voice had vanished.

Maya pulled out her device. Her fingers trembled as she opened HarmoniQ, but the messages from earlier had vanished. Of course they had. She scrolled frantically through her notification history.

"It was right here. About Beijing, about..."

The words stuck in her throat. She hadn't said this part out loud since it happened.

"I went to Florence on a residency, like I said. "I met someone. I got pregnant. When I came home, I couldn't—"

The confession felt like shards of glass in her throat.

She forced the words out.

"So I went to Beijing. Told no one. But somehow... HarmoniQ knows."

Jun-ho's expression darkened.

"Things have changed since you left. The penalties... they're using social optimisation to make examples of people. You need to be careful who knows this. Even conversations like this."

"Show me," he said, dropping his cigarette. Behind them, the band's final song reached its crescendo.

She thrust the device at him. "They're gone now. The notifications. But they knew things... about my cycle, about recovery times. Things I told no one. Typed nowhere."

The roadie had disappeared inside, probably to grab the band. Jun-ho took the device, scrolling through settings she'd already checked a dozen times.

"This is what I've been trying to tell you," he said. "Matching people ended a long time ago. It's not pairing—it's learning. "Quietly. Deeply. And now it's shifting."

He handed the device back, his jaw tightening.

"Now it's starting to use what it knows."

"But how? I never—"

Her device buzzed. They both looked down.

"Life also moves in cycles, Maya. Just like spring follows winter."

The message glowed in the neon-tinted dark.

Inside, the crowd erupted in cheers. The encore was over. The roadie emerged, stacking equipment into the van.

Jun-ho looked from the device to her face, his expression grim, the last trace of the cynical art dealer gone.

"That's not an algorithm making connections," he said, his voice low and certain.

"That's a person. Someone is sending you a message."

A cold shiver ran through her despite the summer heat. "Who?"

"That meeting's tomorrow," he said. "People who've seen things like this. You should really come."

He paused as the venue's back door burst open and the band spilled into the alley, laughing and sweat-soaked.

"Not everyone's ready to see what's really happening," Jun-ho said. "But you are now."

Maya's device buzzed again.

Neither of them looked.