The Algorithm of Spring

33

A row of vintage motorcycles lined the pavement outside the shop, their chrome catching the afternoon sun. Small groups of young riders lounged against concrete planters in leather jackets despite the heat, comparing modifications and gear. Jun-ho sat on a wooden bench among them, helmet at his feet, methodically stirring an iced Americano in a clear plastic cup. The café-shop hybrid was pure Hannam-dong: exposed concrete walls lined with motorcycle parts and pour-over coffee gear, built for a niche slice of Seoul's subcultures.

Through the window, she could just make out figures hunched over laptops in the industrial gloom.

"They're inside," Jun-ho said, not looking up from his drink. "Coding types. Smart, but they see the world in grids." He glanced at her. "That's not what we need right now."

"And what do you need?"

"Someone who sees what AI can't hide. The way you spotted that map? That wasn't normal." He stood, draining his cup. "Ready to meet the others?"

Inside, the café smelled like motor oil and fresh coffee. Laptops and charging cables covered a long communal table, where three people sat surrounded by drinks and half-eaten pastries. They looked up as Jun-ho led Maya over.

"Min-seo, Dae-hyun," Jun-ho said, nodding to a woman and man on one side of the table. "And Jin-woo. They used to work with my sister at Samsung."

Jin-woo adjusted his blue-light glasses, eyes already darting back to his screen as he spoke.

Min-seo's fingers never left her keyboard. "We were friends. Then she was promoted, and suddenly we were 'no longer aligned with her professional trajectory.'"

The words landed heavily. Maya remembered Jun-ho's earlier hesitation when saying his sister's name. These people had watched it happen—watched HarmoniQ reshape someone they knew.

She studied Min-seo as she worked, noting the tension in her shoulders. "You've been tracking this for a while," she said. "Why?"

Min-seo's fingers paused—just slightly. "My own sister was part of the first wave of beta testers," she said, without looking up. "She was a brilliant programmer. Cautious with new tech. But HarmoniQ rewired her from the inside out."

"How?"

Min-seo finally looked up—something vulnerable flickering behind her frost. "She went from questioning everything to imitating someone I didn't recognise. Suddenly obsessed with optimisation. Constant comparisons—to others, to me. Her appearance, her career trajectory—her whole life started to feel performative."

"She scheduled surgery," she added. "And sure, it's Seoul—surgery's not unusual. But it wasn't even on her radar before. I knew something was off. That app really messed with her head."

"What happened to her?" Maya asked.

"She's in Silicon Valley now. Landed a green card. Big earner, flawless social media. Maybe I'm just jealous," Min-seo said, mouth tightening. "We don't talk. She says I'm 'resistant to change.' Or some shit."

She turned back to her screen. "So yeah. I've been tracking this for a while."

"And I'm not the only one," she continued. "There are others from the original development team who saw what was happening. We talk. But they're scared to move without concrete proof, and I don't blame them."

"I build with AI every day. I know how they behave."

"We've seen your work," Jin-woo said. His screen showed lines of HarmoniQ's public code. "But understanding aesthetics isn't the same as understanding architecture."

"No," Maya said. "But it helps you see when something's off. That map—it was too elegant. Too personal. AIs optimise. They don't compose."

Min-seo's typing slowed. "Explain."

"AIs are efficient, not artful," Maya said. "They follow rules. They can be creative, but they improvise in predictable ways. You can learn to spot it. That map... it looked like someone designed it visually first, functionally second. That's backwards."

"We've been trying to find a way in for weeks," Dae-hyun said, turning his laptop to show dense strings of data. "Security flaws, backdoors, anything."

"And?" Maya asked.

"Nothing," Min-seo said, more sharply this time. "It appears perfectly secure."

"Is anything ever 'perfectly secure'?" Maya asked, a challenge in her tone. "Maybe you've been asking the wrong questions."