The Algorithm of Spring

37

The PC bang's blue neon sign cut through the Euljiro backstreet darkness, its promise of 24HR GAMING flickering above a narrow alley crowded with delivery bikes. Maya followed Jun-ho down the stairs to the basement entrance. Down here, Seoul ran on energy drinks and artificial light.

Inside, the air was thick with the trinity of PC bang smells: stale cigarette smoke, the MSG-heavy steam of instant ramyeon, and the hot plastic hum of overworked cooling fans. Gamers, heads bowed over their screens, were lost in digital worlds, headsets clamped on. Perfect cover for what they were about to do.

Following Jun-ho, she stepped over drink cans and snack wrappers toward the back corner.

"The owner hasn't updated his security cameras," he said.

Maya logged into an old PC, its worn keyboard sticky from years of midnight gaming sessions. Tracking their own laptops would be too easy. She pulled up HarmoniQ's public interface, fingers hovering above the keys.

"Ready?"

"Wait." Jun-ho's eyes were fixed on something across the room. A commercial for a new device played on one of the screens—a young couple's wedding photos, all projection and joy. Below it, text scrolled: Start your future family today. Government incentives auto-tied-in with purchase.

"Focus," Maya said, though it had caught her attention too. "Show me what you found in Yeon-joo's data."

Jun-ho leaned over and logged into an encrypted cloud drive through the browser. A folder opened.

"Min-seo extracted this from their first round of research. Everything HarmoniQ sent Yeon-joo over six months."

Lines of data filled the screen, each message precision-timestamped. Maya's eyes moved quickly, catching patterns—suggestions, prompts, and nudges dressed as friendly advice.

Your profile shows creative potential! Users who refine their interests receive 23% more attention.

Professional women who smile more in photos see increased match quality.

Have you considered our premium lifestyle filters?

"It's like watching my sister being taken apart," Jun-ho said, his voice low, barely audible over the clicking keyboards and sudden bursts of victory from nearby gamers.

"No," Maya said, a chill settling in her stomach. "This isn't an algorithm. This is a composition. Look at the timing." She pointed to clusters of messages. "These aren't random. They're like psychological acupuncture points—" she ran a finger along the timeline "—timed perfectly. Late at night. Early morning. Right after they knew she'd been out late."

Nearby, a group of teenagers playing League of Legends burst into laughter. The normalcy of it made the data on screen feel even more surreal.

An ad flashed across a screen two rows over: Your perfect match is closer than you think.

"Here," she said, opening another file. "It started with career tips—office etiquette, dress codes. Then it shifted. Personal appearance. Then hobbies." She frowned. "It's like they're..."

"Folding her," Jun-ho finished. "Like origami."

Through the PC bang's grimy window, a convenience store display cycled through its loop of smiling families. Maya thought of her own messages—how the app always seemed to know exactly when to bring up Beijing.

"The timing's too perfect," she said, scrolling. "An AI can predict behaviour. But this?" She gestured to the dense cluster of nudges. "This is someone watching. Waiting."

"Like they knew what she was thinking?" Jun-ho asked, his reflection ghosted across the monitor.

"Like they knew what she would think. Before she did." Maya rubbed her eyes; the ancient monitor made them ache. Her device buzzed. She flipped it face-down without looking.

"You do that a lot," Jun-ho said.

"What?"

"Ignore notifications. Hide your device. It's like you're allergic to people knowing things about you."

"I have a problem with authority," she muttered. "Ask my umma." Her eyes stayed on the screen. "Especially now, with this."

Somewhere nearby, someone ordered more ramyeon. The smell hit hard. Maya clicked into another file, but her mind snagged on the patterns—the precision of HarmoniQ's timing.

"Every time Yeon-joo posted—film festivals, gallery openings, nights out with friends—HarmoniQ waited a few days. Then it nudged her toward something... more conventional. Like it was trying to course-correct."

"Like what?"

"Cooking classes. Wine tastings. Stuff that photographs well for dating profiles." She pointed to the screen. "Never criticism. Just suggestions about how much more attention she'd get if she made these... subtle changes."

A cheer rose from the League of Legends players. Chairs scraped. New orders rang out. Maya caught their reflection in her monitor—so normal, so unaware.

"There's something else," she said, pulling up another folder. "The tone changed after her Samsung promotion. The messages got sharper. More urgent."

"Why?"

"She was vulnerable again. Successful on paper, but maybe wondering if her personal life matched the version of herself she was starting to imagine. HarmoniQ saw the gap. Moved in fast."

Her device buzzed again. Jun-ho saw it this time.

"Time moves differently in Florence," he read aloud. "Why are they still hammering you? If they know, why don't they report it, or shut it down?"

Maya shut the alert without answering. "Because they're not trying to punish us. They're trying to guide us. And when it doesn't work, they escalate. That's what happened to Yeon-joo. They sensed the crack and leaned in."

He didn't press her about the Florence message. Instead, he looked back at the screen. The convenience store's ads had shifted—late-night, younger faces now. Hints of future family planning dialled down, but still there.

"Wait," Maya said suddenly. Something flickered in the data. "Look at the metadata." She pointed. "That string of characters—it's not AI-generated."

Jun-ho frowned. "You're saying... someone wrote that?"

"Someone's guiding it. The AI does the lifting. But this—" she tapped the screen "—real-time tweaks."

The PC's fan stuttered under the strain. Then, without warning, the screen exploded in cascading lines of code.

And just as suddenly—it went black.

"What happened?" Jun-ho asked.

Maya yanked the power cable. "They found us."

She grabbed her bag. "We need to move. Now."