The Algorithm of Spring

42

The Yonsei University Medical Library buzzed with pre-exam intensity. Maya followed Jun-ho past rows of future doctors to the third floor historical archives. The noise from the main floors thinned to a faint, cotton-wrapped hum.

A woman in her fifties stood between two shelves—Dr. Park. An obstetrician at Severance Hospital, specialising in reproductive health. Her crisp blazer and practical shoes marked her as hospital staff. Her movements were clipped, efficient—the rhythm of someone running on too little sleep.

Dr. Park gave a subtle nod and led them to a reading alcove. "Tell me what you found," she said as they sat. No small talk.

"We found a front company called Nexus Design Solutions," Maya began, pulling out her notebook. "It has data-sharing agreements with all the major chaebols, disguised as 'employee wellness' programs. We think it's how HarmoniQ is accessing internal corporate data."

"That's part of it," Dr. Park said, her expression unreadable. "But the problem is much deeper than HR files." She paused, scanning the stacks for eavesdroppers. "I've seen the results on my patients. Records disappearing from secured servers, reappearing with new flags. Young women flagged for 'preventative consultations' they never requested. Fertility data accessed by unfamiliar networks."

Jun-ho leaned forward. "What are they looking for?"

"I don't know for sure," Dr. Park admitted. "But I can show you what they're doing." She reached into her blazer and pulled out a small notebook of her own. "In the past year, every woman of childbearing age passing through my department has had her records accessed externally. Not just basic health—hormone levels, genetic profiles, family histories." She slid the notebook across the table.

Maya opened it. Inside were dates, access logs, and system entry points.

"Last week," Dr. Park continued, "they rolled out 'integrated health monitoring' systems hospital-wide. Mandatory. If you refuse, your access credentials are revoked."

"They're getting bolder," Maya said.

"What about people with medical histories they want to keep private?" she added, almost a whisper. "Stuff from before the integration started?"

Dr. Park's gaze sharpened. "Old records are being digitised daily. Paper files, overseas treatments, fertility clinics. Everything." She glanced at the ancient books surrounding them. "Soon, only these will keep their secrets." A tightness gathered behind Maya's ribs.

Laughter rang from a nearby table. A student's device lit up with a HarmoniQ notification.

"There's more," Dr. Park said, producing a folded hospital memo. "Starting next month, we're required to report 'social optimisation anomalies' to authorities. The memo never defines what an 'anomaly' is. That's what frightens me."

"What does that even mean?" Jun-ho asked.

"It means," Dr. Park said, her voice flat with a physician's neutrality, "that we are being turned into informants." Even in a whisper, the word sounded dangerous. "The system will flag any patient whose medical choices don't align with national 'social harmony' directives. We are then required to... counsel them."

She drew a USB from her pocket, placing it gently on the table. "I've been compiling evidence for months—access logs, patient flags, case files. The security is tighter than anything I've seen. Whatever is on this drive, they don't want it seen." She slid it closer.

"Why us?" The question felt heavier than Maya intended.

"They're watching me. Encouraging me to take 'early retirement.' And it's not being presented as optional." She paused, locking eyes with Maya. "I'm a doctor. I can see the symptoms, but I don't understand the disease. You understand the technology. Maybe you can."

With a final nod, she walked away, her footsteps swallowed by the hush of the archive.

The USB lay between them like contraband—silent, deliberate, heavier than it should have been.