The Algorithm of Spring

45

Maya watched her client list shrink in real time. Three major galleries had quietly archived her work that morning, each removal tagged with the same curt notice: "Curation parameters updated." Corporate clients, once flooding her inbox with urgent briefs, had gone quiet. 

She sat at her desk in her Hongdae studio, the interface's faint hum now tinged with unease, the loose floorboard hiding Dr Park's USB a silent pressure beneath her feet. Her once-essential digital setup stood obsolete, a gleaming relic mocking her—its power nullified not by her creative rebellion, but by a simple social lockout.

The CEO's words echoed: "Just compliance." It felt more like a targeted drought—a social optimisation adjustment methodically starving her career, her connections, and her access to the city she called home.

Maya drifted to the glass, drawn by a vendor's call—"Fresh hotteok for sale!" The smell of caramelised sugar drifted up—warm, familiar, painfully ordinary. The sound recalled old Hongdae, before its pavements swarmed with sculpted youth.

Min-ji: "Are you free...?"

Maya eyed the text. Since the wedding, her cousin's social feed had been a showcase of textbook romance—candlelit dinners, playful cake-feeding, Jeju getaways in matching outfits, the kind you'd find on a glossy postcard.

"Help. Please."

The interface behind her kept unpicking her career with cold accuracy. Another gallery cut ties. Another client stalled. She'd been tracking these losses between network updates, her livelihood fraying under an unseen grip—ironic, after she'd torn its presets apart to reclaim her own strokes.

Her device buzzed again:

Min-ji: "Not my apartment. Somewhere else."

Maya exhaled, her breath fogging the glass. Somewhere else meant public. Exposed.

She typed back: "Osulloc. Hyundai Department Store."

Min-ji replied swiftly: "I'll order for us. Don't be long."

Another buzz.

Jun-ho's voice came through the device, clipped. "Min-seo's seeing patient flags flood the medical database. She's been probing HarmoniQ's defences—says they've spiked with military-grade encryption overnight. She's desperate for that USB; thinks it could help breach their patient locks."

"Well, after yesterday's client meeting, I can't afford to wait either—literally," Maya replied, the CEO's dismissive wave flashing in her mind as HarmoniQ's flags sank her pitch. "Min-ji wants to meet. Something's off."

"Your cousin? Wedding girl?"

"Meet me there? Osulloc in Hyundai."

Jun-ho paused. "That's very... public."

"Exactly. Just a family catch-up. Nothing suspicious."

"Twenty minutes," he promised. "I'll bring the bike."

Maya ended the call, watching her interface erase another chunk of her professional world. Those gallery ties—hard-won over years—dissolved with a chill exactness she'd once admired.

Before leaving, she pried up the loose floorboard and retrieved Dr Park's USB drive, slipping it into her pocket—a bet unplayed. Her fingers hesitated—no turning back now. From everything she'd seen today, the system felt like a house intent on guarding its stakes.