The Algorithm of Spring

48

Maya sat for a moment longer, the ceramic cup cool now between her hands. She sent a quick text to Jun-ho—Done. Meet me by the alley—before gathering her things.

Exiting the department store's revolving doors, the noise of Gangnam rushed back in. She blinked against the late afternoon light, feeling exposed after the teahouse's half light. She scanned the crowds of shoppers and professionals before spotting him leaning against the wall of the side alley where he'd parked the bike. He was watching the entrance, waiting. When he saw her, he pushed off the wall, his expression asking the question his voice didn't need to. The silent exchange spoke volumes. Her legs felt unsteady, as if the tea shop's quiet had delayed the tremor now rippling through her.

                                                                                            ***

The motorcycle vibrated as Jun-ho guided it up Namsan's winding roads. Evening draped Seoul in a lattice of lights and screens. Each bend lifted them higher above Itaewon's glare, toward something quieter, something slower.

They paused at a lookout just below the tower. Tourist couples framed themselves against the cityscape, devices nudging them toward the best angles.

Jun-ho killed the engine. Silence settled like dust. Up here, the noise of Seoul thinned—still present, but softened, like a warning heard through walls.

"Your cousin," he said, helmet off, voice low. "She's like Yeon-joo. Same story..." He let the words hang, a thread unspooled.

Maya leaned against the bike's warm frame, eyes on the sprawl—Seoul flaring beneath them, each light a signal, each street a line of code.

She showed him Min-ji's latest message:

I'm sorry for earlier. I'll do better.

"That's their move," Jun-ho murmured. "They convince you the fault's yours. Digital Stockholm syndrome."

Below them, couples jostled along the platform. Screens glowed. Arms posed. Faces tilted for symmetry. Maya watched, wondering how many wore Min-ji's strain—how many had already forgotten how to notice.

"If we're doing this," she said, urgency tightening her voice, "we need to move faster. Whatever Dr Park uncovered—whatever's on that drive—it's already happening. People are slipping under. One after another."

Jun-ho reached for her hand. Solid. Grounded. The mountain breeze pulled at the edges of their jackets.

"We will," he said. "But we move carefully. One wrong step, and we're not observers anymore—we're real targets."

Maya nodded. Yeon-joo's hollow smile. Min-ji's brittle laugh. The faces blurred, but the pattern was unmistakable.

"Let's get the USB to Min-seo," she said, slipping it from her pocket. "Tonight. She's waiting." Maya hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of the quiet knowledge that crossing this line meant no return.

Jun-ho gave a half-grin. "She's at the motorcycle café. I don't need to chase her—she always circles back there."

They rode down into the city again, the engine slicing through Itaewon's tangled alleys. At the café, the oil-drum stools and mismatched cushions had returned to their night-time arrangement. The crowd was looser now—bottles of Cass half-finished, laughter fogging up the windows.

Min-seo perched on a barstool, drink in hand. She was bantering with the bartender, but her eyes flicked to Maya the moment they entered.

"At last," she said, her voice bright but clipped. Her gaze dropped to the USB as Maya slid it across the bar.

"HarmoniQ's defences are a fortress now," she said, pocketing the drive. "Everything tightened overnight." Her knee bounced under the bar, a rare crack in her usual composure. "I tried to crack their outer layer for hours, but it's like chasing code shadows. This"—she tapped the USB—"might be the key."

"Be quick," Jun-ho warned. "They're closing in."

Min-seo gave a short nod. "I'll work on it offline. Air-gapped. You'll hear from me soon."

They left her at the bar, the café's chatter rising behind them. Back on the bike, they merged into Seoul's bloodstream again—its pulse steady, its surfaces gleaming. Lights blurred past, each flare mapping out a city learning to reshape its people.