The Algorithm of Spring

51

She kept walking. Not toward anything exactly—just forward.

The steps to Naksan Park curved between old houses, tiled roofs stark against the sky.

She climbed slowly, passing graffiti—some bold and defiant, others faded like old arguments. She'd sketched here often. Thinking. Dreaming. Breathing.

Seoul sprawled below, neon and steel like a fractured canvas.

At her old spot—a large, smoothed stone near the fortress wall—the ancient stones rose beside her, shielding her from the city's fluorescent breath.

The contrast felt sharper now—almost accusatory.

Nearby, groups of students lingered, drinking, laughing, huddled around a tablet passed from hand to hand. Maya watched them, thinking of her own youth. Her city. Her friends.

She tugged Jun-ho's leather jacket tighter against the breeze.

Min-seo pinged: The deeper I dig, the worse this gets.

The chill in her chest cut deeper than the wind.

Maya cast her eyes skyward.

Min-ji's trembling hands at Osulloc.

The tteokbokki owner's quiet insistence.

The ajumma counting her earnings like a mafia don.

Her thumb hovered over the device. Somewhere, a switch was flipping—slow, deliberate, final.

Two students glanced her way. One smiled—then stalled, eyes snapping back to her own screen. The moment dissolved like breath on glass.

Maya lay back against the stone where she'd once created, the sky above beginning to glitter.

Her device flashed, the text stark against the darkening sky:

SYSTEM ALERT: Your account has been flagged for non-standard pattern deviation. Access parameters will be optimised. Restrictions apply in 24 hours.

Her fingers closed hard around the gravel.

Powerless. Isolated.

Being shut out of the city she loved: her city. Her muse. Her one constant.

The day had turned into a quiet inventory—checking what she still had, what she was about to lose.

If she was locked out, where would she go?

Back to Europe? Back to pretending?

A hal-abeoji shuffled past along the wall, his first generation device swinging from his wrist. Insurance for a fall—not a leash for compliance.

Maya envied him.

The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat from Gwangjang.

Seoul still smelled the same.

But everything was bending.

Her device vibrated.

Jun-ho: Whatever's on that USB, whatever they're planning... we'll find a way.

She looked out over the city that might soon shut her out.

Below, millions wired into HarmoniQ adjusted without protest.

And above, the old stones stood watch.

They had seen invasions. Occupations. Revolutions.

And now, something else—something quieter, but no less dangerous.