The Algorithm of Spring

58

The curator materialised at Maya's shoulder. "What on earth is happening?"

"Technical issue," Maya said quickly, though her voice snagged. "We just need to—"

The installation stuttered jarringly, then went completely black. When it snapped back to life, a stark, regimented wall began to assemble itself—brick by brick, each one slotting into place as if by the hand of a master craftsman. The soundscape had collapsed into a single sustained note, thin and unyielding, like a warning tone held too long.

Min-seo's eyes were locked on her screen. "They left a signature," she said, her voice tight.

"A calling card. Arrogant." She squinted, tracing a line of code with her finger.

"The name... Choi Hwa-young. Does that mean anything to you?"

Maya went completely still, the blood draining from her face. Jun-ho glanced between them, registering the shift but saying nothing as Maya turned away.

Maya's voice was eerily calm. "We need to get everyone out. Now."

Seoul continued outside, indifferent to what was happening inside the gallery. In her pocket, her device finally buzzed: Your creative deviation has been corrected. It read like a reprimand. Or a promise.

Min-seo's laptop screen blinked to life, then went dark again. When it rebooted, her access was locked out completely. She looked up at Maya. "They're in everything."

The projected wall shuddered, then—impossibly—began to collapse in on itself, bricks dissolving and tumbling into nothingness. But just as quickly, the digital grid blocks reassembled, locking into synchronisation, throbbing with an unseen force. The same wall, the same order, repeating in an endless cycle. A correction that wouldn't allow itself to be undone. Beautiful, in its way—like a knife gleaming in the light.

A critic made notes on his device, pausing to photograph the transformation. As he headed for the door, Maya overheard him murmur to his companion, "A rather on-the-nose commentary on corporate control, but daring." They spoke softly, assuming she was too far to hear. She wasn't. "The glitch-art aesthetic is very of the moment." 

His companion nodded. "It'll certainly get people talking."

The gallery emptied quickly after that. Industry people and collectors drifted away, their judgments already forming into tomorrow's reviews.

The curator's heels clicked against the gleaming floor as she guided the last guests out, murmuring reassurances Maya wasn't meant to hear. Then, with a click, she closed the door briskly, already typing a message as she walked away. The finality hit Maya's chest—cold, absolute.

Maya stood in the now-empty space, staring up at what had once been her work. The gallery was silent, but something flickered inside her—not just rage, though it was there, steady and hot. Beneath it, a quieter question began to take shape.

This was her answer to Jun-ho's question.
How to make people see.