The Algorithm of Spring

60

Dawn found Maya still sitting in Gallery Chosun, surrounded by the wreckage of the previous night's invasion. She hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. Not with the remnants of her work still moving across the walls in corrupted form—a mockery of her original vision. It was the equivalent of a muted protest being answered by a sonic boom—a conversation she had started, obliterated.

Min-seo and Jun-ho had left hours ago, despite their protests about her staying. She needed to bathe in it—to understand exactly what they'd done. Her immersive environment, designed to flow organically with each visitor, now executed rigid sequences with military efficiency. HarmoniQ's cold palette was a personal message where her vibrant spectrum had been.

The ache in her hands had settled in hours ago, the dull aftershock of clenched fists and held breath. The gallery felt wrong in these early hours—less like an exhibition space and more like a crime scene where the victim still breathed.

Throughout the night, one thought had circled endlessly—those characters Min-seo had found buried in the code: Choi Hwa-young. It unlocked a door she'd been keeping sealed. Each time she recalled Min-seo reading it aloud, the Beijing memory grew more vivid—the weight of the tablet in her hands, the antiseptic smell of the clinic, the careful strokes she'd used to make the signature appear natural.

Maya pushed herself from the floor, legs stiff, uncooperative from sitting too long. The morning streets were beginning to stir, delivery trucks rumbling past, early commuters hurrying to the subway. She watched them through the glass, wondering how many carried secrets that HarmoniQ might one day extract.

Her device had remained ominously silent. The quiet was likely not incidental—HarmoniQ was allowing the wreckage to deliver its message.

As she lifted it, she pictured Professor Kim's face—Professor Kim, who'd been the only person she could trust—when she'd arrived at her studio months ago, a positive pregnancy test hidden in her bag. Before she could tell her mother, before she could even admit to herself what needed to be done, Professor Kim had made tea and listened without judgement.

The truth had spilled out—Florence, her embarrassment, how she'd hidden in Europe rather than face her mother, and on top of it all, the pregnancy she hadn't known how to name yet.

She was about to call her when her device lit up. A message from Min-seo:

Just to give you a heads up, there are lots of clips from the installation circulating online. You're getting a lot of credit despite what happened.

Before Maya could respond, another message appeared. This one from Professor Kim.

Come to the studio when you can. People are sending me videos of what happened at Gallery Chosun. We should talk about it.

She blinked hard—caught off guard, maybe even moved—that she hadn't been the one to reach out first.

Maya took one last look up at the same rigid gridwork marching across the walls where her responsive environment had once flourished. HarmoniQ was reaching into the past, pulling out her most private decision and wielding it like a weapon. But maybe that's what HarmoniQ didn't understand. It wasn't their weapon to wield.

She had made that choice. She had signed that name. She had lived with it.

And she could live with it still.

"I'll be there soon," she typed back, gathering her coat.

Behind her, the corrupted installation continued its exact loops, carrying the imprint of her Beijing choice within its altered code.