The Algorithm of Spring

64

Something in Yeon-joo's eyes flickered—like a pilot light catching in the wind.

"He says it's fine to have interests," Jun-ho deadpanned. "Gee, thanks. I'm liking him more and more."

"You know what I mean. He thinks some of my more avant-garde tastes might have been making me seem erratic to my superiors. A more straightforward image gets you further." She gestured vaguely. "And maybe he's right? The company certainly seems to be taking me more seriously now."

"Since you let all this get into your head," he murmured.

"He's been introducing me to useful contacts. Helping me make smarter decisions."

Maya recognised the tone; she'd heard it before—in people convinced their compromises were choices.

Jun-ho noticed the laptop on her desk. Her screensaver was a photograph she had taken of three women in their eighties huddled together. The Rainbow Warriors—friends for seventy-five years, who had been at the forefront of pushing Korea in a more liberal direction.

He knew two of the women had since died, their passing a quiet blow.
He said nothing, but the image lodged in his mind—a flicker of defiance on a façade dedicated to compliance. A ghost of the sister he knew, haunting the machine.

"And your film projects?"

"It's time to focus."

"On what?"

"On..." She faltered. "Thriving. Having a proper relationship. Making umma and appa proud."

Maya wished she'd stayed downstairs. She felt like an intruder in a family argument conducted in a language that had nothing to do with words. She checked her device awkwardly as the siblings went on.

"All those experimental films... they weren't going anywhere."
Yeon-joo stood and moved toward the kitchen.

"Want a drink? He bought me this espresso system—it's the same model they have in the executive lounges. One more promotion and I'll have access myself."

"Yeon-joo." Jun-ho followed her. "Listen to yourself. This isn't you."

"Then who am I supposed to be, Jun-ho?"
The question hung between them.
"HarmoniQ matched us for a reason. It knows what people need. And look—life's better now. Cleaner. More organised."

She busied herself with the machine.

"Are you still seeing any of your friends?" he asked.

"I've been busy." She didn't look up. "Minho says it's important to surround yourself with people who elevate you—the five people theory."

"The what?"

"You know—you are the average of the five people you spend the most time with."
It sounded rehearsed—like a line she'd been fed rather than a belief she'd grown into.

Yeon-joo handed them coffee without making eye contact.
Jun-ho accepted it but didn't drink, while Maya was grateful for the cup to take shelter behind.

"Remember that documentary you wanted to make? About the ageing activists?"

"That was never realistic." She sipped her coffee. "Minho helped me see that. Who would even watch something like that?"

"You would have. Three months ago."

Her device buzzed.
"He's taking me to dinner. This place only takes reservations through HarmoniQ's partner programme."

"And that doesn't seem strange to you?"

"No, it doesn't. It's connecting me with the right people." She set her cup down. "Helping me find the right path."

Her device buzzed again.
Jun-ho glimpsed the notification: Your relationship status requires attention.

"This is what worries me," Jun-ho said. "You're in a relationship, and it's still monitoring you. Why?"

Yeon-joo exhaled and stood.
"I should get ready for the office."

Jun-ho stood too. This was his sister—the one who had filmed protests on her ancient Super 8 because, as she always said, digital "never breathed the way film does."

"You know you can tell me if something's wrong," he said.
For a moment he searched her face—not for answers, but for the sister he used to recognise without effort.

"Nothing's wrong." She walked them to the door. "Everything's exactly how it should be."
But her expression didn't quite match the certainty in her voice.

As she hugged Jun-ho goodbye, Maya noticed her hold on just a moment too long—as if some part of her was trying to reach for them, unable to say aloud what she needed to.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Maya had the distinct sense they hadn't left someone who was safe—they'd left someone who was being slowly edited.