The Algorithm of Spring

71

The old man kept talking, something about implementation and design, but Maya couldn't hear him over the roar in her ears — the sound of a world she'd trusted collapsing in on itself. She thought of the hours she'd spent analysing Richards' brushstrokes, the thesis she'd written on his use of colour and form. She'd modelled her early work on his — embarrassingly so, in hindsight. She'd chased the edges of his style for years, trying to earn a place in the lineage he represented. How many times had she defended his work to other students who called it indulgent?

And all his roads had been leading him to this—this system that manipulated people, that had rifled through her most private decisions, that was reshaping her cousin, reshaping Jun-ho's sister, reshaping countless others.

That strange, beautiful map in HarmoniQ—the one she'd found so captivating, so unlike typical interfaces. Of course it bore his fingerprints. The same aesthetic that had once moved her to tears was now being used to steer people into government-approved futures.

"Ms. Kim?" The old man was watching her, concern etching deeper lines into his weathered face.

Maya forced herself back to the present, swallowing the bitter taste of betrayal. "I'm sorry. Richards was... is... I studied his work. I admired him."

Something like sympathy flickered in the old man's eyes. "Many did. That's partly why they wanted him when he approached. His visual language speaks to young people, creates trust. The technical systems ended up coming from others—a former Samsung AI director, security experts from intelligence. But Richards handled the visual design and injected the whole project with his insatiable energy."

A museum security guard ambled along a distant path. The old man's body went rigid, his gaze tracking the uniform. He stood abruptly, beginning a series of stretches that looked anything but calming.

"I have said too much," he whispered, not looking at her. "It is not safe to speak of the rest. The chaebols... their methods... it's all in their records."

"Wait," Maya kept her voice low. "What records? What happens next?"

He began his stretching routine again, arms moving in slow, deliberate circles. To anyone watching, just an elderly man finishing his morning exercise.

"Look for the Gungdo Championships this weekend. Third row, seat sixteen. There will be a file. You'll know it when you see it." His voice was barely audible now. "And Ms. Kim? Trust no one. Especially not the ones you've already forgiven. They count on that."

With that, he continued his circuit around the pagoda, nodding politely to tourists as he passed. Within moments, he was indistinguishable from any other elderly Korean enjoying his morning constitutional.

Maya stayed seated, the weight of what she'd learned pressing down on her. Across the garden, Jun-ho caught her eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. They would leave separately, just as they had arrived.

The morning light filtered through pine branches, casting dappled shadows across the stone path. All around her, museum visitors wandered—smiling, chatting, capturing curated moments for their feeds. Normal lives unfolding, unaware of the invisible architecture shaping their choices, their relationships, their futures.

Maya stood and stretched, only realising halfway through that she was mirroring the old man's movements. Then, without a word, she walked toward the museum exit. Her device stayed silent in her pocket. No HarmoniQ notifications. No system alerts.

They were watching, yes. But now she was watching back — and the system had never accounted for that.