The Algorithm of Spring

73

The first thing Maya noticed about Jun-ho's apartment was the light—filtered down from street level through angled panels and mirrors that caught sunlight and redirected it underground.

The apartment itself was subterranean. The worn green shutters at street level looked like they should open to a beer cellar, but when swung wide, they revealed a hook-and-pulley system descending two floors beneath the street. As Maya made her way down the narrow spiral staircase from ground level, it felt like descending beneath a pyramid. It was the kind of space that made secrecy feel natural — a refuge carved out beneath the city.

Despite being underground, the space felt otherworldly. The walls were cream-coloured, the ceilings unexpectedly high, and a glossy white epoxy floor caught the redirected sunlight in clean, glassy reflections. The pulley system, she learned, was used to hoist paintings up and down—his own work, or pieces in transit between owners.

They were scattered throughout the apartment, part of the organised chaos that filled the space. Motorcycle parts gleamed on industrial shelving along one wall, while the opposite side was lined with towers of art books and vintage records. Two battered leather club chairs faced each other in a corner. A mattress tucked against the far wall served as his bed.

The bathroom was technically a wet room. Though the tiles and fixtures were high quality, it felt cobbled together—like it had been assembled from leftover items after a bathroom photoshoot, mismatched but somehow married.

It wasn't physically large, but the place felt expansive in intention—industrial in scale, curated in spirit. It held a sense of purpose. A place for focus and creation, not just existence.

"How long before the file disappears?" Maya asked, running her hand along the industrial shelving.

Jun-ho spread a printout of the Gungdo Championships venue across his table. The paper map felt reassuringly tangible after days of digital surveillance. He set two mugs of black coffee beside the map.

"If the old man is part of the original Nexus team and not current leadership, they'll be watching him. He'd have only a narrow window to place something undetected."

Maya traced the seating chart with her finger. "Third-row, seat sixteen. It's near the centre. Not ideal for a quick exit."

"Which is probably intentional." Jun-ho leaned over the map, his shoulder pressing against hers. "Too obvious to grab something and run. We'll need to look like genuine spectators."

The morning sun caught the edge of his profile as he studied the layout. Maya found herself watching him instead of the map. It unsettled her, how easily danger had braided itself with intimacy. These past weeks had shifted something between them, creating a gravity she wasn't ready to name.

The sunlight ebbed and flowed as clouds passed outside.

"The Championships start at two tomorrow. We should arrive separately, like we did at the museum. I'll go early, scout the section. You come later."

Maya nodded, focusing back on the venue map. "And once we have the file?"

"We don't open it there. Too risky. We leave independently and meet at Min-seo's workshop." Jun-ho pulled out his device, showing her the walking routes. "I've mapped three different exits. Memorise them."

Maya zoomed in on the routes, committing each turn to memory. Whatever this mysterious file contained, the old man had risked his position to pass it to them. It might be their only chance to understand the full scope of HarmoniQ's operations.

A thin, unnatural quiet seeped into the room — the kind Maya had learned to treat like a warning.

"Do you think they're still watching us?" she asked.

Jun-ho's expression turned grim. "After what happened at your gallery installation? We have to assume they are."

Maya recalled the way her artwork had transformed before her eyes, her creative expression corrupted into HarmoniQ propaganda. The memory still burned, fresh and raw. They had reached into her most personal space—her art—and twisted it against her.

"Then we need to be careful. More careful than—"

Her device vibrated against the table, screen lighting up with a notification. Then another. And another. The device skittered across the wooden surface as messages poured in, a sudden digital avalanche.

Maya reached for it, puzzled. She'd kept a low profile online—the cascade of alerts made no sense.

Until she saw the first message preview.

From her gallery director: "Maya, we need to talk about these allegations immediately."

From her cousin Min-ji: "Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped."

From an unknown number: "Didn't take you for a hypocrite. So much for artistic integrity."

Maya's breath caught as she unlocked her device. Notifications kept coming, each more intrusive than the last. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through messages with increasing dread.

Then she saw it. A forwarded post from HarmoniQ's community board, sent by her mother:

"Some choices are private. Others affect us all. Learn more about the impact of unspoken decisions."

Beneath it, clinical text glowed against her screen:

"Beijing. Medical Procedure: Recovery Recommended—7 Days."

Everything in her vision narrowed to a single word: Beijing.

"Maya?" Jun-ho's voice sounded distant. "What is it?"

She slid the device toward him, unable to form words. As he read the screen, his expression hardened into something dangerous.

"How did they—" he began.

"They've fully accessed Chinese medical databases." Maya's voice came out hollow, her palms sweating as the device's glare stung her eyes. "Beijing," Maya whispered. "They published it."

Jun-ho set it down carefully, as if it might explode. "This isn't a coincidence. The timing."

Maya stared at the screen as more messages appeared, the implications settling in.

"They know," she whispered. "They hit back first—and they didn't hesitate."