The Algorithm of Spring

79

The basement workshop in Yongsan reeked of soldering flux and stale coffee. The air tasted faintly metallic, as if the machines themselves were exhaling. Min-seo moved between three computer stations, each screen alive with something different, her fingers drumming rapid staccato against worn keycaps.

"Almost finished with the secure channel," she said without looking up. "Completely outside HarmoniQ's usual monitoring pathways. Once we have what we need, we'll want to move immediately."

Maya studied the venue blueprint spread out before her. The Korean Traditional Archery Championships would take place at one of Seoul's oldest archery grounds, tucked away in Jongno—a location that had stubbornly retained its character while the city transformed around it. Row three, seat sixteen sat halfway along the centre section, surrounded by spectators on all sides. She could almost hear the thump of arrows in straw butts, the ceremonial quiet that accompanied centuries-old ritual—an odd setting for a dead drop.

"This placement leaves you exposed," Jun-ho said, tapping the layout. "Too many sightlines. Not a lot of room for cover if anything goes wrong."

"They won't expect me to be there," Maya said, folding the blueprint along its worn creases. "After what they did with my medical history, they'll assume I'm hiding—licking my wounds." "They think shame is a universal reflex," she added. "They forget it isn't mine."

Min-seo disconnected a slim black device no larger than a matchbox from her workstation. "Take this," she said, pressing it into Maya's palm. "It's a secure comms node with a half-kilometre range. If anything goes wrong, activate it—just push the button." It was unexpectedly heavy for its size, dense—purposeful.

Maya slipped the device into her jacket pocket. "Any idea what we're looking for? A drive? Papers?"

"Could be anything," Jun-ho said, checking his jacket pockets. "Memory stick, papers, microfilm even. Be ready for anything."

The air in the basement was a physical weight. The public exposure of Maya's Beijing procedure still lingered like a bruise, but something had shifted. What was meant to break her had instead hardened her resolve.

"The venue has minimal surveillance," Min-seo added, gesturing to a schematic on one of her screens. "The Federation prides itself on discretion—many competitors are prominent figures. They like their privacy." A bitter irony, given what HarmoniQ had taken from her without hesitation.

"That works to our advantage," Maya said, tracing the layout one last time. "We arrive separately. Different entrances. No contact unless absolutely necessary." Saying it aloud made the danger feel newly solid, like stepping onto cold stone.

"I'll get there twenty minutes before you," Jun-ho confirmed. "Back row, western section. Clear view of the pick-up spot."

Min-seo looked up, an unusual softness in her expression. "Watch yourselves. Both of you. HarmoniQ's behaviour is getting harder to predict. We don't know what they'll do if cornered. Cornered systems behave like cornered animals," she said. "And this one has teeth."

Maya thought of her medical records splashed across social media. Of her installation glitching in real time. Of the subtle rewrites to her life, imposed by a system that claimed to know her better than she knew herself. They'd mistaken access for understanding.

"I think we're starting to understand exactly what they're capable of," she said. "And I'm finished being their experiment."

Jun-ho held her gaze across the table, his expression steady, fierce.

"Tomorrow, then," he said, the words landing somewhere between a statement and a promise.

Maya nodded, feeling the weight of what lay ahead. 

The word felt like a threshold.

"Tomorrow."