The Algorithm of Spring

80

The Jongno archery grounds belonged to another century. Wooden beams framed the competition field, where competitors in traditional hanbok drew massive bows toward distant targets. Arrows landed with satisfying thuds, drawing appreciative murmurs.

Maya entered through the eastern entrance, a simple black cap pulled low. Her clothes were deliberately unremarkable—dark jeans, a navy sweater, tennis shoes, and a plain tote bag that carried a light grey jacket she could put on if needed to change her outline and throw off anyone tracking her.

The spectator area was filling gradually, mostly with archery enthusiasts and family members. Maya moved carefully between the rows, counting seats while scanning for anything unusual. A competition official stood at the far end of the field, writing on a clipboard.

Row three appeared before her—exposed, just as they'd feared. Maya paused, assessing. A family with several children occupied the far end. A scattering of empty seats surrounded position sixteen. No visible security. No one watching her. At least, not that she could see.

She slipped into the row, moving with a confidence she didn't feel. She took seat fourteen and placed her bag on fifteen—an ordinary gesture to deter anyone from sitting too close. From here, she could reach under sixteen without drawing attention.

On the field, archers in vibrant hanbok took their marks. The competition master announced the next round, his voice carrying clearly without amplification. The spectators leaned forward, hushed.

Maya felt Jun-ho's presence somewhere behind her. She didn't turn, but knowing he was nearby steadied her. His planning had positioned him perfectly.

The first arrow flew—thwack—drawing polite applause. Maya used the moment of collective movement to shift slightly, her hand dropping beneath seat sixteen.

Her fingers brushed against it immediately—a flat package taped securely to the cool wood of the seat. Thin, rigid, the unmistakable feel of folded card stock shielding something harder. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she worked it loose, the fidgeting of nearby children providing a welcome distraction.

A manila envelope—thin, but with something solid inside. She slipped it into her bag in one fluid motion and turned her attention back to the field. A competitor in pale blue was drawing his bow with perfect form.

Then—movement.

Near the arena entrance, two men in bland business attire were scanning the crowd.

She recognised them instantly.

Her device vibrated once. Jun-ho's signal.

She stayed seated, clapping along with the spectators. Running would only draw attention. The men continued their sweep, working methodically through each section.

The archer in blue readied his final shot. The crowd hushed again.

Then—crack—the sharp snap of breaking wood. The archer's bow had split on the draw. Gasps rippled through the spectators. A rare failure—traditional bows were crafted to survive decades. The odds of a break were vanishingly small. Officials rushed forward. The onlookers surged to their feet, craning to see what had happened.

Maya rose with them, a ghost in the commotion, easing toward the aisle. The two men's heads snapped toward the drama on the field, their professional focus momentarily broken.

She moved with the flow—unhurried. Speed drew attention; stillness dissolved it. Just another curious onlooker.

The western exit was twenty metres away.

At the threshold, she passed through into bright sunlight. The sounds of the competition faded behind her as she followed their pre-planned route—not toward the street, but into a small garden with multiple paths leading out. Shade swallowed her. The crowd noise thinned to birdsong and distant traffic—another world entirely.

Only once she was out of view did she quicken her pace.

The envelope pressed against her side, small enough to hide, dangerous enough to change everything.