The Algorithm of Spring

88

Maya hesitated. She'd been circling the idea for days without admitting it aloud—an instinct pulling her toward creation in the way fear pulls others toward hiding. She wanted to make the invisible visible. An artistic response that would give shape to what the documents only implied. Something people could experience, not just read about.

"If I resurface, they'll be watching," she said. The reminder struck harder than Maya expected; disappearing had felt like control. Being found would feel like exposure.

"They're already watching," Min-seo countered. "Facial recognition flagged you near Cheongnyangni, but the algorithm dismissed it after a delay—your changed appearance confused it."

The television showed more protest footage, the division in the plaza mirroring the wider social fracture their actions had triggered. She watched the faces—some lit with fury, others with wounded disbelief, others clinging to certainty like armour.

The truth was out, but understanding lagged behind. Facts multiply, but meaning must be built—and that was the part only she could do.

The protests, the doubt, the noise—none of it would settle until she answered in the only language she trusted: her work. "We need to go back to Seoul," Maya decided. "I need my equipment."

Jun-ho exchanged a glance with Min-seo. "It's risky."

"So was leaking the files," Maya replied. "But we're past the point of safety now."

Outside, the wind rustled through pine needles as afternoon faded toward evening. The farmhouse stood as a temporary shelter, a pause between actions rather than an ending.

They'd started something that couldn't be stopped with half-measures. The public was awakening, but divided. HarmoniQ was fighting back. The next move had to be decisive.

"We leave tomorrow," Maya said. "Early."

                                                                                                 ***

Maya's apartment building in Hongdae sat unchanged, its brick façade oblivious to the unrest flooding screens across the city. She paused at the corner, scanning for anything unusual. Jun-ho stood half a block away, pretending to scroll through his device while quietly watching the street from another angle.

They'd split from Min-seo hours earlier—she was retrieving gear from her apartment before meeting them at Jun-ho's that evening. The return to Seoul had been tense, every uniformed officer and street camera a potential trap. But they'd arrived without incident, melted back into the city's anonymity.

"Looks clear," Jun-ho said, joining her. "But that doesn't mean much."

Maya didn't answer. She led him down a side alley. The alley smelled of old rain and frying oil—ordinary scents that suddenly felt covert. Her pulse quickened—the city felt tilted toward her, listening. She used a key to open the secondary service entrance—bypassing the digital lock she normally used. It was the kind of minor detour she'd never taken before. Now it felt like instinct.

Inside, the back stairwell smelled of cleaning fluid. No security cameras here. They climbed in silence, their footsteps echoing like a low drumbeat.

When she opened her apartment door, she knew immediately.

Nothing broken, no chaos or mess.

But her space had been rewritten.

The rows of paint tubes—usually jumbled by use and whim—were now lined up in spectrum order, like a product display. Her sketchbooks had been stacked chronologically instead of by theme, which was her preference. The candle on her windowsill had been recentered. Her favourite charcoal pencil was missing—only that one. A small Post-it she didn't remember writing sat on her bulletin board—her own handwriting perfectly mimicked—except the message wasn't hers: Call Umma. It was the ordinariness that made it terrifying.

And on her desk, her external hard drive had been wiped clean of the habitual smudges and thumbprints on its surface. It gleamed—handled carefully, wiped deliberately.

"They were here," Maya said quietly. "They took their time." The air still felt disturbed, as if whoever had stood here hadn't fully left.

Jun-ho walked a slow circle through the apartment. "No signs of forced entry. This was quiet access—key card, not crowbar." He pulled back a curtain, scanned the street. "Surveillance's likely passive—thermal, maybe even directional mics from the building across the way."

"They didn't take anything," Maya said, more to herself than him. "They just... rearranged it. Like they wanted me to know."

Jun-ho checked behind the bookshelf, tapping one corner with his knuckles. "They want you off balance. It's working. Anyone would feel it."

Maya crossed to her closet and pulled down a large black duffel bag.

"I need to get my equipment and go."

She moved methodically, packing with intention. Each item steadied her, a reminder that creation could still be a form of resistance. If HarmoniQ reshaped lives through design, then design would be her counterstrike. Projection lenses first—the warped glass she used to distort familiar forms. Lighting gels sorted by emotional palette. Responsive sensors calibrated for heartbeat, proximity, heat. One roll of reflective mylar and a stack of QR-coded acrylic plates—pieces she hadn't figured out how to use but knew she'd need.

Jun-ho watched her work. "Don't bring anything traceable. They may have flagged specific gear."

"They don't know what I'm building," Maya said. "Even I don't. Not yet."

But it was forming. The installation would not explain the truth. It would confront people with it. Surveillance as architecture. Algorithm as choreography. She would design a space where choice collapsed—just like the app had done to her. But this time, collapse would reveal itself instead of hiding behind optimization scores and pastel UX screens.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound.

A chime. Distinct, clinical. HarmoniQ's notification melody.

The sound sliced through the room with surgical precision. She froze. The room seemed to contract around the sound. She hadn't heard that sound in days—not since the release.

Slowly, she lifted the device from her pocket. A single message glowed on the screen:

"Sometimes you create your best work under pressure. This one should be no different, Maya."

No signature. No source. No instructions.

She stared at the screen, then turned it toward Jun-ho.

"They're in everything," she said.
Jun-ho didn't answer. The silence was enough.