The Algorithm of Spring

105

The shaking spread from her hands to her arms.

This wasn't just journalists chasing a headline.

Something else was moving.

When Jun-ho texted his arrival, Maya slipped out the back entrance, avoiding the cluster of media vans parked at the front. His motorcycle waited in the alley, engine already running.

"We can't go to Min-seo's," he said as she climbed on. "Too obvious. She's meeting us at the backup location."

Maya nodded, wrapping her arms around his waist as they accelerated into traffic.

Behind them, her apartment building shrank in the fading light.

                                                                                        ***

The basement café in Hongdae existed in a permanent twilight—windows tinted against the outside world, lighting fixed to a soft glow that flattered everyone and revealed nothing. University students filled most of the tables, headphones on, textbooks open, lost in their own bubbles of concentration.

Perfect anonymity in plain sight.

Min-seo had claimed a corner booth. Three laptops were open before her, their screens angled away from casual view. Steam rising from untouched coffee.

"The response is broader than we anticipated," she said as Maya and Jun-ho sat across from her. "Not just volume—type. Look."

She turned one laptop toward them. A map of Seoul lit up with points of light—not unlike Maya's installation—each one representing social media activity linked to the exhibition. But what caught Maya's attention were the patterns: clusters forming in specific neighbourhoods, lines of connection branching between them.

"People aren't just talking," Min-seo said. "They're meeting. Organising. Sharing experiences. It's becoming a movement."

Jun-ho studied the map, his expression sharpening. "What's HarmoniQ's latest?"

Min-seo switched screens. "Escalation. They've filed formal complaints—alleging the installation violated privacy laws, misrepresented proprietary algorithms. They're pushing for a government investigation."

Maya nodded. Corporate playbook, step three: weaponise the legal system. "And the government?"

Min-seo leaned in. "Here's where it gets interesting."

She opened another screen—internal government comms, somehow intercepted. Maya didn't ask how.

"Check this exchange between the Ministry of Digital Affairs and the Economic Development Committee."

The messages were cold, bureaucratic. But their meaning was clear:

One faction saw the exhibition as a threat to public order.

The other saw HarmoniQ's unchecked influence as a threat to government authority.

They weren't just reacting—they were fighting over who controlled the narrative.

"What about Richards?" Maya asked.

Jun-ho and Min-seo exchanged a glance. Something unspoken passed between them.

"That's the strange part," Jun-ho said. "He's vanished. Cancelled everything. Studio closed. No statements. Nothing."

Maya considered it.

Guilt? Self-preservation?

Or something else?

"There's another thing," Min-seo said, her tone shifting. "We've detected coordinated attempts to identify everyone who attended the exhibition. Not just journalists—everyone. HarmoniQ's building profiles, scraping metadata, analysing sentiment."

"Building hit lists," Jun-ho said grimly.

Maya thought of the messages still flooding her secure channel. People sharing what the installation had shown them. People making themselves seen. Vulnerable.

"We need to warn them."

"Already on it," Min-seo said. "But there's a bigger question: what's our next move?"

She looked up. "The exhibition was unprecedented, but HarmoniQ is adapting. The spotlight won't last forever."

Maya stared at the data flowing across Min-seo's screen—thousands of people talking, questioning, changing.

Something she'd made was now remaking the world.

"When I planned the installation," she said slowly, "I thought the goal was exposure. Reveal the manipulation. Pull back the curtain."

She gestured toward the screen. "But this... this is about helping people reclaim their agency. Their choices."

Jun-ho nodded. "Then the question is: how do we keep it going?"

Before anyone could answer, all three laptops chimed with the same piercing tone.

An emergency alert.

Min-seo's face paled as she typed rapidly. "Broadcast. All major channels."

She turned her screen toward them.

HarmoniQ's CEO stood behind a podium, her expression grave but composed. Behind her, the HarmoniQ logo now flanked by official government seals.

"Fellow citizens," she began, "in light of recent misinformation campaigns targeting essential social infrastructure, the Ministry of Digital Affairs has authorised temporary security measures to protect public wellbeing. These include enhanced monitoring of communication networks and suspension of unauthorised gathering protocols."

Her tone softened, became almost maternal.

"HarmoniQ remains committed to fostering genuine human connection. We understand the confusion sparked by recent artistic provocations, but assure you: our platform exists to enhance happiness through meaningful relationships."

She leaned forward slightly, gaze locking with the camera.

"True connection flourishes through stability—not chaos. Trust in systems proven to support social harmony."

The screen cut to the evening news.

Silence settled over the booth.

Around them, the café carried on as if nothing had changed.

"They're declaring war," Jun-ho said at last.