The Algorithm of Spring

107

The predawn haze blurred Seoul's edges, rendering the city below like watercolour.

Maya huddled against the brick parapet atop Seoul Station's roof, knees pulled to her chest. Below, the metropolis slowly woke.

Beside her, Jun-ho paced, his boots scuffing through decades of industrial grime as he raised his binoculars to scan the streets.

"Anything?" Maya asked.

Jun-ho shook his head, tucking the binoculars away. "Nothing obvious. But after last night, they won't just let it go."

Maya nodded, pulling his leather jacket tighter around her. Their route to this forgotten rooftop had twisted through back alleys and service roads on his motorcycle. Now, in the relative safety above it all, they had a moment to breathe—and watch.

Below, Seoul Station stirred with early commuters. But something was off. Movements subtly diverged from the usual flow. Small clusters formed where people normally passed without looking up. A businessman stopped at a street vendor's cart; both hunched over a tablet. Near the main entrance, a university student handed out what looked like handwritten leaflets.

"Look," Maya said. "Something's happening."

Jun-ho crouched beside her, following her gaze. "It's spreading faster than we expected."

The memory of the installation's climax was still a fresh burn. Yet already, the city's rhythm was faltering—like a record spinning just slightly off-centre.

Jun-ho's device buzzed. His expression hardened as he read the screen.

"Min-seo?" Maya asked.

He nodded. "Unusual data activity. And this." He showed her the message:

Location confirmed. Gwangjang tunnels, maintenance sub-level 3. Midnight. Harmony Override documentation ready for transfer. Trust no one else with this.

"Harmony Override—that's what the message mentioned yesterday." Maya frowned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Could be a trap," Jun-ho said.

"Or someone who wants HarmoniQ gone just as much as we do."

Her gaze drifted over the awakening city. "Either way, we need to find out."

The sun finally breached Seoul's eastern skyline, scattering gold and fire across glass towers. Shadows slipped into the city's narrow veins. The air itself felt altered.

"There," Jun-ho said suddenly, pointing toward Namdaemun Market.

A large digital billboard, normally cycling through cosmetics ads, was glitching.

For a few flickering moments, fragments of Maya's installation replaced the scheduled content before being overwritten.

"They're trying to suppress it," Maya said.

"And not doing a great job." Jun-ho's mouth twitched—almost a smile.

As the light strengthened, they gathered their things.

Whatever Harmony Override meant—whoever had sent the message—they had hours to wait.

And in those hours, they needed to see how far the night's revelation had spread.

                                                                                        ***

The massive media displays of Seoul Digital Media City hung like alien observers above the central plaza, their massive screens broadcasting an endless loop of advertisements, news, and entertainment.

Maya had once admired them as engineering marvels, symbols of Korea's tech-driven ambition. Now she saw them for what they truly were: monuments to influence. Designed not to inform, but to shape perception.

Jun-ho led her through the crowd, both in borrowed clothes, caps pulled low. The plaza buzzed with nervous energy—office workers lingering beyond break time, students with notebooks, citizens simply watching the screens with something like suspicion.

"Look," Jun-ho murmured, nodding toward the northeastern sphere.

The massive display showed an emergency broadcast from HarmoniQ HQ.

The CEO stood before the sleek corporate logo, her face showing concern and composure.

"...unfounded claims regarding our platform's purpose," she said, her voice echoing across the plaza. "HarmoniQ remains committed to fostering genuine human connections based on compatibility. Nothing more. The artistic installation circulating online misrepresents our technology and intentions. We are actively pursuing legal action against its perpetrators."

Maya scanned the surrounding faces.

"They're not all buying it," Jun-ho said.

"Enough are," Maya replied, watching a businessman nod solemnly at the CEO's words.

"In response to public concern," the CEO continued, "we are implementing enhanced transparency features effective immediately. Your trust is our highest priority."

A young woman nearby laughed. "Bit late for that."

She turned to her friend. "Did you see the installation last night? The way it showed how they've been tracking everything since day one?"

Her friend nodded. "I tried deleting the app this morning. Wouldn't let me. Said I needed 'validation' from my linked accounts."

Then, the screen stuttered.

The CEO's face fractured, replaced by segments of Maya's installation—algorithmic tendrils and glowing choice-maps erupting thirty meters high.

A collective gasp swept the plaza. Security personnel scrambled toward the displays, speaking urgently into their radios.

The HarmoniQ feed resumed, but the damage was done.

People pulled out their devices. Recording, sharing, reacting.

"That wasn't us," Jun-ho said. Surprise crept into his voice.

"No," Maya said. "Someone else is doing this."

As they pushed through the increasingly animated crowd, all six spheres suddenly synchronized, flashing the same emergency alert:

HarmoniQ is currently experiencing technical difficulties. Standard security protocols have been activated to protect user data.

devices chimed in unison. Notifications flared across screens. All around them, people checked their devices, confusion rippling across faces.

"What's happening?" Maya asked.

Jun-ho led her to a quieter corner of the plaza, where a group of office workers huddled around a woman in a smart blazer.

"...just disappeared," the woman was saying, her voice strained with disbelief. "All the permissions, the links, everything. I could delete it. It's gone."

"That's impossible," someone muttered. "I've tried for weeks."

"Check yours," she insisted. "Something's changed."

The ripple became a wave. Around the plaza, devices were pulled out, checked, double-checked. Eyes widened. Mouths opened. The air itself shifted.

And on face after face, Maya saw something rare. Not fear. Not confusion.

Something that looked remarkably like freedom.

"Harmony Override," Jun-ho said softly.

"I think we're seeing it in real time."

Maya watched another person delete the app, their face lighting up with relief. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than her installation now.

The system was fighting back against itself.

"We need to get to those tunnels," she said, heart pounding.