The Algorithm of Spring

111

They took back streets to avoid the gridlocked arteries of central Seoul, Jun-ho's vintage Kawasaki weaving through lesser-known passages. The city thrummed with strange energy—people moved through their routines with distracted urgency, pausing to check their devices or gather around public screens.

Outside the SK Telecom building, engineers worked frantically to restore a dead billboard. In front of a Lotte Department Store, employees removed HarmoniQ promotional materials from window displays with almost theatrical haste.

At a red light, Maya noticed two businessmen outside a café, both staring at their devices with identical expressions of disbelief. One held up his screen to the other. She caught a glimpse of the HarmoniQ logo above what looked like a system shutdown notice.

The light changed.

They accelerated past Namdaemun Market, where vendors called out with uncharacteristic urgency to salarymen passing by, as if trying to pull them back to a world of tangible goods and unmediated connection. For a surreal moment, Maya watched the city awaken from a dream.

They reached the northern edge of Yeouido Park, where Richards' sculpture dominated a small plaza between towers of glass and steel. Even from a distance, it was unmistakable—twenty meters of twisted metal—once meant to represent digital convergence, now known derisively by locals as The Twisted Umbrella.

Critics had torn it apart five years ago—derivative, calculated, void of the raw honesty that once defined Richards' work—reviews Maya still remembered.

Jun-ho parked the bike at the plaza's edge. "I'll hang back," he said as Maya removed her helmet. "Close enough to see. Far enough not to intrude."

Maya nodded and approached the sculpture, scanning the plaza. Sparse crowds. A few tourists. Office workers eating late lunches. And there, at the base of his infamous creation—Alan Richards.

He stood with his back to her, hands buried in the pockets of a bespoke Italian suit. The kind of suit worn by a man who'd traded artistic vision for dividends. The sun-kissed California tan she remembered had faded; his posture seemed less certain.

Two men in business suits stood behind him at a distance—but their posture gave them away. Too still. Too alert. Watchers. Not here for her.

They were watching him.

"You wanted to see me," Maya said, stopping several paces behind him.

Richards turned. His face was composed, but his eyes betrayed surprise at her directness. "Thank you for coming," he said, gesturing toward the sculpture. "I thought this was fitting. Ground zero of my artistic compromise."

"Is that what we're calling it?" Maya asked. "Compromise?"

He gave a humourless laugh. "What would you call it?"

"Selling out doesn't feel strong enough," she said. "But it's a start."

Around them, Yeouido's business district carried an air of quiet disruption. People stopped mid-step, eyes lifting to news tickers flashing across glass towers, then dropping to their devices to double-check. The collapse was spreading.

Richards looked up at the sculpture. "This monstrosity was my first true failure. But it taught me something: when you outsource your vision—like I did, handing it off to studio students to carry forward—when you stop caring about the work itself... you get this."

Maya crossed her arms. "Is that supposed to be a revelation?"

Richards studied her. "You're not what I expected, Maya Kim."

"What did you expect? Gratitude? Awe?"

"Most people show more... deference."

"Most people haven't seen what your 'vision' did," she said, glancing at a nearby businessman furiously tapping at his device.

Richards followed her gaze, and for a moment, his expression softened into something like regret. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. HarmoniQ started as an experiment—applying artistic principles to algorithmic logic."

"And the manipulation? The reproductive coercion? The data harvesting?" Maya's voice was steel. "Were those just... artistic flourishes?"

He hesitated. "The government had concerns about birth rates. Social cohesion. The chaebols saw workforce optimisation opportunities. What began as matchmaking became... something else."

"Something you were no doubt paid handsomely for."

He didn't deny it. Instead, he pivoted.

"Did you ever wonder who funded your Florence residency?" he asked, voice low.