The Algorithm of Spring

112

Of course she had, though she'd buried the question. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. But hearing it from him felt like watching a magician about to explain his trick while priming her for applause.

"You had nothing to do with that."

"Not directly. But I know the people who did. Professor Kim's been our eyes in academia for years."

"She wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what? Recommend students to investors? Steer grant money toward talent she and we already held stakes in? Long-term ROI, Maya."

His tone was cool—almost indulgent.

"Your graduation show? Sold out in hours. Did you ever ask who bought the pieces?"

She had. But she'd never pressed too hard.

"Friends of mine," he said. "On my recommendation. After reviewing the documentation Professor Kim provided. I was impressed by how you think. Cognitive stubbornness paired with creative deviance—that's rare."

He gave a small, satisfied shrug.

"I proposed that if you stayed on trajectory, your early pieces could increase tenfold in value within a few years."

He looked her dead in the eye.

"You were flagged early."

Her voice was barely a whisper. "But the department..."

"Funded by whom, exactly?" Richards' smile was thin and bloodless. "You think the academic pipeline isn't monetised? The students we already have financial interest in—the ones whose early work we've acquired—they get pushed to the front. Always."

Her jaw set.

"You've been watching me since university."

Richards didn't flinch. "You were identified as both an asset and a risk. High-value. But noncompliant. We had you flagged as resistant. Unpredictable."

She stared at him. "Is that what this is all about? You've been using me as some kind of test case? Punishing me for walking away from the Florence residency? For messing with your little investment portfolio?"

His device chimed. He glanced at it—just briefly—but she caught the flicker of something in his eyes. Something was happening—something that made his composure crack for just an instant.

Still, he smiled. "Let's just say it didn't win you any friends in my circle."

He took a step closer.

"I want to offer you something. Not a job — a residency. At my California studio. A real one this time."

Maya stared at him. "Today?"

"Especially today," Richards said. "Your installation exposed the cracks in a system a dozen PhDs swore was airtight. That takes vision. Skill. Courage. I have contacts. Resources. You could create at a scale you've only imagined."

She raised an eyebrow. "After I helped bring down your empire?"

"Empire?" Richards smiled thinly. "Maya, HarmoniQ was a proof of concept. A public beta."

His voice shifted — colder, sharper now.

"The brand is toxic, sure. But the Nexus infrastructure it was built on is being absorbed as we speak. Privatised. Integrated directly into the backbones of our corporate and state security partners. We're not shutting it down — we're embedding it deeper. This isn't an end. It's an upgrade."

"We?" she said.

"The institutions. The investors. People who understand that tech shapes behaviour — whether you like it or not."

He leaned in, just enough to be unsettling.

"Wouldn't you rather help shape it — correct the flaws — than keep shouting from the outside?"

Maya tilted her head. "The napkin."

Richards blinked.

"At The Shilla. You went to hand it to me, and Professor Kim intercepted it. There was nothing written on it, was there? Her interception was the message."

He said nothing.

"You knew I'd notice. Because, inadvertently, as a student of yours, you taught me to."

She took a step closer, her voice steady.

"There is nothing you can tell me that I don't already know. I think you lost your agency a long time ago. You're a front man, Alan. Taking the fall for something you barely understand anymore." She let that hang in the air for a beat.

"You're caught between falling on your sword or admitting you were never more than a mouthpiece for the real power—the ones who'd never risk exposing themselves so publicly. Or so foolishly."

The two men behind him didn't move. Maya glanced their way, then back to Richards.

"They're not here to protect you, are they?" she said quietly. "They're here to make sure you toe the line."

He opened his mouth to respond.

She cut him off.

"The ethical framework based on Harmony Override? I helped write it. It's already moving through review."

Richards' eyes had deadened.

"You still think this is a negotiation. That I need your invitation."

She shook her head. "The world you think you helped build is gone. You're just the only one who hasn't noticed."

He tried to recover. "You can fight alone, or build with us. Either way, the machine rolls forward."

Maya studied him—this man she had once idolised. He was no villain. But he was something worse: a once-idealistic artist who had bartered his soul, one small compromise at a time, just to feel close to the top table—until there was nothing left to redeem.

She met his eyes. "The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they're too strong to be broken."

A flicker—recognition, maybe even regret.

"Samuel Johnson," Richards murmured.

"You've been bound by those chains so long you've forgotten what freedom feels like," Maya said softly. "That's the difference between us. You gave up. I'm just getting started."

For the first time, a flash of genuine anger crossed his face—not of a philosopher being challenged, but of a collector whose prize acquisition had just refused to be bought. His composure cracked, revealing raw entitlement beneath. Then, just as quickly, the mask was back in place.

She turned her back on him and walked away.

In her pocket, Min-seo's updates continued: HarmoniQ's full system shutdown. Government inquiries launched. Chaebols scrambling to preserve their reputations. The collapse was accelerating.

Jun-ho waited by the bike, watching her approach. "How'd it go?"

"He offered me a job," she said, still stunned. "Or a residency."

"Today?" Jun-ho asked.

"Today."

She took the helmet he held out, her hands steadier than she'd expected. "In his mind, it's just a blip. A bad quarter. He still doesn't see what he helped build—or what it did to people."

She looked back once. Richards stood beneath the sculpture, alone, staring at his device as his reputation burned.

For an instant, she almost pitied him. Then it passed.

Jun-ho started the engine. Its low growl shattered the hush that had settled over the plaza.

Maya climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

She didn't look back again.

The app, the public face of the monster, was dead. A victory, yes. But a shallow one.

The real system, the one Richards had just described, hadn't been destroyed. It had only shed its skin, retreating deeper into the shadows where it would be harder to find, and harder to fight.