While Jiwon was walking to his marked spot, the host kept the game rolling.
“Question for Contestant Number 1! Which of the following is not a living occupation? 1. Doctor, 2. Prosecutor, 3. Lawyer, 4. Police Officer, 5. Soldier, 6. Teacher, 7. Pastor, 8. Janitor, 9. Businessman, 10. Housewife, 11. Company Employee. Multiple answers are correct.”
Jiwon arched a brow.
Not a living occupation? Since when is an occupation alive?
The question itself bordered on nonsense. He couldn’t even figure out what the intent was supposed to be.
On the screen, the 11 options appeared. A moment later, Contestant 1’s answer was circled: Janitor and Lawyer.
“Half right, half wrong. Janitor is correct. Lawyer is wrong.”
Sounding almost regretful, the host gave Jiwon an instruction:
“Fisherman, move back one space.”
Following the staffer’s gesture, Jiwon stepped to the square marked 5.
Suddenly, blaring, tacky trot music filled the studio.
“Ooh! Contestant Number 1, very lucky! You’ve landed on Jackpot Chance!”
Cheering erupted for Contestant 1. Just sound effects, of course, but it still gave the illusion of something fortunate.
“Let me explain Jackpot Chance. Pieces, listen carefully. When a piece lands on Jackpot Chance, it spins the roulette on behalf of the contestant. The roulette has four outcomes: a Retry Ticket to try the question again, an Answer Ticket that gives the correct answer outright, a Free Pass to move ten spaces next turn without answering, and lastly, a Position Swap Ticket to exchange places with another piece. Now, let’s have Contestant 1’s piece—the Fisherman—spin the roulette. Everyone, look at the screen!”
Jiwon looked up. A circular roulette appeared on the [N O V E L I G H T] giant screen, the four options written in each quadrant. It spun rapidly.
“Fisherman, shout ‘Stop’ when you’re ready.”
Watching the dizzy blur, Jiwon muttered a weak “Stop.” The roulette slowed, then halted.
The arrow landed on Retry Ticket.
“A great start! Contestant 1, retry your answer!”
Contestant 1 tried again, this time choosing “4. Police Officer.”
Even just seeing the word police made Jiwon’s stomach twist.
“Ah, unfortunately, that’s wrong. But since this was Jackpot Chance, there’s no penalty. Now, let’s give the others a shot! Everyone else, write down your answers!”
Six numbers flashed across the screen.
“Contestant 5—correct!”
Fireworks burst across the display.
The answer was Janitor and Pastor.
Why?
It made no sense.
Regardless of Jiwon’s confusion, the contestants kept rolling dice, the host kept reading off nonsense questions, and the board game trudged on. The Sailors, reduced to game pieces, looked just as baffled. After all seven contestants had taken turns, the cycle returned to Number 1.
“Contestant Number 1, roll the dice!”
Again, a six appeared. Jiwon moved to space 11. There, already ahead, stood Han Seoho—Contestant 5’s piece. Seoho had surged forward thanks to being the only one to answer correctly earlier.
“Fun, isn’t it, hyung?” Seoho whispered.
Jiwon deliberately pulled a worried face.
“I can’t make sense of any of this.”
He spoke like he was anxious.
“Come on, it’s not like we’re the ones playing. We just hope our contestant gets it right.”
Seoho comforted him.
So that’s his idea of winning—one right answer?
“Alright! Next game: look at the picture and deduce the crime scene. Here it is.”
At once, the screen filled with an image of a burned electric mat. The art style matched the fisherman drawing from the Counseling Room. Probably the same hand.
The moment Jiwon saw it, unease rippled through him.
A suicide scene?
He tried to recall, but an electric mat alone was too little to go on. That style of ochre-colored floor mat was common, and the singe marks weren’t remarkable. His grandmother had owned one; so had an old friend of his father’s.
Without the word crime scene, it would’ve looked like any ordinary home.
“Contestant 1, have you seen the photo? Yes? Then here’s the question: How many people died at this scene? Write down a number.”
Contestant 1 wrote: 3.
“Ah, incorrect. Fisherman, move back three spaces.”
Jiwon stepped back, leaving Seoho ahead.
On space 8, he came face-to-face with Yunho.
“You’re fucked, huh?” Yunho snickered.
“Let’s give the other contestants a chance! Write your answers now!”
Jiwon kept staring at the burned mat on the screen, unsettled. He’d definitely seen it before. Recently, even.
“The answer is 1! Let’s see who wrote it. Again, Contestant 5! Piece Number 5, move forward five spaces.”
Seoho strutted further ahead, wiggling his ass with satisfaction.
“Lucky bastard, Seoho.”
Yunho eyed him enviously.
“Oh dear! He’s landed in Underground Prison!”
The host’s mock-despairing cry drew everyone’s attention. Seoho’s piece had stopped on Underground Prison—a space that cost three turns.
Serves him right.
Jiwon savored the thought, then turned as Contestant 2’s dice rolled.
Yunho moved four spaces.
The screen lit with another picture. This time, a charcoal brazier. Inside, glowing coals and a branding iron heating red-hot.
“Contestant Number 2, here’s your question. Which body part was seared with the branding iron? Multiple correct answers are possible. Write them now.”
Grotesque.
Yet the host read the question with almost cheerful vigor.
On-screen, Contestant 2 typed a single word: cock.
“Cock! Possible, sure. But incorrect! Queen, move back three spaces.”
Yunho ended up back near Jiwon.
“Fuck. He’s just as useless.” Yunho grumbled to him.
“Let’s give the other contestants a chance! Write down the body part!”
Six more answers appeared.
“Contestants 3 and 7 wrote face. Partial credit! Pieces 3 and 7, move forward one space.”
The host’s tone bubbled.
“Tough question, wasn’t it? Let’s reveal the answer!”
Drums rolled.
“Face and scalp!”
The announcement rang out.
Wait. Face and scalp?
A chill ran through Jiwon. The quiz questions weren’t random at all. Some of them—he knew them.
That burned face, scarred scalp. It reminded him of someone. That man at the illegal gay sauna—the one who looked so much like him.
Why would they bring that up here, of all places?
The intent disturbed him.
For a second, Jiwon feared they’d uncovered his true identity. But no—it made no sense to stage an entire spectacle just to expose one rat.
From what he knew, the organizers weren’t that concerned. They’d caught every infiltrator before and erased them without leaving a trace. No reason to overreact.
So what was the point of this?
One picture after another flashed on the screen. They weren’t gruesome, but Jiwon felt tension knotting his chest. Each image might connect to something he knew—or worse, to the Sailors themselves. He didn’t miss a single flicker of reaction on their faces.
By now it was Contestant 6’s turn. Dice rolled on the screen. His piece, Jeong Hamin, advanced.
Then came the same flourish Jiwon had heard when he landed Jackpot Chance.
“Mini-Game! Contestant 6, you’ve landed on a Mini-Game. Let’s flip the card!”
A card back appeared on screen. After five seconds, a fanfare hit, and the card turned.
Figures. Only this bunch would shove shit like this into a quiz show.
The words popped up, and Jiwon gave a bitter laugh.
“Milking!”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Pieces, you’re going to milk yourselves right now. The first piece to get milk will win. The winning contestant receives a High-Pass Ticket to move ten spaces forward, or if they’re in Underground Prison, an Escape Ticket. Ready?”
Under the staff’s orders, the seven lined up before the cameras. The main camera framed them together, while handhelds caught them up close.
And the milking contest began.
The winner: Yunho. He moved ten spaces, shooting to the lead.
That was the turning point. The moment the quiz show started to rot.
The board game mutated into one depravity after another. Under the name of “mini-games,” the crew bared asses, flashed cocks, even raced with objects stuck inside them. Literal playing pieces.
Having fasted since morning, drained by Developer Class and Counseling, the Sailors’ stamina wore thin under these perverse games. No food but water. Yet the quiz show ground on.
And as it did, the images on screen sharpened. Sketches turned to photographs.
Piece by piece, Jiwon grew certain: these weren’t random crimes. They were cases tied to himself, to some Sailors, and to others in the crew.
The Fisherman—Jiwon’s role—had been the first reporter of a missing persons case. The Clown had been smeared as a molester and later killed himself. The Old Man Living Alone had once accused a pastor of child abuse.
All of them were case figures.
“Doesn’t this sound like Son Geonwoo’s case?”
By Round 4, Park Geonwoo whispered it.
The words cemented Jiwon’s suspicion.
“Everything matches, except it wasn’t a pastor who died—it was his father. Creepy as fuck.”
Geonwoo shivered.
The organizers weren’t replaying events exactly. They twisted the details—turning a dead father into a dead pastor, for example.
And Kim Jiwon.
The burned electric mat was Kim Jiwon’s suicide scene.
That was why it had looked so familiar. He’d seen it in the handful of photographs Detective Kim Gyeongseok had given him, with Kim Jiwon’s body.
He’d memorized Kim Jiwon’s life by rote, but never cared about where or how he’d died. He’d only taken the detective’s word.
He died alone. Suicide.
That’s what Gyeongseok had told him.
But the pictures—the photos told another story. They hinted at two people, not one.
His parents? They were long dead. Stroke took the father, heart attack the mother. Years apart, but the family collapsed. Poor bastard.
Jiwon had drunk soju with Detective Kim that night, honoring the dead.
The detective had no reason to lie. No need to lie.
Or had there been?
There were no signs of murder. But nothing about it looked like a man killing himself alone.
Jiwon felt his certainty unravel. He was confused.