The Quiz Show, which had seemed poised to reveal the final truth of Kim Jiwon at any moment, started dragging from the fifth round on. Instead of new information, it kept pivoting to mini-games.
From Contestant 1 through 6, before even finishing the fifth round, Jiwon and the Sailors were already drained—jerking off under the name of “Milking,” then twice more shoving dildos into their holes as part of the games.
The quiz itself was shoved aside. It was clear they were obsessed only with forcing every possible perverted act onto the pieces inside the board game—the crew. Thinking about the guests and managers laughing themselves sick in places unseen made Jiwon sick, but there was nothing he could do. Other than throw himself into the game as best he could.
With the mini-games piling up, the team that had shown real interest in the cases up through the third round grew increasingly detached. Eventually they didn’t even bother glancing at the screen. All they wanted was for the next mini-game to be something easier, and, if possible, for themselves to win it.
The studio that had been chilly was now hot as midday from the lights installed everywhere. Staff and crew alike were drenched in sweat, gulping down bottled water and fanning themselves with their hands.
Jiwon was sweating so heavily he didn’t even want to take a piss.
Finally, the turn came for Contestant 7, the last player of the round that felt like it would never end.
A new picture appeared on the screen.
A little boy in a striped T-shirt and shorts.
By sight alone, a kindergartener—slumped over a dining table.
Five years old, Gaenari Class.
Jiwon instinctively looked for Han Seoho. Among the seven pieces, Seoho’s Preschooler was the only one that had nothing to do with the case sites so far. Now it finally appeared.
Seoho was crouched down, staring at the floor, not even noticing the new picture on the screen.
In front of the boy sat a glass of what looked like milk and a plate with a cute cartoon character, its contents blurred out.
The boy looked like he might be asleep. Or sobbing with his face buried.
This better not be a crime scene.
Jiwon hoped so. Even these perverts, surely they had enough morality not to drag in a case where a child was the victim.
But, as always, his expectations were broken.
Fucking bastards.
Jiwon swallowed the curse, focusing on the host’s announcement.
“At last, a new case has appeared! This problem concerns the survival of the victim at the scene. Now, Contestant 7, here’s your question. If you think the child in the picture is alive, write ‘Alive.’ If you think he’s dead, write ‘Dead.’ You’ve got a fifty percent chance.”
Contestant 7 wrote “Alive” without hesitation. Just seeing that answer gave Jiwon a flicker of fondness for him.
Please, be alive.
Jiwon stared hard at the host, desperate for the word “Correct.”
“The child in the picture...”
A loud drumroll—
“Survived! Correct! The Clown moves forward five spaces!”
The host shouted.
Jiwon let out a heavy sigh of relief, watching Park Geonwoo advance with satisfaction.
Following Contestant 7, Contestant 1 was also given a question about a new picture. By luck, he landed on Jackpot Chance, so Jiwon himself spun the roulette and won an Answer Ticket, allowing the contestant to finally get one right. Park Geonwoo’s eyes lingered on Jiwon for a long while before shifting away.
From that problem onward, the sixth round—for once—proceeded with only quiz questions, no mini-games. Oddly, the burned electric mat—the image tied unmistakably to Kim Jiwon—was left out of this round. That could only mean one thing: the ending was close. Jiwon steeled himself to accept whatever facts came about “Kim Jiwon.”
Then the seventh round began.
For Contestant 1, Jiwon, the last problem from the Fisherman’s reported case finally arrived.
As a cop, however much he denied it, he couldn’t help but focus on the details. He wanted to know the whole story of the missing-person case the Fisherman had discovered.
Was it really disappearance? Or disappearance staged to cover up a murder? Or even suicide?
So far, the outline from the Quiz Show was this:
A self-made businessman in his forties went night fishing alone at a rural reservoir and vanished without a trace.
The sixty-something Fisherman who reported it was a local, fond of fishing. He’d once made decent side money from the hobby. These days, though, outsiders hardly ever showed up without an introduction.
So when that expensive imported car first appeared at the reservoir’s empty lot, the Fisherman—parking at the same time—walked up and spoke to him.
“Forty, maybe? Damn, even in the dark his looks stood out. Couldn’t tell his height, sitting down, but built like a tank. If not for his handsome face, I’d have believed he was a gangster. Anyway, I asked, what brings you out here? And he smiles, says he came for fishing and some fresh air. Took a glance and the gear looked legit. That changed things. That reservoir was a name spot among us fishermen, so I figured he’d heard of it somehow. Didn’t look like a man about to die. I even gave him my card, told him to call me if he wanted to try boat fishing. He thanked me, real polite.”
The Fisherman then went off to fish. Around 3 a.m., he came back to the lot. Normally he’d spend the whole night, /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ but he felt off that evening, body heavy, mood bad, so he decided to go home early.
The car was still there. Engine running.
He assumed the man was inside.
“Wondered why he was sitting there at that hour, so I looked—empty. Maybe off to take a piss, I thought. But leaving the car unlocked? Even in the countryside, times are rough. So I stayed, watched over it. Half an hour, still no sign of him. Who leaves behind a car like that, and all that fishing gear? No way it’s normal.”
So he called the police.
Everyone suspected suicide. The reservoir was right there.
But judging by the Quiz Show’s tone, the missing man was likely tangled in crime.
Jiwon leaned toward murder staged as disappearance, not suicide.
On the giant screen, the sketch now shifted fully into a photograph. Still blurry, but now Jiwon could make out what the Fisherman was holding.
A small, dark, blunt object.
An energy drink?
He tilted his head.
Or maybe a multi-tool—like a Swiss Army knife.
“This problem also comes with a decisive hint for the Fisherman, dressed in clothes tied to the case. The Fisherman must then convey the hint to the contestant using only gestures. Fisherman, please step forward.”
The host called Jiwon.
It was the same system as the end of Son Geonwoo’s case.
When the final quiz about Son Geonwoo’s suspected crime came up, the host had called forward Jeong Hamin with the Old Man piece and declared he would give him a “decisive hint.” Jeong Hamin, following instructions, drew a ball from a box. Inside was the key to the case’s truth—the word “Ghost.” A clue for the question: Why did the fifteen-year-old boy kill the pastor?
Now, just like Jeong Hamin then, Jiwon was to receive a hint most directly tied to his case.
The object in the Fisherman’s hand must be that hint.
“Well then, what hint could be inside? Let’s find out.”
Drumbeats rose to heighten the tension.
Expectant, Jiwon stepped forward to the staffer holding the box.
He glanced at the camera aimed at him, then slipped his hand inside.
At that moment, one staffer beside the camera crossed his arms in a big X, signaling frantically for him to stop.
Jiwon ignored it, groping quickly for the ball. He wanted the truth no matter what. The instant he pulled it free, everything went black. The screen, every light in the studio—snuffed out.
Pitch-darkness swallowed the room. Not even the legally required “EXIT” signs glowed.
A blackout?
As he thought it, someone snatched the ball from his hand.
If the lights hadn’t gone out, he would’ve fought tooth and nail to keep it. But no sooner was it stolen than the studio lights blazed back on.
Clicking his tongue, Jiwon watched the staffer pocket the ball with the decisive hint.
He assumed the blackout was a mechanical glitch. He expected they’d reset, reshoot the draw, and he’d still get his hint.
But the host, flustered, fumbled with his earpiece, scanning the room instead of continuing.
The pause was filled by bright music.
“Mm-hm. Seems there was a system issue. So, while we check that, let’s all take a break. Use the bathroom, get some water, rest up!”
The host acted like it was nothing.
Everyone welcomed the break. Some went to the bathroom, some asked for ice water, others sat or sprawled on the floor.
“Fuck. This is worse than a march.”
Kim Yunho groaned, slapping his body like it was sore.
“You did your service, right?”
Jiwon teased.
“Of course I did. I’ll have you know—”
Yunho was about to launch into a story when Lee Gangjun jumped in, alarmed.
“Come on, hyung. Army talk here? What are you, some old man?”
At the word “old man,” Yunho bristled. Jiwon took Gangjun’s side with, “We’re old men anyway,” and only earned himself scolding.
“Seriously though, Jiwon, what the hell’s your stamina? We’re all dying and you’re still fresh.”
Yunho clicked his tongue.
“Yeah. Compared to outside, you’re way tougher, hyung. Low-key a tank.”
Seoho squinted, calling him “suspicious.” His face looked playful, but his words carried bite. Coming from Seoho, that meant plenty. Jiwon feigned embarrassment, cheeks reddening.
“What are you talking about... just laborer’s strength.”
Bringing up construction labor made everyone nod and fall silent. That was the point.
With the new kid included, they all rested together. Off at a distance, Park Geonwoo sat alone.
Through the entire show he’d acted half-bored, but during the sixth round his spirit seemed gone. His complexion was pale, his eyes darting. He looked out of it.
Sick?
That was Jiwon’s first thought.
He was in better shape than in his civilian life—fed better, strong as ever. Of course, fasting and grinding for hours made him tired, but still. Yunho and Jeong Hamin were holding up, the others too. He’d assumed Park Geonwoo was as well.
After all, right before Round 6, he’d still been joking with Jiwon.
Guess he’d just been faking it.
Yunho followed Jiwon’s gaze.
“Geonwoo hyung’s been like that for a while.”
He’d noticed too.
“You okay, Geonwoo?”
Jiwon asked, softly. No reply.
“Hyung! Geonwoo hyung!”
Yunho shouted instead. But Geonwoo only stared at the blank screen.
His pallor, his silence—it was clear something was wrong.
Jiwon stood, walked over.
“What’s on your mind? You alright?”
He reached out, lightly touched his arm. Just enough to let him know he was there.
Geonwoo screamed.
“Ugh!”
Eyes wide with fear, staring at Jiwon.
Everyone turned.
“Hyung, you scared me more than I scared you,” Jiwon said, patting his chest like a joke.
“Why??”
Geonwoo’s voice was sharp.
“What? I just—”
“Kim Jiwon! Respect my personal space!”
He snapped.
“Hey, you just looked bad... I was worried...”
Jiwon stammered.
But even as he said it, Geonwoo glared at him like he’d done something unforgivable. His eyes carried a killing intent that would’ve made anyone else back off.
Yunho rushed over, bewildered.
“Hyung, what’s wrong?”
He tried to grab him playfully, but Geonwoo recoiled.
“Keep your personal space, please.”
He stressed the words, stepping back, even brushing his hands like he’d touched something dirty.
“What’s his deal?”
Yunho muttered at Geonwoo’s retreating back.
Jiwon still thought it was just fatigue and hunger making him irritable. Geonwoo loved food, and they’d had nothing but water since morning. On top of being forced into perverted games under the guise of a quiz show—of course he’d snap.
After about thirty minutes, the break ended. The show resumed. Everyone returned to their places.
Jiwon straightened the Fisherman’s vest, ready for the final hint.
But instead, the Fisherman’s case was wiped. His vest taken, replaced with nothing but a flag draped across his bare chest.
Now? Why now?
What the hell was that object in the Fisherman’s hand?
Could this case have been tied to the managers or the guests?
But if so, it never would’ve been included in the show.
Jiwon’s mood soured. The Fisherman’s case had been, alongside Son Geonwoo’s, the only one that drew his interest. Maybe he’d latched onto it to avoid the Kim Jiwon case. Maybe it was just instinct.
Those two cases had carried him through this bizarre, brutal quiz. Now, right before the truth, the whole thing was cut off. It felt like a cruel joke.
Hollow, but not obsessed, he consoled himself with the thought that at least the break had been a relief.
Back in the game, Contestant 1’s turn came—but the question was totally different. The host acted like Jiwon had always been draped in a flag. When he got it wrong, Jiwon was pushed back, and—inevitably, predictably—landed on a mini-game.
“Ever been to a Mud Festival?”
What the hell, Mud Festival?
As he frowned, a screen slid away, revealing a massive square tube filled with mud.
“No need to go to the West Sea. We’re holding one right here!”
The host had a staffer film the mud for the cameras.
“Wow. Looks smoother than silk. Great for the skin, right?”
After the nonsense, he explained.
This time, stripped naked, they’d wrestle one-on-one in mud. Whoever got more mud smeared on them lost. No hitting, no touching the face or cock.
The winner would reach the final and gain a chance to swap places with the leader—leader showdown.
Naturally, it favored the leader. He even got advantages: oil sprayed all over his body and long boots to prevent slipping.
The rest fought bare.
Seven men lined up and headed for the mud tube. Staff with phones followed, recording.
Five lights, five cameras around the tube. Two staff with hoses ready to wash off the losers. No one would be allowed to track mud back to the studio. Meticulous preparation.
“Fucking hell, they’ll do anything.”
Yunho cursed, peeling off his uniform.
“Hyung, go easy. I hate pain.”
His opponent, Seoho, whined, stretching.
“First match: Queen vs. Gaenari!”
The two entered the ring with staff guiding them by hand.
Yunho shot Jiwon a thumbs-up, mouthed, Smooth as hell. Seoho brightened, kicked mud playfully, even joked with him.
At least if they were having fun, it was something.
The match started, Seoho won quickly. Yunho tumbled, covered in mud. Seoho raised his arms high.
“Gaenari wins!”
Cheers, fanfare, and both were blasted with water.
Seoho stayed; Yunho exited, towel-drying.
“Fuck. Got mud in my ear.”
He hopped on one foot, shaking his head, towel stained black. His chest bandages, too, streaked dirty, but he didn’t care.
Seoho lost to Gangjun, Gangjun to the new kid, the new kid to Jeong Hamin. Then Jiwon beat Hamin easily.
The mud felt soft as silk, clinging nicely. He longed for a sunbed, a beer, instead of this.
“Flag wins!”
Another fanfare, another water blast. The spray stung his skin.
Cameras lingered on his wet body, especially his cock. On the first day, it would’ve rattled him. Now, he didn’t care. The cameraman seemed unnerved, frowning as he stole glances.
At last, the final.
“Our leader, the Clown, boots on, oil up!”
Jiwon felt awkward. Things were strained after Geonwoo’s flare-up. He wanted to say something, but Geonwoo wouldn’t look at him.
“Ready? The final begins! The Clown, our leader!”
The host’s voice rang out.
Jiwon stood opposite Geonwoo, close enough to touch.
This wasn’t the same man. The laid-back, wisecracking Park Geonwoo was gone.
It wasn’t just fatigue. But Jiwon couldn’t guess more—nothing had passed between them to explain it.
It’s not me.
He forced himself to keep it objective.
Drums thundered, then the whistle shrieked.
“Begin!”
Jiwon raised his hands.
Face and cock off-limits. No hitting.
To topple an oiled body, he’d have to target pressure points. He gauged, planning his move—when sudden, searing pain doubled him over.
Geonwoo had slammed his boot into Jiwon’s shin.
Blindsided.
It hurt so bad stars flashed, tears sprang.
Isn’t that against the rules?
He looked up. Geonwoo’s eyes brimmed with killing intent.
Why?
Geonwoo raised his leg again. Jiwon blocked with his arms, but the other leg hit his calf. He went down, face first in mud.
Shrill whistles, staff rushing in.
But not before Geonwoo’s boot smashed Jiwon’s ass, crushed his cock. Knocked sprawling, choking on mud, Jiwon scrambled away.
Staff swarmed. But Geonwoo, greased and ankle-deep in mud, dodged every grasp, lashing out with his feet. Staff toppled left and right, slapstick carnage.
He screamed, a raw howl, flailing at everything in sight, kicking, shoving, spraying mud everywhere.
Then—an earsplitting siren wailed, cutting through the chaos.