Substitute-Chapter 26

They had said there would be twenty-nine, but somehow, one was missing.

Jiwon thought vaguely that maybe someone would join late — or maybe someone had quit at the last moment.

Among all the teams, only Jiwon’s team, Crew Zero, shared the same uncanny resemblance. The others were a random assortment of faces.

In general, everyone looked decent, and there were more than a few men who stood out as handsome or downright beautiful. The average height of Jiwon’s team was about 180 centimeters — a bit on the shorter side compared to the others, who all seemed at least 185 centimeters tall. About eight of them looked to be well over 190.

As for build and physique — it went without saying. Nearly every one of them looked like they had done nothing but eat protein and lift weights their entire lives.

Jiwon, who was 182 centimeters himself, had never imagined he could look small. The feeling unsettled him.

Was he really going to have to be crushed by guys like that?

He had come here ready to be crushed, sure, but the reality still made him uneasy.

If only his dick hadn’t ended up like this...

He shook his head.

Maybe, he thought, maybe among them, there were a few with even worse dicks than his.

He had been chosen, after all — there had to be others here who looked perfect on the outside but were just as ruined inside.

As he went down the line, glancing over the twenty-seven faces one by one, the doors to the auditorium opened again.

The three team leaders entered first, and behind them came two familiar figures.

Horn-Rimmed Glasses and the Lackey.

Jiwon had seen them a few times before, enough to feel an odd sense of relief at their appearance.

Horn-Rimmed Glasses climbed onto the podium. A moment later, bold red letters lit up the giant screen:

[Everything mentioned here is classified. You are forbidden to disclose anything outside.]

The lights in the auditorium went out.

The screen flared up, displaying the title:

Crew Code of Conduct

The real orientation had begun.

—

The orientation dragged on for a grueling three hours, ending only as the sun began to set.

"That concludes the orientation," Horn-Rimmed Glasses announced.

The lights flicked back on.

The auditorium was dead silent.

Not even a sigh could be heard.

"For the final time, we are offering you a choice. If anyone wishes to leave, step outside the auditorium exactly fifteen minutes after the whistle blows.

As long as you uphold your confidentiality agreement, there will be no consequences."

Horn-Rimmed Glasses emphasized it with mechanical precision.

Jiwon sat there, dazed.

The three-hour-long 'Crew Code of Conduct' had been airtight — perfectly suited to a secret sex party of this scale. So airtight, he thought anyone lucky enough to be invited to such a party would willingly fork over an obscene amount of money.

Of course, to build that perfect party, someone's blood and sweat were needed.

The blood and sweat of people like them — the Crew.

The Crew weren’t just sexual partners.

They were servers too.

But not the kind of servers society knew.

They had to learn specific etiquette for serving at the party — how to serve food, how to behave, even what terms to use.

Throughout the cohabitation and party periods, they were expected to maintain their appearance and physique: strict diets, gym workouts, swimming, skincare routines, regular massages.

Even flossing and tongue-cleaning were mandatory.

And sex — that was obvious.

Crew members existed to prioritize guest satisfaction above their own.

They had to be skilled in every sexual position imaginable, and beyond that, they needed to master the use of their mouths, hands, holes, and cocks.

The sex talk seemed endless.

Detailed to the point of nausea.

When they got to the part about potential dangers during the party, even Jiwon, who thought he'd come in fully prepared, felt a creeping sense of dread.

He wasn’t alone.

The entire room felt it — the tension was thick enough to choke on.

When Horn-Rimmed Glasses began to talk about hazard pay, low groans echoed through the room.

Still in that flat, mechanical voice, Horn-Rimmed Glasses listed every brutal possibility: fгeewebnovёl.com

Hernias, bleeding, sexually transmitted infections — all risks associated with their job.

Even severe assault by a guest, though rare, was factored into their compensation.

Top security and medical teams would always be on standby.

They emphasized that injuries (except for STIs) would be treated immediately, but the undertone was clear: these accidents were not rare.

Not everything was doom and gloom, though.

There was also the carrot to go with the stick:

Tip bonuses.

Guests were allowed to tip servers freely.

The minimum tip was one million won, but depending on the guest, it could reach hundreds of millions, even billions.

Still, that wasn’t the real jackpot.

The real prize was Selection.

If a guest selected you, you immediately earned an extra ten million won — just for being chosen.

Every time the guest came, another ten million won was added.

Meaning, if a guest selected you and climaxed three times in one night, you earned forty million won in bonuses right then and there.

And there was one more.

If you caught the eye of the Host — the organizer of this entire Project — you were awarded an immediate bonus of one hundred million won.

If you then made the Host climax, another one hundred million.

The auditorium erupted into chaos.

Eyes gleamed like predators locked onto prey.

According to Horn-Rimmed Glasses, both the Host and the guests were golden geese.

Everyone here would be scrambling to catch their attention.

Whether they liked it or not, everyone in the room was a rival.

Jiwon burned with curiosity about the Host, and about the guests they had brought.

Was this how they had approached him, too?

Throwing absurd amounts of money at him just to win his favor?

He was going to find out.

He would see it all with his own eyes.

He clenched his fists.

Horn-Rimmed Glasses gave one last assurance:

"The money you will receive is completely clean and legal."

He stressed there would be no taxes to worry about.

Tomorrow morning, each of them would be given access to a cryptocurrency account opened under their own name.

They would be able to buy, sell, and cash out their coins in real-time through the exchange.

Any losses caused by fluctuations in coin value would be fully compensated, he added.

Originally, it hadn’t been planned, but to celebrate their arrival, a bonus of ten million won would also be deposited into their accounts.

At that, the auditorium erupted into cheers.

Only minutes earlier, when he had been talking about danger pay, the mood had been dead, practically funereal.

Now, with the promise of extra allowances and bonuses, it had flipped 180 degrees.

The Crew listened with shining faces, hanging on every word like fanatical followers of some cult leader.

Jiwon shouted along with them.

For the first time, true exhilaration bloomed inside him — the sense that he could finally achieve his real goal.

Even if he died here, he would find the bastard who had destroyed that boy’s life — and his own — and take his revenge.

More than that, he would expose the filth behind this Project, the people who planned it, and make sure they never dared to do anything like it again.

Jiwon hadn’t stepped into this slaughterhouse ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) blindly.

He knew, at least, the identity of one of the figures suspected to be behind the Project:

Gwak Jun — the toad-faced man he had first met during the final interview.

Gwak Jun, CEO of KW Trading. Thirty-two years old.

Outwardly, KW Trading appeared to be a basic import-export company based in China, but in reality, it was more like a ghost company, with barely any legitimate goods passing through.

Gwak Jun, much like his looks, had a notoriously unpleasant personality.

He was known for being talentless, useless, and rich — and contrary to initial assumptions, he wasn’t into men; he was obsessed with women.

Then there was the man with the Maybach: Michael Hansoo Kim — Korean name, Kim Hansoo.

Thirty-five years old.

Confirmed to be Gwak Jun’s maternal cousin.

Judging by appearances alone, no one would have guessed they were related.

Michael Kim was tall, broad, imposing.

Unfortunately, he was a third-generation Korean-American with barely any assets or registered businesses in South Korea, making him nearly impossible to track domestically.

On top of that, it was widely known that he and Gwak Jun did not get along, so most assessments downplayed the likelihood of his involvement in the Project.

Still, according to what Han Seoho had said — and some rumors — Michael Kim was a first-class pervert, so it wasn't out of the question.

Jiwon had managed to dig up information about one more person he had met during the interviews.

Through his investigation into Gwak Jun, he learned that the Lackey belonged to KW Trading’s executive office, under the name Assistant Manager Jung Hyunwook.

At first, Jiwon had wondered how an ordinary office worker could get wrapped up in something like this.

But then he uncovered that Gwak Jun had personally paid off Jung Hyunwook’s debts — debts from reckless investments in crypto and stocks.

It made perfect sense.

Thanks to digging into KW Trading, Jiwon also discovered that the company had received funding from KW Estate & Investment, its Japanese subsidiary.

The representative director of the subsidiary was none other than Gwak Jun’s father, Gwak Seok.

That was why a useless bastard like Gwak Jun could sit proudly as the CEO of KW Trading — he had his daddy backing him up.

But as always, the investigation hit a wall.

Gwak Seok was a Korean-Japanese national, the company's headquarters were registered in North America, and its branches were scattered across Japan, Southeast Asia, and South America.

There was no way to narrow the search.

And worst of all — there wasn’t a shred of evidence of criminal activity.

Without something to justify suspicion, they couldn’t even request an Interpol inquiry.

For now, the focus remained squarely on Gwak Jun.

But even with all the digging, they hadn’t found anything to pin on him.

Both he and his company were model taxpayers, once even making it onto a list of exemplary citizens.

Have you ever dusted a warehouse only to find it completely spotless?

That’s what this felt like.

Which meant — they needed another name.

Someone who, when dusted, would choke the air with filth.

Beeeep—

Fifteen minutes later, a loud electronic signal rang out, and the auditorium doors opened.

Not a single person stood up.