The Chairman had made contact.

Bring him here.

Deputy Manager Kim used the early morning hours to load the IT staff member into a van.

After gagging his mouth and tightly binding him with blue tape, they pulled a black hood over his head. Deprived of all means to produce human sounds, the man let out beast-like wails instead.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it in front of the Chairman. Follow the six interrogative principles.”

It was advice of sorts from Deputy Manager Kim.

Soon, the employee, dazed from sedatives, quieted down.

This project really was strange.

It had been prepared to perfection.

An event meticulously arranged, designed without the slightest possibility of leaks.

Of course, rats had always existed, but never had one vanished so cleanly. And now, an IT staff member—a trusted one, a guy they’d kept around for three years—had made a mess of things.

It made him wonder if they ought to hold an exorcism.

The outside world—the project itself—was running just fine.

Usually, it was the other way around.

Deputy Manager Kim let out a low groan.

This wasn’t the kind of situation that ended with a scolding. Maybe the Chairman would let it go, but Director Gwak Tan? He’d hand down some form of punishment, no matter what. Still, if Kim managed to find the leak and patch it, they could all move past this quietly.

The problem was finding the damn hole. If there were even the tiniest clue, he’d have tracked it down in an instant—but this time, strangely enough, there was nothing. No pattern to follow.

Right before the CCTV cut off that day, Deputy Manager Kim had spotted suspicious movement beyond a partitioned space.

It was an area the Crew could never reach. A place they didn’t even know existed.

At first, he assumed it was just another employee, didn’t think much of it—but upon realizing no staff had been dispatched to that location at that time, he’d scrambled to pursue the figure.

Entry to that space required being one of the permanent employees. There were eleven in the kitchen alone, including chefs, assistant cooks, and general staff. Then ten for cleaning and laundry, four trainers, five swimming instructors, four medical personnel, five IT staff, seven in administration, and a full fifty security personnel. The number of residents was no small figure.

Thankfully, every entrance was sealed tight without a bracelet provided by the project.

Deputy Manager Kim reviewed the access records.

It was enough to make a ghost curse.

No employee had entered that area at that time.

Then who the hell was that?

The bracelets were managed with strict precision. Staff or external instructors were always accompanied by security or team leaders. Smuggling out a bracelet was impossible, and even if someone managed that, entry was still locked down—the bracelets stored DNA, fingerprints, and full identity data of the wearer. They couldn’t be duplicated.

An inside job.

There was another insider leaking information besides the IT staff member.

The most suspicious? Deputy Manager Jeong Hyeonwook.

Gwak Jun’s lackey. A loyal employee.

He’d joined ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) the project two years ago thanks to Gwak Jun’s recommendation. Unlike the constantly troublesome Gwak Jun, Jeong Hyeonwook had been surprisingly competent.

But no dog ever bites the hand that feeds it.

Kim was almost certain Jeong Hyeonwook and Gwak Jun were behind it.

Gwak Jun—the man so consumed by inferiority that it bordered on pathological—wouldn’t hesitate to sabotage this project.

Sigh. What a headache.

Lost in thought, he arrived at the Chairman’s villa.

Deputy Manager Kim sent the security team to the storage area to prepare for interrogation, then stepped inside to meet the Chairman.

The moment he entered the foyer to change into slippers, the Chairman’s laughter rang out. Apparently, he was here too.

A faint smile crept across Deputy Manager Kim’s face.

“Welcome, Deputy Manager Kim. Sorry for calling you at this hour.”

Not just the Chairman—Director Gwak Tan was present as well.

Deputy Manager Kim bowed respectfully and took the seat the Chairman indicated.

“You’ve been working hard.”

“It’s nothing, Chairman.”

“The punishment footage was damn entertaining. You did well.”

Kim had expected reprimands, but instead received praise.

Seemed they’d already watched the footage from two hours ago—the scene where twenty-one rule-breaking Crew members received their punishments. The Chairman was rarely awake at such late hours, and Kim felt guilty, thinking his failure had disturbed the Chairman’s precious sleep.

“That final group orgy was a masterpiece. As expected, your eye for talent can’t be underestimated.”

Chuckling, the Chairman’s eyes glinted, as if saying You’re more of an expert than me now.

At that, Director Gwak Tan shot a jealous glare, while he—with his usual indifferent expression—remained silent.

“Your praise is undeserved,” Kim said, bowing deeply until his forehead nearly touched his knees.

He’d merely followed the Chairman’s instructions.

The tactics of exploiting each Crew member’s specific fears through drugs, the brainwashing educational videos—those had been designed by the Chairman personally. Yet the credit was given to Kim.

It was always like this. When things went well, the Chairman praised his subordinates. When they didn’t, he took the blame himself. It was impossible not to respect a man like that.

The Chairman casually discussed some of the more impressive punishment scenes. Director Gwak Tan agreed or offered alternate opinions. He only laughed on rare occasions.

Despite the suspect still awaiting interrogation outside, the Chairman didn’t rush.

Only after nearly thirty minutes of tea time did the Chairman finally bring up the employee.

“Three years, you say? He’s been working with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s his performance?”

“Competent.”

“But not the best?”

“No, sir. Not that level.”

“Alright then, let’s go.”

The Chairman rose with ease, without assistance.

He was an elder, yet still jogged every morning. Frankly, when it came to health, he might’ve been in better condition than Kim himself.

Tall, broad-shouldered—a man whose presence felt like a towering mountain. Over thirty years of strength training had shaped him into that formidable physique.

In recent years, his belly had grown slightly, but somehow it only enhanced his imposing stature.

“Not coming?”

Director Gwak Tan glanced toward him, still lounging on the sofa.

“Too much trouble.”

“Why even come if you’re not going to watch?”

Director Gwak Tan’s scolding tone held no real weight.

“Came to talk with the old man,” he replied innocently.

The only one who dared call the Chairman old man to his face.

“Bastard, planning to beg for something again? You keep pulling stunts—”

“Already finished talking. And it’s not a weird request, Director,” he cut in smoothly.

“Oh, and give me fifty thousand won before I go.”

Director Gwak Tan raised his fist threateningly into the air.

“Tch. Grow up already, will you?”

The surprising part was that Director Gwak Tan, despite being a decade older, doted on this cousin more than anyone. One would expect rivalry, given the family dynamics—but oddly, he always seemed to lower himself a step around him.

Kim could never tell whether Director Gwak Tan’s attitude was calculated or genuine. The man usually wore his emotions and intentions plainly, but when it came to him, his feelings were unreadable.

Hopefully it’s the good kind, Kim thought.

Otherwise, blood would spill.

“You really not coming?”

Pulling out a fifty-thousand-won bill, Director Gwak Tan pressed again.

“Boring. Probably going to start by pulling out fingernails or something.”

Yawning broadly as he pocketed the cash, he added, “Dull,” under his breath.

“Suit yourself. Sleeping over?”

“Why would I?”

“Right. You’re going back. When? I’ll tag along if the timing works.”

“Soon. Don’t look for me.”

“Got it, bastard. Stay safe.”

“We should all stay safe.”

With a faint smile, he spoke those ambiguous words—words that always sounded both playful and threatening. Naturally, Director Gwak Tan picked up on the hidden meaning, but chose not to engage, stepping back for now.

Clicking his tongue, Director Gwak Tan followed the Chairman outside.

Deputy Manager Kim bowed to him, preparing to leave.

“Deputy Manager Kim.”

“Yes, young master?”

“Can I delete one?”

The question came out of nowhere.

“Pardon?”

“Delete one. Just one.”

Murder, spoken with that angelic face.

“My apologies.”

It was too soon.

The project operated under its own carefully crafted schedule. Over eleven months and countless revisions had gone into perfecting it—nothing could be altered carelessly. Sure, the Chairman’s whimsical orders had wasted time with things like the Manito Game, but the results weren’t bad.

The Chairman had praised the punishments, the guests loved them, some even voluntarily wired additional rewards. They’d even received requests for a standalone video of that final group orgy.

Yet now, deletion?

The main game hadn’t even properly begun. Every Crew member—every character—was still valuable.

Furthermore, as per the pre-agreed rules, deletion required consent from both the host and a majority of guests. He certainly knew that, yet still asked.

“Too soon?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Yes. You’ll have to wait until voting day.”

“Voting, huh.”

He sighed.

“Alright. Rules are rules.”

His tone lightened.

“Any reason you want one deleted?”

“Dunno. Boring.”

He shrugged, then waved him off.

“Go on. The old man’s waiting.”

“Yes. Take care, young master.”

Deputy Manager Kim bowed.

Who does he want deleted?

A rare spark of curiosity stirred.

Hopefully not one of the Chairman’s favorites.

A flicker of worry surfaced, but he quickly suppressed it.

They’ll handle it.

With hurried steps, he made his way to the interrogation site.

The moment he opened the door, the stench of blood flooded out.

Deputy Manager Kim covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and shut the storage room door behind him.