Substitute-Chapter 35

He’d been one of Jiwon’s substitute driving clients.

That day he’d bumped into Han Seoho near Gangnam Station—this was the young man he’d picked up.

Had it been his right hand? Or the left? He’d had it wrapped in bandages.

How could Jiwon only now be recognizing that perfect face?

It was ridiculous.

Maybe it was because ever since he started driving substitutes, he’d developed the habit of not looking at the clients’ faces too closely. That’s probably why he’d forgotten. If the guy hadn’t been wearing a baseball cap back then, Jiwon wouldn’t have been able to connect him to the sharp jaw now beneath a police cap. If they’d met face-to-face back then, he probably would’ve just thought, “Damn, that guy’s handsome,” and moved on.

He must’ve stared too long, because their eyes met.

Did he recognize me?

No. Absolutely not.

There was no way he’d connect the current version of Jiwon—with his sleek haircut and exposed forehead—to the tired substitute driver with messy hair and plain clothes.

Honestly, even Jiwon still startled himself in the mirror sometimes with how different he looked.

Sure enough, the man didn’t recognize him. He turned his head indifferently, as if Jiwon wasn’t even there.

Was it really just a coincidence, running into a former client here?

Probably. Judging by how they only seemed to recruit absurdly good-looking men, it had to be coincidence.

Still, Jiwon couldn’t afford to let his guard down. He’d keep a close eye.

A few moments later, three team leaders appeared—each in matching black training suits—and they were joined by five trainers, each wearing a full-color mask over the same outfit.

The crews immediately lined up ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) in front of their respective team leaders.

“Strip down, everything except the T-back. Move!”

The order came out of all three team leaders’ mouths in perfect sync.

Stripping again. They kept making them do it. If this was going to be the routine, why even bother making them dress up in the first place?

Jiwon couldn’t understand what made getting undressed so entertaining that the muzzled crew were all grinning like idiots. Some of the police crew started harassing a few of the Sailors and muzzled ones with crude comments and gestures.

The locker room quickly filled with exposed flesh. Everyone flaunted their bodies. Even the smaller Sailors posed like narcissists showing off.

To be fair, they were all in good shape.

The muzzled ones had especially great bodies—almost good enough for a magazine shoot—but even the police crew weren’t far behind. And they had a different kind of build: not gym-sculpted for looks, but hardened and lethal. If a fight broke out right now, there was no question who’d win. The police crew radiated raw physical power.

Criminals in police uniforms.

Jiwon’s eyes instinctively landed on that client—but unexpectedly, it was Son Gunwoo who caught his attention. His bare torso revealed several distinct scars—likely remnants of old abuse.

Didn’t he say he killed his father?

If it had been because of abuse, Jiwon actually felt sorry for him. How bad must it have been?

Whenever he voiced these kinds of thoughts, his father would scold him.

You’re not ready to be a cop, not by a long shot.

That was always how it started. Then came the lecture.

Sure, everyone had their own story, but that didn’t justify murder. No matter what, criminals had to pay for their crimes the right way. That’s what the police existed for.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

What was a fifteen-year-old boy thinking when he killed his father?

Jiwon forced his eyes away from Son Gunwoo, who was just starting to unbutton his pants.

Then his gaze collided again with that client’s—now without his police cap.

Ah. So that’s what his eyes looked like.

Sharp and wide-set, just like his lips—cool, vivid, and undeniably attractive.

That face had already drawn attention with just his jawline, but now, with his full face visible, he left an even stronger impression.

Masculine. And yet delicate.

And younger than Jiwon had assumed.

The image of the boy from that day—asking if his hand hurt—flashed in Jiwon’s mind.

He was just a kid.

Jiwon had thought they were around the same age, but now he found himself smiling unexpectedly.

“Do you know his name?”

“Nope. His name tag’s long as fuck too.”

“He’s so fucking my type.”

“Not him, that one.”

“Jesus, picky bastard. Got high standards now?”

“That’s Son Gunwoo, right?”

“Yup. My future husband. I’m getting the first ride, so hands off.”

At the back of the locker room, the muzzled crew and Sailors began laying claim to their favorites.

Even among a room full of top-tier looks, two stood out the most.

If Son Gunwoo was the classic Western-type beauty—with big double eyelids and clean-cut features—then the client was an Eastern-type beauty, a mix of masculine and wild.

Judging by the buzz, people seemed to rank the client slightly higher in terms of looks. But in Jiwon’s eyes, Son Gunwoo still came out on top. Maybe it was because he himself didn’t have double eyelids.

Jiwon let out a quiet laugh at the thought.

He was basically rating men’s appearances like he was choosing a boyfriend. It was absurd.

So what if someone’s handsome or not?

They were all rivals. Someday, he might need to sketch their faces into a lineup. One of them could even end up being a suspect.

Jiwon unfastened the ring from the scarf around his neck.

He removed his top first and hung it inside the locker, then glanced down at himself. His body wasn’t bad—not by a long shot. He was a bit lean now, sure, but most of what he had was muscle, not fat. He’d always had good coordination. He was a black belt in Taekwondo, and back when he was stationed in one of the roughest districts, he’d worked as a beat cop. He wasn’t afraid of hand-to-hand combat.

The only real issue was his confidence. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

More specifically, his confidence about that part of himself—the one most men linked to their pride.

After several rounds of reconstructive surgery, the function had been salvaged, but the appearance hadn’t. The injury had been discovered too late, and rehab for his right arm had taken priority. By the time he had a chance, he wasn’t in the mental state to care about cosmetic surgery.

His family had been dying around him. Who the hell thinks about dick reconstruction when everyone you love is dead?

By the time he got healthy again, all he wanted was revenge.

Jiwon sighed as he pulled off his pants. Thankfully, the outline visible through the T-back was still decent enough not to draw attention. Quietly, he blended in with the rest of the crew.

Everyone who’d stripped instinctively reassembled in front of their team leaders without needing to be told.

Still wearing his sunglasses, the Captain exchanged a glance with the other leaders, then called out to Jiwon.

“Height and weight check starts now. Sailor 1, step forward.”

He nodded toward the automatic height-and-weight scale nearby. A trainer in a blue mask stood guard next to it.

Jiwon had assumed this would be done by team, but apparently not. Only he was called forward.

Self-conscious under everyone’s eyes, Jiwon stepped up onto the machine, lined up his feet, and pressed his back against the stadiometer.

“181.8 cm, 65 kilograms.”

The trainer in the blue mask called out.

The Captain jotted it down on his tablet and responded, “1.5 kg loss.”

The trainer's hand moved quickly, recording almost in sync with the Captain.

It had only been ten days since the last medical checkup, yet he’d lost 1.5 kilograms.

It made sense. Other people probably got to put their affairs in order openly—but not Jiwon. He had to pretend everything was normal, keep up his act. With a shitty diet and constant work, there was no way he was gaining weight. He had enough stress, too.

Jiwon stepped off the machine and stood in front of the trainer in the green mask. Following instructions, he raised and lowered his arms. The trainer measured him with a tape: neck, chest, waist, hips, thighs, forearms, wrists, calves—every possible number got documented.

With each figure called out, over fifty pairs of eyes focused on Jiwon.

He felt like a zoo animal—his entire body heating up.

He braced himself, wondering if they’d make him take off even the T-back. But thankfully, he was spared from exposing his damaged genitals in front of everyone.

Once finished, the green mask shared the data with the Captain.

The Captain and blue-mask trainer reviewed Jiwon’s records right in front of him. Although the weight loss was noted, it didn’t seem to have affected the other measurements too much.

He wished that was the end of it—but they started discussing his ass. Loudly and in detail. They talked about the gluteus maximus, medius, minimus, even the “hip dip.” Half the terms were ones Jiwon had never heard before. It felt like being dissected alive.

“Sailor 1 will gain 7 kilograms and increase butt circumference by 1.5 inches within a week,” the Captain ordered.

Just like that, in front of everyone, Jiwon was publicly labeled the underweight guy with a scrawny ass.

He wasn’t too worried about the butt—it’d plump up with weight gain. But how the hell was he supposed to put on 7 kilos in a week?

He didn’t have a sweet tooth. He didn’t have a big appetite either. His meals had been crap for nearly eight months, so he’d started eating more lately, but not enough to gain 7 kilos in seven days. It’s not like they were going to fatten him up with nightly ramen, ice cream, chicken, and beer.

This is insane.

“His pelvis is narrow, but the balance between his waist and upper-lower body is good. Shouldn’t be too hard to give him an apple butt.”

The trainer offered confidently.

Giving the poison after the cure.