Page 5 of Break Room

I woke up early the next day, just before dawn.

The clarity I’d felt the night before had subsided, replaced by the nagging thought that I should leave and go back home.

But I couldn’t bear the thought of facing my co-workers – sulking and picking fights without knowing what they’d said about me, or, worse, behaving awkwardly as if nothing had happened as I sat at my desk.

I wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

I pulled out the agreement from the envelope and carefully read through the clauses about the prize money and appearance fee.

The minimum payout for winning this show, by identifying the mole, was at least thirty million won.

If I ended up the sole winner, it could exceed one hundred million.

Running the numbers in my head, I felt a surge of enthusiasm.

That amount alone wasn’t quite enough to fully ignite my motivation from scratch, but it was more than sufficient to push my wavering determination over the edge.

After signing all the required documents, I stuffed myself with the corn soup and warm bread that had been left on the table in my room by the staff that morning (probably a product placement, considering they’d asked to keep the brand labels visible while I ate).

Finally, I felt a sense of ease wash over me.

As I finished breakfast, Schumann’s Tr?umerei played softly through the speakers installed in my room.

It was 8.50am on Monday, ten minutes before the official game was set to begin. It turned out that five participants remained – three men, including myself, and two women. The other three had apparently declined to take part, and were nowhere to be seen.

At the production team’s request, we stepped out and stood in front of our doors. I handed in my meticulously signed agreement. In return, they handed out smartphones loaded with only specific apps necessary for the show. I waited for the final instructions before the game officially started.

‘This is incredible,’ said the man whose flat was in the far corner, diagonally across from mine. It was the well-groomed man from last night, now wearing jeans with a flamboyant flare at the hem. ‘How did they manage to recreate my office exactly? Are your offices the same too?’ he asked.

By reading the nameplates that had been placed on our doors, I could finally connect each contestant with their nickname.

The well-groomed man stood slouched in front of the door labelled ‘Tumbler’, his pale face glistening under the hallway lights – probably from slathering on excessive amounts of moisturiser the night before.

‘Actually, I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves. Nice to meet you – I’ve been assigned the name Tumbler. What a shame we don’t get to reveal our real names.’

‘We’ll find out in a week,’ replied the thick-eyebrowed woman, who was lazily leaning against the door next to him.

‘I’m Cake here. I actually like my new name.

’ Her voice carried a hint of flirtation as she playfully arched her thick, well-defined eyebrows – likely natural, considering the early hour and her otherwise bare face.

In complete contrast to her nickname, she was so scrawny it seemed like she’d never deign to touch sugary foods or even taste a single bite of cake.

The layout of the flats suggested that Monologue, who had been assigned to the flat across from Cake, should be the next to introduce himself, but the winner of the worst villain poll seemed completely indifferent to what was going on.

He was handing one staff member a pile of empty breakfast plates he had neatly stacked to make them easier to collect.

His face was flushed red as if he’d just finished an intense morning workout.

‘The breakfast menu was great. Maybe cornbread next time? I do like milk bread, but . . . would chestnut bread be asking for too much?’ he asked, brushing away a stray breadcrumb from under his lips, revealing a lone mole on his chin.

‘Duly noted, Monologue,’ the staff member replied with an awkward smile.

‘By the way, did you know the humidity level in the room is as low as twenty per cent?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Just thought you should know. I actually hate humidity. Still, I’d prefer it to be at least forty-five per cent.’ Monologue was almost murmuring to himself. Throughout his monologue, he never once made eye contact with the staff member.

‘Well . . . Shall we get you a humidifier?’ the staff member reluctantly offered.

‘Really? That’d be amazing. I won’t have to hang a wet towel any more,’ Monologue said, clapping softly in excitement.

I watched Monologue, finding myself drawn to the effortless nature he seemed to radiate.

I had been observing everyone since yesterday, and he stood out as the only one among us who seemed entirely unbothered by the idea of being on the show.

It didn’t look like he had bought new clothes for the occasion.

It was as if he’d simply grabbed whatever was already in his closet, without giving a second thought to the fact that he was about to appear on TV.

His clothes seemed as natural on him as his own skin.

In contrast, the rest of us were wearing clothing that carried the telltale rigidity and stiffness of the brand new.

Coffee Mix’s semi-formal pants were as pristine as freshly laid sawdust, and her dark brown shirt was impeccably smooth, without a single crease or wrinkle.

‘I want a humidifier too! Is it first come, first served?’ Coffee Mix demanded, shooting one of the staff members an insistent look.

The colours of her outfit reminded me of the layers of instant coffee on top of white creamer powder in a coffee mix packet, and I couldn’t help but smile. She caught my glance, her shoulders stiffening as she quickly turned towards one of the staff members.

‘I was next! I should get one even if no one else does,’ she insisted. There was a strange hint of desperation in her expression.

It struck me that neither Monologue nor Coffee Mix had any intention of introducing themselves.

Breaking the silence, I stepped forward.

‘I’m Ice Cube. Looking forward to getting to know you all this week.

’ I forced myself to smile, knowing that otherwise I might come across as cold.

My mouth had a natural droop at the corners, and my face lacked soft, rounded features, so I made an effort to appear warm and approachable.

‘Very well, nice to meet you. Some of you are so dry, but I think this’ll be fun,’ Tumbler said, sounding more like the host than a player.

‘Actually, I almost left. I even packed my things, but just before I stepped out of my flat, it hit me – bang! You know, every success story comes with its tribulations. For me, this could be the challenge I need to overcome to make my name known to the world as an environmental activist!’ he declared with dramatic flair.

‘How about you, Ice Cube? Are you okay going on TV like this?’ Cake asked.

I thought her question had many layers to it. The game had already begun, and with just one question, she could learn a lot about me. That meant I didn’t necessarily need to answer honestly. If I acted like the mole, I could gain an advantage in the game.

‘The mole – whoever it is – is a con artist, hidden among us, pretending to be one of us handpicked villains, and lying to us!’ I said.

‘Imagine how much fun they must be having. And they even get a prize for it if they win? They’re the only one here with nothing to lose.

I want to catch this person and get that prize money. ’

I deliberately put on a serious face, but the others’ attention had already shifted elsewhere.

Their eyes were fixed on the elevator, which creaked faintly as it arrived and came to a stop.

Out stepped the producer, Lee Il-Kwon. Monologue looked disappointed, as if he had realised that Il-Kwon wasn’t carrying a humidifier.

‘Now, from this point on, Monday through Friday, you’ll all be working as you normally would do on weekdays, while carefully observing each other to identify the mole,’ Il-Kwon announced.

‘As I mentioned yesterday, Monologue was the winner of the survey and has been awarded a hint card. It has already been delivered to your room,’ he added, addressing Monologue, whose flushed face seemed to grow even redder.

‘Everyone else, please keep at it. As you know, a hint card will arrive at your door when you “break the rules”. You too, Monologue – you’ll need to think about what rules there are to break if you want to earn another one.’

‘Is that all?’ Tumbler asked theatrically, stretching his arms wide and addressing the entire room. ‘If we don’t figure out the rules, this will only drag on without much progress. I’m sure you didn’t set all this up just to film us typing away in our rooms and snacking in the break room.’

‘Of course not,’ Il-Kwon replied. ‘Consider figuring out the answer part of the game. It’s the perfect opportunity to observe each other.’

‘So, for now, all we can do is blankly watch others. What if no one manages to get a hint?’ Coffee Mix asked.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. We’re fairly certain that you’ll all find them,’ Il-Kwon replied, his tone enigmatic.

‘That’s tricky,’ Tumbler muttered in a deliberately lowered voice.

‘Also, moving forward, the cameras set up around your designated areas will replace the watchful gaze of our production team, as we take a step back and begin our filming. If you need anything, speak directly to the cameras. Have a great, normal day. Hopefully, one with a bit of fun.’

As Il-Kwon disappeared into the elevator, the hallway was left silent, save for the calming background music that replaced the breakfast playlist. It was that familiar violin arrangement of Tr?umerei, easing the tension and tempering the subtle competitiveness simmering among us.