The Trap in the Polls
The poll results contained in the Game of Thrones spreadsheet file held no surprises. If anything, the approval ratings had fallen. At least Kim Young-sam’s numbers had dropped as well, so the gap remained at four percent, yet the difference now clearly lay outside the margin of error. A closer look showed a modest uptick in Busan, but support had slipped even more sharply in Seoul and the Jeolla provinces, dragging the overall figures down. None of the other candidates had gained meaningful ground either. Only Kim Dae-jung held his position; everyone else declined.
“Is the race simply turning ugly?” Yoo Jae-won muttered while scanning the data, but the explanation felt thin. It was rare for every candidate’s numbers to slide at once. Perhaps the random phone numbers drawn for this survey had been slightly skewed. The most critical poll, scheduled for the ninth, could not afford to look like this. Fortunately, Yoo Jae-won had taken out insurance: a supplementary file containing five thousand samples still remained.
He printed the summary page of the first file for the candidate briefing, then opened the second. In the old DOS days he could never have worked on anything else while printing, but Android’s flawless multitasking let the second file load without a hitch. The sheer volume of data—five times larger than the first—meant the decryption and loading took a little longer. A progress bar crept upward, and with it came a flicker of anticipation. When it reached one hundred percent, the screen refreshed and the summary report appeared. The format matched the first file exactly, so Yoo Jae-won skimmed straight to the numbers.
“This is a disaster.”
The five-thousand-sample supplement was even more conservative. Every candidate’s support sat lower than before. Kim Dae-jung, in third, stood at twenty-six percent; Jeon Myeong-heon, in second, at 29.2 percent; and Kim Young-sam, still first, at 33.7 percent—each figure roughly four points below the daily internal poll. The numbers were lower than any survey cited by newspapers or broadcasters.
Yoo Jae-won scrolled quickly and found the reason without difficulty.
“Of course.”
In the supplementary poll, the undecided bloc had ballooned past ten percent. In the daily survey it had been only three percent. The two sets of results were not wildly different, yet they still placed Jeon Myeong-heon a clear second outside the margin of error. If the trend held, he would finish second to the Democratic Party and gain nothing for it.
“What did you say?”
Jeon Myeong-heon shot to his feet at the report, disbelief written across his face. He had personally witnessed Busan flip during his rallies; how could anyone accept that his numbers had actually fallen? His aide, who had remained silent until now, raised his voice as well.
“This is impossible!”
Yoo Jae-won’s gaze turned cold. The aide was merely a personal secretary with no official party post and no authority to speak in this room, yet the disappointing poll had clearly rattled him.
“You’re right,” Yoo Jae-won said evenly. “It makes no sense. If you felt the energy Busan gave off yesterday, you would never accept these numbers.”
Jeon Myeong-heon felt the same. He had believed the final gap had been closed, only to learn it remained unchanged—and that overall support had fallen further. Yoo Jae-won understood. Once a person sat in the chair of a leading presidential candidate, the world revolved around them so completely that only someone with extraordinary detachment could view the situation objectively. Jeon Myeong-heon had built mythic achievements in business, but he was still a novice in politics. It was natural he could not yet trust raw data.
That was why Yoo Jae-won had set D-Day nine days before the vote. With only three days left, showing these numbers and urging a different course would have been futile; with nine days remaining, there was still time to persuade.
“So the two of you refuse to believe these figures?” he asked, his tone deliberately cool. The quiet authority he had acquired with age made both Jeon Myeong-heon and his aide flinch.
“That would mean the data itself is wrong,” Yoo Jae-won continued, “but data carries no personal bias. The numbers come from randomly generated phone numbers with previously surveyed lines removed.”
The two men’s expressions did not soften.
“If you still doubt it, would you like to hear the recordings? Pick any number from the data.”
The beauty of the internet was that ID Human Research’s servers were connected; every past poll could be reviewed on the spot. When Jeon Myeong-heon tapped a number with a skeptical finger, the system retrieved the corresponding audio file and played it.
“Hmm.”
They checked more than ten numbers. Every recording matched its logged result exactly.
“Let’s do a few more.”
They could do this all day. The recordings were made automatically by computer, not by human operators. Ten additional numbers produced no discrepancies.
“I’m not asking you to change your minds right now,” Yoo Jae-won said. “There’s still time. Campaign for a few more days and think it over. In the meantime, I’ll explore other options.”
Jeon Myeong-heon remained silent for a long moment—more than a minute. At last he exhaled and nodded.
“Yes. That would be best.”
Yoo Jae-won’s face relaxed. It was not yet a firm commitment to Plan B, but in this situation only Jeon Myeong-heon could have answered that way. His estimation of the older man rose another notch.
The next day, Yoo Jae-won paced inside his office at the Tongil National Party headquarters. The news he was waiting for had still not arrived—the Chowon Bokguk incident.
“What’s going on? Did some new variable appear?”
By the timeline, the story should have broken already, yet everything remained quiet. There was no report from the special team in Busan, and Jeon Jae-jun had made no unusual moves. Jeon Jae-jun was the one who had detected the gathering of former and current agency heads, military, and police at Chowon Bokguk and ordered the wiretap. How he had learned of the meeting in advance remained a mystery; someone must have tipped him off, but Jeon Jae-jun refused to name the source. Yoo Jae-won suspected an agent from the National Intelligence Service. Jeon Jae-jun’s furious reaction to the recording and his subsequent push to break the story through Mirae Group’s newspapers felt too convenient. An illegal election-rigging conspiracy had been neatly reframed as an illegal wiretapping scandal.
Therefore Yoo Jae-won had placed Jeon Jae-jun under meticulous surveillance to keep him from stumbling into the trap. He had also secured a firm promise from the desk at Munhwa Daily: if Jeon Jae-jun contacted them demanding an immediate exclusive, they were to call Yoo Jae-won first. Because Munhwa Daily had been founded with Mirae Group capital, it currently functioned as an unofficial organ of the United Democratic Party. Jeon Jae-jun, as a true member of the Mirae royal family, could have forced a story through, but this time the situation was different. Yoo Jae-won held full authority over the Tongil National Party and maintained a direct line to Jeon Myeong-heon; his influence far outweighed Jeon Jae-jun’s. If the Chowon Bokguk story broke, it could still flip the race—or at least strengthen Plan B.
“Why hasn’t it surfaced yet? Did someone already tip him off?”
Waiting for something always seemed to delay it. “Or perhaps it will break somewhere else entirely?”
Yoo Jae-won had introduced so many variables that he could no longer predict how the butterfly effect would unfold. The story might never appear, or it might erupt in an unexpected place and on a larger scale. He hoped it would simply not happen, but if it did, he prayed it would remain within his control.
That evening Jeon Myeong-heon came to see him. He had not disappointed. Though the decision must have been agonizing, he had reached it faster than expected and wore a remarkably refreshed expression. He had not come alone. In addition to his usual entourage, several members of his inner circle who had entered politics with him and several high-ranking Tongil National Party officials accompanied him. Announcing a different path would create serious backlash, so he had brought them to demonstrate that the decision was collective rather than unilateral. Yet no persuasion was needed. Jeon Myeong-heon simply announced what he had already decided. His aides and the party officials stood stunned into silence. Only the aide who had already known remained composed. Once they recovered, they bombarded Jeon Myeong-heon with arguments, but he did not budge.
“This is a decision I, Jeon Myeong-heon, reached after careful deliberation.”
That single sentence ended all debate. A few still clung to hope and looked desperately to Yoo Jae-won to change Jeon Myeong-heon’s mind, apparently unaware that Yoo Jae-won himself had proposed Plan B. The security around the plan remained airtight.
The phone rang just as Yoo Jae-won was about to speak. Normally he would have answered, but with so many people present, Jeon Myeong-heon’s aide moved first.
“It’s Assemblyman Jeon Jae-jun from Ulsan. He says he has an urgent matter to discuss with you, sir.”
The aide’s expression tightened at the interruption, but since the caller was Jeon Myeong-heon’s son, he handed over the receiver. At the same moment, Yoo Jae-won felt a prickle of unease.
“What? Say that again!”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s voice suddenly rose. Jeon Jae-jun’s voice came through the receiver loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
“Candidate! What do you mean by ‘another method’? At this stage, what other method could there possibly be? The only option left is to grab one of the two Kims, get an endorsement, and crawl under their wing! That’s all!”
Several people who had been nodding along met Yoo Jae-won’s eyes. Jeon Jae-jun was not finished.
“I’ve finally found the tail that can flip this race on its head! The mayor of Busan, the police chief, even military officers met at a blowfish restaurant to plot illegal election interference. We have the recording. If we release it, it’s over!”
Yoo Jae-won sighed inwardly. The long-awaited Chowon Bokguk story had broken, yet it had reached Jeon Jae-jun despite the special team’s careful monitoring. The team had done everything possible—close surveillance, even wiretapping Jeon Jae-jun’s office phone—but as civilians they faced fundamental limits against a far more professional organization.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s tone changed instantly. Moments earlier he had spoken of a carefully considered decision; now a single call from his son had reignited hope. He switched the phone to speaker so everyone could hear clearly.
“First, let me play the recording for you.”
Jeon Jae-jun sounded proud of his scoop. A moment later, a scratchy voice filled the room.
“How dare that merchant Jeon Myeong-heon pretend to be a politician?”
“If Busan, Gyeongnam, and Gyeongbuk just stick together, nothing is impossible for the Minjeong Party. That slippery Jeon Myeong-heon keeps shaking things up. And that Yoo Jae-won fellow—he’s dangerously clever at charming the uneducated masses.”
“How can Busan’s support drop below fifty percent? I can’t stay neutral anymore. No—I won’t stay neutral.”
“Yes, big brother is right! This is exactly when we need to unite. If nothing else works, we’ll have to stir up regional sentiment!”
“Exactly! We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”
“Regional sentiment may be crude, but it helps develop our hometown. We need to encourage it from the private sector. We’ll actively support it as well.”
“Come on, the police alone won’t be enough. Our chamber of commerce—”
The recording appeared to have been edited; the conversation began in the middle. Much of the meeting had been cut, and a waiter’s voice interrupted at one point. Still, the nature of the gathering was unmistakable. Jeon Jae-jun also recited the names of the attendees, matching Yoo Jae-won’s internal list perfectly. That only deepened Yoo Jae-won’s suspicion. The special team had confirmed no movement from Jeon Jae-jun’s private network, so how had he obtained such an accurate list without an informant?
“Jae-won!”
Jeon Myeong-heon called his name, eyes blazing with renewed presidential ambition. A headache throbbed at the base of Yoo Jae-won’s skull. He had thought he had contained Jeon Jae-jun’s recklessness, only for it to explode at the last moment.
“It’s a trap.”
Yoo Jae-won’s reply was curt.
“What?”
“A trap. If we take the bait, the other side will immediately counter with illegal wiretapping charges.”
“What? How can you be so sure?”
Jeon Jae-jun’s voice came through the speakerphone, sharp with irritation. He had been certain of a major victory, only to be told it was a trap.
“Then let me ask you this,” Yoo Jae-won said. “Where did this information come from? And how exactly did you obtain the recording?”
Jeon Jae-jun dodged the direct question, as expected.
“The source? We don’t have time to worry about that right now! The mayor of Busan, the police chief, even the military brass plotted illegal election interference. Father, we need to roll the presses immediately and run it as breaking news. Call the broadcasters too!”
“There was an NIS official among the attendees, wasn’t there?” Yoo Jae-won pressed. “From the beginning, I believe the NIS set the entire stage.”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s gaze wavered slightly.
“How could Assemblyman Jeon have secured both the attendee list and the recording so quickly after a meeting that took place only this afternoon? Did he have someone followed? Or did he receive a tip?”
“There was an informant.”
“An informant? Who?”
“I can’t reveal that. But the person is reliable.”
“I’m sure they are. Still, that informant strikes me as highly suspicious.”
“Father! You’re not actually listening to this kid, are you? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The gap with first place is only four percent! If we push with this, we can overturn everything in a single stroke!”
Jeon Jae-jun refused to yield. One successful strike would make him a greater contributor than Yoo Jae-won, who had run the entire campaign. It would also give him the edge in the succession battle against his accomplished brothers. He pushed forward, unaware he was racing toward political self-destruction.
Yoo Jae-won turned to Jeon Myeong-heon and felt despair. The older man’s face showed he had been completely taken in by his son’s honeyed words.