The Swindler's Joker Card

The Swindler's Joker Card

“This time, I’m the dealer.”

When the Rat Merchant heard those words, he stared at me for a long moment. At first, his expression was hard to read. It looked like fear, but it also looked like disgust. Then, very slowly, he pulled the terminal closer to his chest.

“Copycat.”

“What.”

“Dealers at gambling tables don’t usually open the game with their own stakes.”

“That’s why I said Black Dog is putting up the money.”

“Have you considered that makes it sound even worse?”

The Rat Merchant narrowed his eyes.

“You’re planning to trick Black Dog’s subcontracting network, using Black Dog’s own money to buy up their subcontractors?”

“More precisely, I’m going to shove a different contract in front of people who are heading to their deaths.”

“How is that any different from fraud?”

“I’ll pay them.”

“Paying them doesn’t magically make it not fraud.”

“But I won’t run away after cheating them.”

The Rat Merchant opened his mouth, then closed it again. He clearly wanted to argue, but the merchant’s brain had already finished its calculations. A lie that came with money. A story the subcontractors would want to believe. A board Black Dog had already abandoned. And the settlement process that Copycat would insert himself into. If it took shape at all, the game would flip.

The problem was how to make it take shape.

The Rat Merchant looked down at his terminal screen and said, “Approaching the subcontracting network is possible. The communication grid Black Dog uses for their subcontractors is sloppier than you’d think. Or rather, they made it sloppy on purpose. There’s no reason to give proper security to disposable help.”

“Makes sense.”

“But settlement notices are different. Those need authentication phrases, matching transmission rhythms, the exact tone the Black Dog settlement officers use, sentence order, code placement, even response wait times.”

“Can you do it?”

“If you’re asking whether it’s possible, yes. But it’ll take time. And any fake notice I make will smell off.”

The Rat Merchant looked at me.

“What you’re trying to do isn’t simple post manipulation. You need the subcontractors to believe it enough to risk their lives. That level of fraud can’t be done with technology alone.”

He was right. The Rat Merchant could move information and money. But moving human desire was an entirely separate matter.

What the subcontractors wanted to believe wasn’t numbers. It was the conviction that they would get paid once this job was over. The delusion that Black Dog hadn’t abandoned them yet. The hope that catching Copycat would earn them a fat bonus and let them escape the Guro quarantine zone. And the baseless certainty that they, at least, wouldn’t die.

I had to touch those nerves.

I looked at the words on the whiteboard.

The Cowardly Thief's Escape Route shows the path. The Viper's Fang strikes the gap. Persona's Black Stage drags people onto the stage. But this game was different. It wasn’t about finding a path, striking a gap, or opening a stage.

I had to make them believe the lie.

More precisely, I had to mix truth into the lie so people would move on their own two feet.

“Seon Woo-rak.”

When I called him, Seon Woo-rak’s eyes already gleamed as if he’d been waiting.

“You mean the isolation chamber.”

“Can you make one?”

“A perfect one is impossible. With the materials in this shelter, a temporary isolation room is the limit. However, if we link black spot stone shielding boxes in parallel with reaction rate monitors and double-layer the shielding fabric, we can reduce external interference to some degree.”

“The goal is stabilizing contact with the swindler’s remnants.”

“Suppressing Persona while intentionally drawing out only the swindler’s remnants… Interesting.”

“The word ‘interesting’ is forbidden.”

The Rat Merchant cut in immediately.

“Whenever that old man says something is interesting, someone usually ends up bleeding.”

Seon Woo-rak spoke with genuine offense.

“This time, a large amount of blood won’t be necessary.”

“A large amount?”

“To be precise, there’s a high probability that a single drop will suffice.”

“Remove the word ‘probability’ too.”

I glanced down at my wrist monitor.

After Yoon Taeha left and the black spot stone was placed inside the temporary shielding box, the numbers had stabilized. But the moment I intentionally drew out the swindler, that figure would change. It might even shoot back up near eighty percent.

Still, I wouldn’t call Persona this time. I would keep the Black Stage closed. What I needed was the card.

Seon Woo-rak moved immediately. The storage room inside the shelter began transforming into a temporary shielding chamber. The old metal shelves were pushed against the wall, shielding fabric was laid across the floor, and soundproof panels that Ghost Van had brought from somewhere were added to the inside of the door. Seon Woo-rak pulled thin cables from the black spot stone shielding box and connected them to the monitor.

The Rat Merchant installed a communication blocker. Every time he plugged in a wire, he grumbled.

“Never seen a guy meditate before committing fraud before.”

“It’s not meditation.”

“Then what is it?”

“Negotiation.”

“With who?”

I looked at the words on the board again.

The Rat Merchant followed my gaze and swallowed hard.

“You’re not seriously planning to talk to that remnant, are you?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that safe?”

“No.”

“Now I feel like an idiot for even asking if it’s okay.”

Seon Woo-rak placed an old chair in the center of the shielding room. In front of it was a small folding table. On the table lay the wrist monitor, stabilization patches, scraps of shielding fabric, and one worn card.

The Joker.

It was the card that appeared most clearly whenever the Swindler's Joker Card reacted. Originally it only took form briefly in my hand, but Seon Woo-rak had forcibly half-materialized it and fixed it to the table. The card was incomplete. Its edges were blurry as if they might crumble at a touch, and the clown’s face in the illustration was half smeared. Yet it was smiling. Unpleasantly.

No. Calling it unpleasant wasn’t quite right. The smile felt strangely familiar.

Seon Woo-rak said, “Let me reconfirm the procedure.”

“Objective set,” I said. “Stabilize the Swindler's Joker Card. Prepare fraud on the Black ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Dog subcontracting communication network. Block Persona interference.”

“Termination conditions.”

“First warning at supernormal reaction rate exceeding 78%. Forced termination at 80%. Immediate termination upon any visual or auditory Persona-related symptoms.”

The Rat Merchant raised his hand.

“Who’s doing the forced termination?”

“Seon Woo-rak.”

“You’re leaving it to that old man?”

Seon Woo-rak held up a small syringe.

“It’s an acute reaction suppressant.”

The Rat Merchant took a step back.

“Look at that—he’s clearly the most excited one here.”

“I have determined that you all must remain alive in order for me to conduct further observations.”

“I can’t tell if that’s consideration or research mania.”

“Both.”

“Worst possible answer.”

Ghost Van stood by the door. Silent. But he held a short baton in his hand. For physical restraint. Against me.

Good. They should have at least that much preparation.

I sat in the chair. The shielding room door closed.

Thud.

The outside sounds grew distant. The glow of the red emergency light faded. The damp smell unique to shielding fabric and the metallic air settled heavily inside the room.

I looked down at the Joker card on the table.

“I am Kang Doyun.” I spoke aloud. “I am Copycat.”

The wrist monitor let out a small beep.

“But I am not Persona.”

The black curtain did not move. Good.

“I will use a villain’s power.”

The edge of the Joker card trembled slightly.

“I will not hand over judgment.”

At that moment, the corners of the clown’s mouth in the card lifted a little higher. No. The card hadn’t smiled. I had simply felt it that way. Probably.

I reached out and picked up the Joker card. It was cold. It didn’t feel like paper. It felt like the back of someone’s hand—old, chilled skin.

My vision shook. The shelter’s shielding room receded. The metallic smell vanished, replaced by the damp odor of a basement. Wet paper. Moldy blankets. Cheap scented candles. And the smell of old banknotes.

When I opened my eyes, I was sitting in an old underground gambling den. Or rather, a shelter made to look like one. Water dripped from the ceiling, and old flyers were pasted on the walls.

Every sentence was a lie. Strangely, though, those lies didn’t carry the smell of blood. Instead, there were traces of people who had leaned on those words and fallen asleep. An old chair. A half-eaten can of food. A paper cup with a child’s handwriting. A single card resting on a torn blanket.

And the man sitting across the table.

The swindler.

He was more ordinary than I had imagined. No flashy suit, no glittering accessories. A wrinkled shirt. A threadbare vest. Ink stains on his fingertips. Tired eyes. But there was a smile on his lips. Not a smile crafted to deceive the world, but one he had kept to deceive himself.

He shuffled the cards as he spoke.

“You’re late.”

I sat in the chair opposite him.

“I don’t remember receiving an invitation.”

“Swindlers don’t send invitations. They make people come looking on their own.”

He shuffled the deck. Shhhrrrp. The old cards flowed between his fingers. Only two Jokers stood out clearly. The remaining fifty-two were blurry. The images, numbers, and suits were all indistinct.

“What are you trying to do?” the swindler asked. His voice was light, but the question was not.

I didn’t answer right away. Saying I was trying to save people sounded strange. Who was I to say that? Copycat. A Black Dog ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠subcontractor courier. A third-rate villain who should have died early in the original story. The guy who ran with a bloodstained money bag. If someone like me said he was going to save people, it would sound like a lie.

Which made it perfect for this place.

The swindler waited for my silence without rushing. He kept shuffling the cards. They continued to flow, blurry. I slowly opened my mouth.

“I’m going to try saving people.”

The swindler’s hands stopped. The basement grew quiet. A single drop of water fell from the ceiling.

Plink.

The swindler looked at me. He looked for a long time. Then he laughed. This time it wasn’t a light laugh. It was closer to laughter he couldn’t hold back.

“Try saving people.” He echoed my words. “A villain?”

“Yes.”

“With lies?”

“Probably.”

“With money?”

“If necessary.”

“Using someone else’s name?”

“I’m planning to borrow Black Dog’s name first.”

The swindler laughed, shoulders shaking.

“Nice.”

“Nice?”

“I’ve seen plenty of bastards who kill people with lies. It’s been a while since I saw one who wants to save them with lies.”

I looked at him.

“Did you do the same?”

The swindler stopped laughing. He looked at the flyers on the wall.

“At first,” he said, “people couldn’t endure with truth alone.”

His finger pointed at one flyer.

“The rescue team never came.”

Another flyer.

“The medicine ran out too.”

Yet another.

“That child was already dead.”

The swindler slowly flipped a card.

“But because they believed those lies, some people held on one more day. Some called their child’s name one more time. Some put down their knives.”

He looked at me.

“By the time I realized lies could save people, it was already too late to turn back.”

“So you became a villain?”

“People want lies. They ask for more. They beg to be allowed to live just a little longer. Before you know it, you forget why you started lying in the first place.”

His smile turned slightly bitter.

“I forgot.”

I looked down at the Joker card.

“I came here so I wouldn’t forget.”

“That’s why you built a shielding room?”

“Because I don’t trust myself.”

“Wise decision.”

The swindler pushed the deck toward me. But the cards remained blurry.

“I can’t give you everything yet.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve only opened the table. The cards are needed in front of people, not in a basement like this.”

He drew two Joker cards and placed them in my hand. This time the cards felt solid. Weight. Texture. The sharp edges catching on my fingertips.

“Use these for now.”

“Only two?”

“Two Jokers are usually enough. The rest get filled in on the table.”

“On the table?”

“If you truly use lies to save people,” the swindler leaned back, “and if people move because they believe your lies, then the deck will be completed.”

I held the two Joker cards. At that moment, voices came from somewhere in the basement. The voices of subcontractors. Voices demanding money. Voices begging to be saved. Curses at being betrayed. Black Dog’s orders. Madok’s low laughter. Hound’s breathing. And a sound like a child crying—yet like a beast’s growl.

Slaughter Dog. Han Bit-na. A name I hadn’t even seen the face of yet.

I looked at the swindler.

“One question.”

“Anything.”

“What do you need to save people with lies?”

The swindler pretended to think for a moment. Then he answered.

“Truth.”

“Truth?”

“If it’s all lies, it won’t last long. People are smarter than you think, and the world smells worse than you think. To drag a lie out for a long time, you have to put truth inside it.”

He folded his fingers one by one.

“Real money.” Second finger. “Real danger.” Third. “Real choices.” Fourth. “And the attitude that you truly won’t abandon them.”

He smiled.

“If you have those four things, people won’t just believe the lie—they’ll bet on it.”

I nodded slowly. That was what I needed. Black Dog’s subcontractors weren’t fools. They were subcontractors. People who worked outside contracts, waited for hazard pay, and were used to being abandoned. Such people didn’t move on words alone. Money. Information. An escape route. And proof that they wouldn’t be abandoned. I had to give them those.

“I should go back,” I said. The swindler chuckled.

“Already?”

“I have to set the table.”

“The stakes?”

“Black Dog put them up.”

“The dealer?”

“Me.”

“Then the audience?”

I thought for a moment. The subcontractors. Black Dog. The Association. The Black Sun. And the people who should have died in the original story.

“A lot.”

The swindler nodded, satisfied.

“Good. Then remember one thing.”

“What?”

“A swindler isn’t someone who makes people believe. He’s someone who offers what people want to believe at the most expensive moment.”

With those words, the basement collapsed.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the shielding room. I was sitting in the chair. Two Joker cards were gripped in my hand. They were no longer blurry. They were complete cards.

The wrist monitor beeped.

Seon Woo-rak’s voice came from beyond the door.

“It rose, but it’s not in the danger zone. Mental state?”

I exhaled slowly. The black curtain in my mind did not move. Instead, the sharp edge of the card felt alive at my fingertips.

“Normal.”

“Really?”

“Probably.”

The Rat Merchant’s voice cut in immediately.

“You can’t put ‘probably’ in a normal diagnosis, can you?”

The shielding room door opened. The Rat Merchant, Seon Woo-rak, and Ghost Van all looked at me at once. When the Rat Merchant saw the cards in my hand, he frowned.

“Are those real cards?”

“Do they look real?”

“They do, which is why I’m asking—because they shouldn’t.”

Seon Woo-rak’s eyes sparkled.

“The materialization stability is higher than before. Did the remnant contact deepen?”

I checked the wrist monitor.

“Not everything opened.”

“Then?”

“Only the two Jokers are firmly in hand.”

The Rat Merchant shrugged.

“Isn’t two too few?”

I looked down at the Joker cards in my hand. The clown was smiling.

“The swindler said it’s enough.”

“You actually consulted with the remnant?”

“I told you, it was a negotiation.”

The Rat Merchant shut his mouth for a moment. Then he spoke with complete seriousness.

“Next time you do that kind of negotiation, at least take a recorder. I can’t trust you alone.”

“Open the communication network.”

“Look at you changing the subject.”

But the Rat Merchant moved immediately. When we returned to the communication room, the terminal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠screen displayed the Black Dog subcontracting network.

Anonymous comments were rapidly appearing below the notice.

Anxiety. Greed. Suspicion. Expectation. The things the subcontractors wanted to believe wriggled between the sentences.

The Rat Merchant spoke from the side.

“I can mimic one settlement officer account. It won’t last long. The moment Black Dog’s main network runs verification, it’ll be caught immediately.”

“How long?”

“From the first notice until it’s caught? With luck, ten minutes. If conversation starts, three minutes.”

“That’s enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“The first lie.”

I placed one Joker card beside the terminal. The moment the card touched the table, a very low whisper overlapped in my ear. The subcontractors’ comments became voices. Voices demanding money. Voices asking if they could believe it. Voices insisting that they alone would escape. It wasn’t actual communication. It was auditory hallucination created by the card. It didn’t reveal sentences. It simply turned the desires attached to the words on the screen into audible voices.

The Rat Merchant swallowed.

“What did you just do?”

“I’m not using the ability to find answers.”

“Then?”

I scanned the comments. Words demanding money. Words doubting the settlement. Words asking if they could survive. Between those sentences, the swindler’s memories overlapped thinly. The look in people’s eyes right before they believed a lie. The moment they reached out even while doubting. The exact point where they hesitated when truth and falsehood were mixed together. Even though the sensation wasn’t mine, it clung familiarly to my fingertips.

I spoke slowly.

“The swindler must have seen a lot of tables like this.”

“So?”

“I think I understand a little what the subcontractors want to believe.”

The Rat Merchant pressed his lips together.

“That feels even creepier than the ability telling you sentences.”

“I feel the same.”

“But you’re still going to do it?”

“Yes.”

“You really are consistently annoying.”

I looked at the comment window. What the subcontractors asked about most was money. How much, when, and whether it was real. Next was safety. Whether official Black Dog personnel were coming in. Who would take responsibility if they clashed with the Association. Whether they would still get paid even if they failed to catch Copycat.

What they wanted was clear. Get paid. Not be abandoned. And survive themselves.

I told the Rat Merchant, “Separate out the amount available for advance payment.”

The Rat Merchant’s hands stopped.

“You’re really going to scatter real money?”

“Yes.”

“You could just show fake numbers. Write that on-site settlement is scheduled and then disappear later—”

“Then there’d be no difference between me and Black Dog.”

The Rat Merchant fell silent. I looked at the comment window. People gathering to die. People who didn’t yet know that.

“Lies last longer when they contain truth than when they’re entirely fake,” I said. “The truth I’m putting into this lie is money.”

The Rat Merchant sighed.

“You sometimes waste real money in the stupidest ways.”

“The more it hurts, the better it’ll work.”

“That’s true.”

He opened a separate wallet. Part of the funds set aside as black market deposits was quickly separated. Seon Woo-rak spoke from the side.

“Reaction rate 74. It went down a little.”

“Because it’s the swindler side instead of Persona?”

“That seems likely. It would be more accurate to say you’re sharing purpose with the remnant rather than clashing with it.”

Sharing purpose. The words felt strange. The swindler hadn’t tried to devour me. Instead, he had handed me the cards. After hearing the answer that I wanted to save people.

I gripped the other Joker card in my hand. This wasn’t wrong. At least for now, I could believe that.

“The wording?” the Rat Merchant asked.

I sat in front of the terminal. I skimmed through existing notices from Black Dog settlement officers. The tone was dry. Short. Sentences that said they would give money but didn’t treat the recipients as people. Over that tone, the swindler’s experience overlapped thinly. Settlement fraud. Relief fund fraud. Shelter list manipulation. Black market bond inducement. The countless sentences he had offered to broken people.

The Joker card didn’t create sentences. But the swindler’s experience knew. What words put people at ease. What numbers made them greedy. Which dangers they ignored and which losses made them panic.

I borrowed that sense and chose the sentences.

The Rat Merchant swallowed.

“You’re really posting it?”

“Not yet.”

I typed the next sentence. The Rat Merchant grabbed my hand to stop me.

“Wait. Writing ‘survival report’ might make them suspicious.”

“It’s better that way.”

“What?”

“The subcontractors know they’re going somewhere dangerous. If you say it’s safe, they won’t believe it. Saying you’re paying more because it’s dangerous works better.”

The Rat Merchant licked his lips.

“That’s true.”

“It has to look like a Black Dog settlement notice, but a little more generous than Black Dog.”

“Why?”

“Because the subcontractors aren’t moving because they trust Black Dog.”

I typed the final sentence.

The Rat Merchant frowned.

“The authentication phrase is lame.”

“It’s the kind Black Dog would use.”

“That’s why it pisses me off more.”

I stood the Joker card beside the terminal. The card didn’t write the notice for me. Instead, a low hallucination spread in my ear. The voices of different subcontractors overlapped.

“If the deposit comes, I’ll go.”

“If it’s on-site settlement, it must be real.”

“If I catch Copycat, I can get out.”

“This time they won’t abandon us.”

Those voices weren’t mine. But the moment I heard them, the direction of the sentences I needed to write became clearer.

I looked at the Rat Merchant.

“Attach the advance payment link.”

“The moment real money goes out, it’ll be hard to take back.”

“That’s why they’ll believe it.”

The Rat Merchant sighed.

“People who believe they can buy lives with money usually don’t live long.”

“The phrase ‘buying people with money’ doesn’t sound great.”

“Then?”

“Buying a reason to escape from a place where they’re going to die.”

The Rat Merchant looked at me for a moment. This time he didn’t joke. He attached the advance payment link.

“Transmission ready.”

The communication room grew quiet. Even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ghost Van stepped away from the wall to look at the screen. Seon Woo-rak checked the monitor.

I slipped the Joker card between my fingers. Only two cards. A deck that was still incomplete. But it was enough to open the first game.

“Send it.”

The Rat Merchant’s finger hovered over the transmit button. He asked one last time.

“You’re really doing this?”

“Yes.”

“If this succeeds, Black Dog’s subcontractors will gather at Warehouse 12.”

“That’s what needs to happen.”

“And if it fails?”

“Black Dog will find our location faster.”

“Your answers really don’t offer any comfort.”

“But if it succeeds,” I looked at the sentence on the screen.

“The people who were heading to their deaths will start moving to receive money while alive.”

The Rat Merchant remained silent for a moment. Then he pressed the transmit button.

Beep.

A new notice went up on the Black Dog subcontracting network. For the first three seconds, there was no reaction. Then the comment window began moving rapidly.

The Rat Merchant muttered as he watched the screen.

“They’re moving.”

There was more fear than admiration in his voice.

“The subcontractors are actually moving.”

I looked down at the Joker card. The clown in the card was smiling. Or maybe it only looked that way again. It didn’t matter. The first lie had been cast. Real money was mixed inside it. And people had begun to bet on that lie.

Right then, the Rat Merchant’s third terminal let out a warning tone.

Beep beep beep.

His face hardened.

“Copycat.”

“What.”

“A new document was caught on Black Dog’s internal network. I couldn’t pull everything, but the title doesn’t look good.”

Broken characters appeared on the screen.

The air in the communication room grew cold. The Rat Merchant slowly swallowed a curse.

“The reason they called the subcontractors was…”

“Not to track Copycat,” Seon Woo-rak said quietly.

I stared at the screen. Slaughter Dog. A name that had passed by briefly in the original story. And the smell of blood that had lingered behind it.

The Rat Merchant scraped out more of the document. A few additional words rose between the broken lines.

Fourteen years old.

I stared at that number for a long time. Words wouldn’t come out. The bounty on Copycat’s neck. Black Dog’s subcontractor summons. On-site settlement. Hazard pay. Beneath all of it was one fourteen-year-old child.

Black Dog intended to use the subcontractors as food for Slaughter Dog. And they intended to throw the child away too. Under the name of a test.

I gripped the Joker card. The card’s edge dug slightly into my fingertips. No blood came. But my mind became clearer.

“Rat Merchant.”

“What.”

“Raise the advance payment amount.”

He turned to look at me.

“Now?”

“The subcontractors need to move faster. Not gathering to die, but to make the reason to survive and escape even bigger.”

“This might not be a board that can be stopped with money.”

“Money alone can’t stop it.”

I looked at the name Han Bit-na on the screen.

“That’s why I’m also telling lies.”

The Rat Merchant bit his lip.

“Next notice?”

I spoke slowly.

“Priority settlement for on-site survivors.”

“And?”

“Say that survival reports to the settlement network take priority over orders from official Black Dog personnel.”

The Rat Merchant’s eyes widened.

“That’s a statement that shakes Black Dog’s chain of command.”

“That’s why it’s good.”

“You really intend to flip the whole table.”

I looked at the screen. The subcontracting network was still moving. Warehouse 12. The Guro quarantine zone. Slaughter Dog. Han Bit-na. And the card deck that was not yet complete.

I set the Joker card down beside the terminal.

“I’m not flipping it.”

The Rat Merchant looked at me. I gazed at the countless anonymous accounts floating above the subcontractor summons and said,

“I’m just adding a few more chairs to the table Black Dog has set.”

Who would sit in those chairs was still unknown. It could be the subcontractors. It could be Copycat. It could be the child called Slaughter Dog. But at least this time, Black Dog would not be the only dealer at the table.