The Investment
Kim Hye-ji’s character was a woman, yet she played a role that demanded guilelessness, unyielding loyalty, and a tragic fall brought about by that very loyalty.
No one could dislike her.
In the waiting room of The Queen, conversations about Octopus Game flowed freely.
Cha Ji-hoon, phone in hand, glanced at Webflix and said, “Namhu, have you watched Octopus Game?”
“I have.”
Even without investing in it, the drama was worth watching.
Just chatting about it over drinks with female clients could turn an hour into nothing more than a blur.
“Kim Hye-ji is really stunning.”
Cha Ji-hoon, who seemed more host than not, focused only on the female actors in the male-led drama.
“She is pretty, yes.”
“Even more so. She’s got that loyalty women should have.”
Working in the industry least known for loyalty seemed to have hooked Cha Ji-hoon completely on the loyal woman in the drama.
Hosts struggled to keep a proper girlfriend anyway.
A sane woman would never pick a host as a boyfriend, and when hosts dated, jealousy exploded or infidelity ended it all.
“Kim Hye-ji—does she have that kind of real personality too?”
“I have no idea.”
Kim Namhu had never officially claimed Kim Hye-ji as a regular customer, and he let the matter pass smoothly.
With Kim Namhu and Cha Ji-hoon chatting comfortably, Shin Yong-geom sidled over as if seeking an invitation.
“Namhu, I heard you won a car.”
A tiny, everyday topic in the host waiting room.
Hosts earned decent money and some drove luxury cars.
They didn’t buy outright; many rented, letting ordinary people drive vehicles they could never afford.
Whenever someone else was seen with a fancier ride, rumors spread instantly.
“No, the boss lent me one because he thinks I work hard. Hyung Yong-geom and Hyung Chang-won already have good cars, so no need to give them any. I don’t have one, so he felt bad and gave me this.”
No one had done the same for the existing Aces.
There was no need to speak the truth bluntly and sour their moods.
Cha Ji-hoon, feigning envy of the car he hadn’t received, asked eagerly, “Really? What model?”
“BMW 8 Series Coupe.”
“That’ll run about 150 million won, right?”
“He said around 140 million.”
“It’s solid. With that kind of money you could’ve bought a higher-end brand. Italian sports cars are nice too.”
“BMW won’t be ignored anywhere. And if something breaks down while I’m driving, repair costs will be high. Italians are always having issues, right?”
“Haha, you’re right.”
German cars were still the least prone to breakdowns and easiest to fix.
If you refused Korean cars, German brands were the smartest choice.
“Let’s take a look at the car later. Where’s it parked?”
“Nearby paid parking. Not much space around here.”
With a 140-million-won car, he could afford to pay for the parking himself.
Shin Yong-geom sounded envious as he spoke. “I’m working hard too—when I hit first place in sales, can I get a car?”
“Probably… yeah.”
Cha Ji-hoon and Shin Yong-geom had made no promises, but their eyes clearly said they’d work even harder.
***
hadn’t taken long to become a worldwide sensation.
At an international drama awards ceremony in the United States, one male lead and one female lead actor had each been invited.
In that drama, the woman with the most visual appeal and popularity was Kim Hye-ji alone.
Kim Hye-ji had rushed into American talk shows and kept herself busy.
Of course, shares related to Octopus Game had skyrocketed.
The production company that made the drama had received fixed fees from Webflix that had nothing to do with the show’s success, yet the drama had become a global hit, so they now demanded even more money for the next season.
Worse still, other OTT companies were scrambling to partner with the drama producer.
Even Webflix’s own stock price had surged overnight.
Despite the worldwide economic downturn, the platform showed no sign of trouble.
Management companies for the main actors had seen their stocks rise as well.
And Kim Namhu had placed his money in the safest investments possible.
“Roughly seven times, huh?”
A common phrase among stock gamblers.
Double your money? Two times. Ten times? Ten times. A legendary American trader once said he wouldn’t touch anything that couldn’t deliver ten times.
“Seven times in such a short period isn’t bad.”
The trader relied on long-term vision, which was why he demanded ten times.
Thanks to memories from his previous life, Kim Namhu had made money faster and more than anyone else.
He had his own savings first.
After covering his father’s hospital bills and the family’s living expenses, he had poured everything into investments—two hundred million won total.
Two hundred million had become 1.4 billion.
He had also invested money given by Han Ki-ju—twenty billion won.
That had grown into 140 billion.
After profit, 120 billion remained.
According to the contract, half of that—60 billion—would go to her.
‘Is this really a gut punch?’
The amount made Kim Namhu uneasy.
Sixty billion won was not a small sum.
A regular person would never even glimpse that much in a lifetime; spending a hundred million a year would leave them living comfortably for sixty years.
Buying a building, investing in blue-chip stocks, drawing dividends, or simply saving with interest could all fund a lifetime of leisure.
If Han Ki-ju had been a woman whose eyes would spin at sixty billion, he would have worried deeply.
‘But Ki-ju isn’t like that.’
Her family owned multiple sixty-billion-won buildings.
If someone handed her sixty billion, she would know it was the golden goose.
She wouldn’t slit its belly for more—she wouldn’t be the kind of small-time rich person who sees eighty billion and loses her mind.
“Doesn’t look like I have to worry about money anymore.”
The money that would eventually reach Kim Namhu’s hands was 7.4 billion.
Pulling it into the open, paying taxes, and a little else—some would be lost, but money worries would be gone for good.
And there was the complete opposite.
Cha Ji-hoon.
He sat with his phone, face twisted in distress.
“Ji-hoon-hyung, what’s wrong?”
“Ah… these bastards…”
Kim Namhu glanced at the phone screen.
Private online gambling sites appeared there.
‘No way.’
Cha Ji-hoon had earned a little every few days working as a host and, on good sales days, gambled ten thousand won at a time.
He was lucky he never bet big enough to lose everything on a losing streak.
‘Some hosts have hit rock bottom because of it.’
Hosts earned money easily, so many spent it just as quickly.
Some even took out loans and lost everything.
Cha Ji-hoon quickly tapped his screen and switched it over.
His gambling record showed ten consecutive wins at 1.95 odds—nearly eighty million won in his balance.
He was smiling, ready to withdraw, when a note appeared.
– My ID is suspended. Did you really think I’d hand you that money untouched, idiot? Report me if you’re pissed.
Private online gambling was illegal.
Cha Ji-hoon, who had used it, had no chance of recovering the money through a report.
“Sigh. What can you do? You can’t trust those sites. You should’ve just invested in stocks.”
“Stocks are boring.”
“Then crypto. I heard crypto doesn’t let anyone scam you like private gambling sites.”
“How much have I lost on crypto, though.”
Kim Namhu had to bite back his laugh.
The situation was hilarious, yet to Cha Ji-hoon it was no laughing matter.
“Still, you’ve made a little money so far.”
Gambling was ultimately a fifty-percent game.
Cha Ji-hoon boasted he had good instincts and that he had won more than he lost.
“Everything went.”
Gambling was easier than hosting.
Cha Ji-hoon spent every won he won.
Of course, he ended up with nothing.
“Sigh. I told you to just use a bank.”
“So when are you going to be rich?”
Kim Namhu barely held back the urge to empty his own balance.
‘Money bragging isn’t done in Korea.’
Brief satisfaction from showing off wealth was quickly followed by persistent, lifelong pursuit by the greedy.
All Kim Namhu could do for Cha Ji-hoon was buy him a sweet coffee and clap him on the shoulder.