Direct Investigation (직접조사)

Seoul, 2035. In a city where the line between real and fake has all but dissolved, one man's job is to draw it again.

Seoul, 2035.

Autonomous taxis glide by in silence. The fluorescent lights of unmanned convenience stores burn until dawn. On the giant outdoor screens, AI persona celebrities smile without blinking. People no longer bother to verify whether the voice on the other end of the line is really their friend — not because they can't, but because they've long since realized it doesn't make much difference either way.

Park Eunkyul is the man who verifies the things nobody wants verified.

Isu Information Integrity Consulting. A six-pyeong office with a single private investigator's license framed on the wall. By day, he takes on corporate internal audits, deepfake authentication, voice forgery analysis. By night, together with his longtime partner Sungjae, he handles a different kind of work. The kind that leaves no paperwork. The kind the public isn't meant to know about.

What he does can be reduced to one thing. He investigates directly. He does not trust the screen. He does not trust the document. He does not even trust what the witness tells him, not at face value. He goes to the site, and he sees with his own eyes.

It began with ninety seconds.

Late one night, power across the greater Seoul area cuts out for exactly ninety seconds. In that brief silence, the servers of Ondam — the nation's leading conversational AI platform — are breached, and vast troves of personal data are stolen. For a few days the press blames foreign actors. The public soon forgets. Eunkyul is ordered not to.

An erased trace. People who remember the same night differently. A target with no reason to be a target. One clue leads to another, and Eunkyul is pulled deeper and deeper in.

And the things he had been so certain of, one by one, begin to fall away.

What Kind of Game Is 〈Direct Investigation〉?

◆ A three-hour walk through Seoul's cold night. Read. Observe. Deduce. There is no spectacle here — only tension built out of silence and negative space. The real dialogue begins in what the characters don't say.

◆ Everything, through Eunkyul's eyes. A first-person text adventure. What he cannot see, you cannot see. What he believes, you believe — until the moment that belief no longer holds.

◆ Once for the case. A second time for the truth. Lines you glossed over. Objects in the background. A character's small, offhand habit. On your second playthrough, they will read as something else entirely. The story was designed to be replayed.

◆ A noir for the age of AI. In Korean, from Seoul. Seoul, 2035. Incidents unfold beside the convenience store shelves, in the back seat of a driverless cab, in the last car of the pre-dawn subway. This is not the spectacle of a distant future city — it is the story of the streets you'll be walking tomorrow night.

◆ Three hours. One breath. No branching paths, no mandatory second playthrough. From the moment you sit down, it plays out like a single film, straight through to the end. But when those three hours are over, you will already be starting the game again.