CHAPTER 036: Standby
CHAPTER 036: Standby
“I missed you so much I thought I’d die.”
I looked at him with a blank expression.
Then he leaned in toward me and whispered into my ear.
“It’s me. The person you saved. The black Benz.”
He leaned back and gave me a wink.
My head got complicated.
It was strange that the person I saved had come back perfectly fine and was standing right in front of me.
But it was also bewildering that this person was the distributor’s executive director who held this film’s fate in his hands.
Then… was it because of me that he chose this film?
Because I was his lifesaver?
“The script was so good. And the lead’s so good too. You can act, Sunho.”
Han Seungwoo said, tilting his head slightly.
“So I brought it. We’re going to push it properly and make a second Parasite.”
He spread his palm and made a gesture like he was scanning my face up and down.
“This thing of yours.”
Then, with the same open hand, he pressed his thumb and index finger together to make a circle.
“And this thing of mine. When those two come together, there’s nothing to fear.”
“……”
“Ah, today isn’t anything special. I just asked for a meeting because I wanted to see your face in person. We’re going to be working together from now on, so I should get used to it. I’ll push you hard. For a long, long time.”
A vague sense of unease crept over me.
I couldn’t get a read on why he was acting the way he was.
Was it real conviction about the project?
A favor toward his lifesaver?
Or the thrill of finding a new toy?
My goal was to stop the distributor from meddling so the film wouldn’t get ruined.
But it was even harder when I couldn’t tell whether he was an ally or a wolf.
That was when—
“Ah, but.”
Han Seungwoo tossed out the question like an afterthought.
“You’re doing the actor thing because it looks doable? Or because you really want it?”
His eyes, which had been full of mischief, turned serious in an instant.
A heavy gaze, like he was trying to see straight through something.
I took a slow breath and met that look head-on.
“I really want it.”
My voice came out firmer than I expected.
“And it’s my dream too. A vicious dream that repeats every night like a hallucination.”
In those words were years I couldn’t talk about, and a chance I’d thought would never come back.
As something hot rose slowly from deep in my chest, a translucent sentence appeared at the edge of my vision.
【Trait: Wave of Sincerity (B-Rank) is activated.】
【Sincerity is delivered with a 20% amplification.】
Han Seungwoo’s expression shifted slightly as he listened.
The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes softened, and his head tilted a little at the same angle as mine.
‘Unconscious mirroring.’
In psychology, it’s a strong nonverbal signal that appears when someone deeply empathizes with another’s emotions.
An unconscious behavior that closes distance and strengthens the relationship.
It’s the moment when liking crosses into trust.
“And you still risked your life to pull someone out of a car…”
He murmured low.
Then, very faintly, he let out a long breath.
“Mm. Okay. That’s romantic.”
He gave a short chuckle, a faint smirk.
“But there’s nothing in this world that works on sincerity alone. You know that, right? Especially in film.”
“……”
“That’s why I’m here. The person who’ll lay the board under your sincerity.”
Han Seungwoo extended his hand.
“Let’s do this right, us. Let’s succeed together.”
Interest in Divine Investigation was still hot.
The drama was already heading into its latter half, but it was firmly holding the number-one spot in Wed–Thu dramas with ratings over 20%.
Still, the atmosphere in MBS’s drama division office wasn’t purely celebratory.
“CP, aren’t you happy?”
“I am.”
“You don’t look happy at all.”
“I’m less happy.”
The CP, the drama’s overall executive in charge, let out a long sigh as he stared at the monitor displaying the ratings graph.
“Even so, 23.5% is a huge success. The competing show is struggling in the 6% range.”
“It is a huge success. But, you know… it’s a shame. People’s hearts are like that. Your thoughts change when something comes in and when it goes out.”
He pointed at a certain spot on the graph.
A line graph that shot up to 25% at episode 4, then began a gradual decline from episode 5 and settled in the low-to-mid 20% range.
“Look at this. Episode 4. When that monster rookie grabbed it by the collar and dragged it up to 25%, I really saw it. The dream of 30%. But from episode 5 onward, it just keeps slipping… what is this supposed to be.”
“Well, back then the viewer board was a mess too. People said the drama got boring after Kang Seoho left. There are dozens of posts every day telling you to bring Kang Seoho back to life.”
“Bring him back to life, my ass. Writer Park wrote him as a four-episode villain from the start. It’s just… we dreamed too big. Because that rookie actor did unexpectedly well.”
Their regret was directly reflected in the audience response.
Everywhere, communities were overflowing with posts lamenting Kang Seoho’s exit.
—After Kang Seoho died, the tension dropped..
—Honestly I watched because of Kang Seoho, but I’m forcing myself to keep watching out of loyalty
—Other villains show up but they’re not as attractive as Kang Seoho. No impact.
—Emergency petition: bring Kang Seoho back to life (1/10000)
└(2/10000)
└I did it for now, but is this real?
└The drama’s almost over—what do you mean “real” lol
Overseas viewers’ reactions were similar.
On IMDb, Divine Investigation’s rating held in the 9s up through episode 4, then dropped hard into the 7–8 range starting with episode 5.
—What was the writer thinking? Killing the best character in episode 4 is just terrible storytelling.
—The drama is still good, but it lost its “spark.” That spark was incredibly intense.
—I started watching because of the lead actors, but I’m leaving as a fan of Ryu Sunho. I’ll definitely watch his next work.
The interesting part was this:
While interest in the drama itself faded a little, interest in Ryu Sunho spread in a different way.
A meme that had been trending in an American community—“the man with two faces”—was reverse-imported into Korea and spread through local communities.
On the left, Kang Seoho smiling brightly in episode 1.
On the right, Kang Seoho grinning with madness in episode 2.
That meme, with the two photos placed side by side, passed through Korean netizens’ hands and got fully K-patched into an all-purpose reaction image.
[Me on payday vs me on the hell-subway ride]
[Me waiting for delivery food vs when I find out the order got canceled]
[Me stanning my idol vs when a scandal hits and I unstan]
—lol This meme is insanely funny. It’s a total all-purpose pic
—Foreign fans made it and it got reverse-imported into Korea? Damn. World-class
—Our Sunho is world-class, confirmed
└Not Ryu Sunho, but Kang Seoho, yes lol
└The name “Ryu Sunho” still feels awkward, you know lol
Even though Kang Seoho had exited the drama, he gained a new kind of life online.
Anyway.
Even if it wasn’t the all-time ratings record they’d hoped for, Divine Investigation’s performance was remarkable.
It was MBS’s first drama in fifteen years to hit the 20% range, and it had also completely crushed writer Choi Jeongin’s * *—which had been named the most anticipated show of the second half—forcing it to struggle in single-digit ratings.
So.
The atmosphere in writer Choi Jeongin’s writing office was, in a word, walking on thin ice.
“Is this writing? Is this dialogue?!”
Choi Jeongin slammed a stack of paper onto the desk like she was throwing it.
At the bang, the assistant writers’ shoulders jolted.
Choi Jeongin tapped the script assistant writer Joo Hanbit had submitted with her finger, shooting her a contemptuous look.
“There’s no emotion. No emotion! It’s bland! That’s why viewers flip over to Park Eunju’s drama! Your writing is like plain water. Plain water!”
Cruel words that pinned the cause of every failure on the assistant writer.
Under the desk, Joo Hanbit clenched her fist tight.
The pain of nails digging into her palm hurt less than the humiliation tearing into her heart.
It had been like this for years.
Choi Jeongin called her own ideas “raw gems,” then took Joo Hanbit’s for cheap and polished them into “jewels.”
“You have no sense, so you end up groveling to someone like Park Eunju! I’m the one feeding you and paying you a salary, and it’s a waste!”
Right then.
Something in Joo Hanbit snapped with a quiet click.
She shot up from her chair.
At the loud scrape, every gaze in the writing room turned to her.
“Stop it, Writer.”
Joo Hanbit’s voice trembled thinly with rage.
Choi Jeongin glared at her like it was ridiculous.
“What? What did you just say to me?”
“Those lines—you praised them a few days ago, took them, and built that scene with them. Like last time.”
“Are you insane?”
Choi Jeongin’s face twisted with fury.
“How dare you talk back.”
“You can only climb if there’s something to lean on. You just keep pressing me down and crushing me. So I can’t even lift my head.”
“What is this ungrateful bitch. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be groveling at an academy. I finally let you see the light, and now look at your mouth. Your attitude’s disgusting.”
“Exactly. I should’ve never followed you back then. At least I would’ve been writing under my own name.”
At Joo Hanbit’s cold counter, Choi Jeongin’s face flushed red, then blue.
“You know this industry is small, right?”
“I know. That’s why I endured it until now. But…”
Joo Hanbit grabbed her bag.
“I’m not going to endure anymore. I’ll find my own way to live.”
She started packing without hesitation.
“If you walk out of here right now, don’t even think about holding a pen again.”
“……”
“Can’t you hear me? Stopping just you from debuting is nothing for me.”
Joo Hanbit looked Choi Jeongin straight in the eye.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
“Go ahead. Keep living like that. I’ll do day labor if I have to, and I’ll still survive.”
Under the other writers’ shocked stares, Joo Hanbit shoved things into her bag aggressively.
Then, suddenly—
A script book she found deep in a drawer.
The moment she pulled it out, a sweet promise Choi Jeongin had made not long ago flashed through her mind.
If she just finished this one well, she’d personally find a production company so Joo Hanbit could make her debut as a director with * *.
She’d believed those words completely.
Even while staying up all night revising the script, she’d smiled to herself, imagining casting the lead.
‘What if I put the hottest rookie, Ryu Sunho, into this role?’
She’d endured with that dreamlike hope.
‘In the end… it was all pointless delusion.’
Joo Hanbit gritted her teeth and shoved it into her bag too.
Choi Jeongin’s curse-laced yelling stabbed into her back, but Joo Hanbit never replied even once.
Then, as she opened the door of the writing room that had felt like a detention camp, she shouted so everyone could hear.
“Go to hell, you dwarf bitch!”
Once Content Trinity’s investment and distribution were confirmed, the gears of * *—which had been stuck for so long—started spinning like crazy.
“To build the protagonist’s room set, the set cost will run a little higher than expected. If we want to express the twisted emotions as a metaphor…”
“No problem. Don’t worry about the budget—please make exactly the picture you want, Director. We have no intention of being stingy with the investment.”
With the wings of money and trust, Director Ji Seongwoo unleashed the creative desire he’d been suppressing.
“Director of Photography, for this film, I want to use special lenses to express the protagonist’s distorted perspective. It’s equipment there are only a few units of in Korea…”
“I’ll secure it and rent it immediately. If needed, we’ll even bring it in directly from overseas.”
With everything going smoothly, pre-production moved at a breakneck pace.
And finally—
The first day of filming arrived, with everything prepared.
Only the final production schedule remained.
Key staff gathered in Nine Film’s meeting room.
“Alright, then. Let’s organize the actors’ schedules.”
“Actor Park Juwon’s schedule is packed until next week because of * *, so… the first week has to focus on actor Ryu Sunho.”
“If it’s Sunho’s early portion… most of the scenes are opposite Teacher Bae Seonggeon, aren’t they?”
At that, the meeting room fell briefly silent.
“Then the scene we have to shoot right away is…”
“Let’s go with the past flashback scene where actor Ryu Sunho and actor Bae Seonggeon collide. The scene that shows the trauma—why Jeong Dogyun became a reclusive loner.”
One staff member spoke in a worried voice.
“Then isn’t the difficulty too high right from the first shoot day? A rookie actor emotionally crashing into Bae Seonggeon from day one…”
“We don’t have a choice.”
The person in charge of on-site operations shook their head.
“The villa set rental period is short. We also have to damage parts of it for the later scenes, so the past flashback scene that has to be shot while it’s intact needs to be shot first, no matter what.”
“Mm…”
Anticipation and worry, half and half.
Complicated expressions crossed the staff’s faces.
The production manager wrapped up the mood.
“Let’s think positively. If anything, we can pull the emotions up hard from the first day.”
“I’m actually looking forward to it. A monster rookie and a giant of the theater world going head-to-head properly from day one. I’m already excited to see what kind of picture we get.”
In the end, everyone agreed.
There wasn’t really any alternative anyway.
“Since the first start matters, let’s all prepare with everything we’ve got!”
A few days later,
the first day of filming for * * finally arrived.
On set, a strange liveliness hung in the air, mixing the anticipation for the film with the tension of the first shoot.
“Camera director, please check the blocking one more time!”
“Lower the lights half a stop! There’s shadow on the actor’s face!”
At that moment,
the middle-aged actor Bae Seonggeon, who played Jeong Dogyun’s father, stood quietly at one side of the set, watching the scene.
After decades living on the theater stage, he was a living legend in Korean theater.
Even film master director Baek Junbong, after watching his theater work, had praised him, saying, “Bae Seonggeon’s acting is too big to be captured on camera.”
The reason he rarely showed his face in media like TV or film was simple.
A fierce pride in acting.
‘Only the stage—where you breathe with the audience in real time and vomit raw emotion—is real acting.’
Yet here Bae Seonggeon was, sitting on an unfamiliar film set.
Because of Director Ji Seongwoo.
He owed him a debt.
And the script Director Ji Seongwoo handed him after such a long time was truly incredible.
Enough to make him spend days and nights wondering how he would handle those emotions on stage.
In the end, he broke his long-held conviction and decided to stand in front of the camera.
Then his gaze landed on Ryu Sunho, busy preparing for the shoot.
A manager, a stylist, a makeup artist—
surrounded by multiple staff members, being taken care of.
‘A greenhouse flower.’
His acting in Divine Investigation had been quite impressive.
Raw emotion powerful enough to pierce the TV screen.
At that age, releasing that kind of energy was undeniably a remarkable talent.
‘But… what was lacking was the body.’
He was an actor who had spoken with his body on the theater stage for his entire life.
The emotion exploded, but the body that had to contain it felt like it couldn’t keep up—that was what bothered him.
He’d sensed awkward, unrefined movements through the screen.
‘On TV, you can hide it with editing and close-ups. But the set is different.’
Today’s scene.
A brutally delicate emotional scene where the son, Jeong Dogyun, despairs and collapses in front of his father.
Could that kid really express all of that with his whole body?
If emotion ran ahead and the body moved separately, he’d ruin this crucial first scene.
“Alright, we’re ready! Going into standby!”
At the assistant director’s shout, Bae Seonggeon pulled himself out of his thoughts and took his position.
He gave Ryu Sunho one last look.
In that gaze was sharp expectation and doubt.
Then, with the sharp crack of the slate clapping together,
Director Ji Seongwoo’s trembling voice rang out across the set.
“Ready… action!”