CHAPTER 042: Golden Goblin
CHAPTER 042: Golden Goblin
A few days before Han Seungwoo showed up at the film set.
After leaving work early, Han Seungwoo got into a luxury sedan and was on his way to a whiskey bar in Cheongdam-dong.
He was going to have a drink with friends and blow off some stress.
But on the way, he got summoned by his father.
A short notice: come home tonight.
Fuck, tonight’s plans are ruined.
Whenever his father emphasized dinner, there was always a special reason.
Interrogation, anger, suspicion, the rod, and so on.
Never anything good.
Still, what could he do?
With a single flick of his father’s hand, he could lose everything.
He texted his friends that he’d see them another time, turned the car around, and headed home.
When he arrived, he saw his father sitting quietly at the massive dining table.
The atmosphere was already bleak.
A cold dagger flew into his chest and lodged there.
Still, don’t worry.
He was quicker than anyone at reading the room.
“Have you been keeping your royal body well these days, Father?”
“Quit acting ridiculous and sit down.”
“Yes.”
Han Seungwoo set his bag down and sat at the table right away.
“I heard you’ve been stirring up a lot of things since returning to the company.”
“Word’s already spread that far? Looks like I’m not the type who can live quietly.”
“I also heard you’re aggressively backing investment support for a film called Vacuum State.”
Only then did Han Seungwoo realize it.
The real reason for tonight’s dinner.
The hearing had begun.
“I hear the lead actor in that film is Ryu Sunho.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Isn’t that a name we’ve heard a lot lately?”
“Huh? Did you watch Divine Investigation too, Father? I thought you didn’t watch stuff like that, but you’re trendier than I expected.”
“Answer seriously.”
“…It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Han Taejun’s expression darkened.
Han Taejun, who led Taeseong Daily, always emphasized a king’s posture to Han Seungwoo.
An individual could follow sentiment, but a leader must not be swayed by sentiment.
Because a single leader could make hundreds, thousands of people shed tears of blood.
He always said: repay a benefactor with only the minimum courtesy—anything beyond that is just making yourself a sucker.
“This investment decision was made solely based on the film script. Just like you led Taeseong Daily into the top media outlet, I intend to make Content Trinity the top media company.”
“Your grounds?”
“Instinct. The intuition to pick out good content.”
Just as Han Taejun made an unimpressed face,
his mother, with elegant red hair, sat down at the table and joined the conversation.
“I know, because I’ve been in the entertainment industry too. There are moments when you need this kind of intuition. The entertainment scene isn’t a place that moves on data and logic alone.”
His mother smiled brightly, as if trying to fill her son with confidence.
Han Taejun stared hard into his son’s eyes.
As if trying to see through what lay underneath.
Over the past years, how many projects had his son ruined, and how much money had he scattered?
But today was a little different.
For the first time, a cold ambition brushed past.
Something like a sharp will aimed at a goal—something that resembled himself.
Did that accident really change the kid?
A son who had returned alive from the edge of death.
A faint hope that the accident might have made his immature son grow, even a little.
But distrust built over decades shook that hope.
“Setting aside whether you invested because of Ryu Sunho or not, what matters is whether that instinct is correct. It’ll become grounds to judge whether you have the qualifications to lead that company going forward.”
“Well, I’ve ruined a lot until now. I admit it.”
Han Seungwoo swirled his wineglass and continued.
“But back then and now are different, aren’t they? Han Seungwoo, reborn. Try trusting me once.”
“…….”
After that, there was no more conversation.
Only then did Han Seungwoo ease up a little.
No further grilling was a positive sign.
When his father finished dinner and left, Han Seungwoo also returned to his room.
“Whew, I almost got fucked. I almost got found out that I invested because of Ryu Sunho.”
Judging from his father’s mood, he probably needed to hold back on drinking and partying for a while.
Then how was he supposed to relieve this stress?
The sorrow of a salaried worker who shows up to work day after day.
He needed something he could sink into and forget reality.
Han Seungwoo settled comfortably onto the living room sofa in his bedroom and turned on the huge TV.
Then he started rewatching Divine Investigation from the beginning, which he’d watched recently.
“That, that crazy psycho bastard.”
He cursed at Kang Seoho on the screen and stayed immersed for a while.
Then suddenly, a brilliant idea hit him.
A perfect method where he could work and relieve stress at the same time.
“Should I go take a look at Ryu Sunho’s film set?”
When Han Seungwoo’s golden carriage arrived at the set, filming paused for a moment and everyone took a break.
The exhausted staff all regained life in their faces.
“Whoa…! What is this food truck quality?!”
“This is on a completely different level from a normal catering truck.”
“An omakase master is making sushi on the spot…?”
“This is basically a moving night market.”
“I’m going to go use the massage chair. My whole body’s been aching.”
“Never in my life did I think I’d use a massage chair on a film set.”
“There are foot baths here too!”
“Ahh, the fatigue is melting away.”
“Hnnng….”
While everyone watched the staff enjoying the golden carriage,
Han Seungwoo came looking for me.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m dieting.”
“Oh, perfect. Then hang out with me a bit.”
In a situation like this, wouldn’t you normally say something encouraging first?
Well, he’s a different kind of person.
Anyway.
We sat on a bench a little away from the set.
“How did you know where the set was?”
“Come on. I’m an investor, you know. I asked the director in advance.”
Ah—then why didn’t the director tell me in advance?
“I told him not to. I wanted to show up like a secret weapon. So? How was it?”
“Yes. You were like a weapon.”
“…Tsk, why does that feel weird?”
After talking about the shoot for a bit, Han Seungwoo brought up the drama.
“I rewatched Divine Investigation from the beginning the other day. It was fun even watching again. Kang Seoho is a really charming character. Are you thinking of doing another drama?”
“Not yet. For now, I want to focus on the film I’m shooting.”
“Ahh, okay, okay. The film I invested in comes first. Good mindset.”
Han Seungwoo pulled gum from his pocket.
“I started chewing gum to quit smoking, but I still haven’t quit the gum.”
Then he offered me one too.
“I’m fine.”
“If you don’t want it, whatever.”
He chewed for a while and asked,
“What’s your all-time drama?”
“My all-time drama?”
“You know, the one you can’t forget even if you die, totally your taste, fun no matter how many times you watch it. I’m curious what actors’ all-time dramas are. Whether our tastes match. Or what’s different.”
Being asked so suddenly, nothing came to mind.
No—more accurately, one title came to mind clearly, but I couldn’t answer.
It was a drama from my past life that didn’t exist on this timeline yet.
The drama that hit record ratings in Korea and did quite well globally, Doctor Princess.
The female lead was born between a British royal descendant and a Korean mother. She had no chance at succession, but she hated the weight of being a “princess,” so she came to Korea to study as if fleeing, dreaming of becoming a doctor.
Then the youngest genius surgeon appeared—equal parts swagger and overwhelming skill—and the story of their clashes and entanglement began.
It was a unique work that deftly mixed a bold premise with the tension of a medical drama and the sweetness of a romantic comedy.
After getting burned, I’d avoided even looking at TV for a long time, but it was so fun I forgot the pain and got immersed.
Come to think of it, this drama…
I remembered it being Writer Choi Jeongin’s work.
Because it was such a massive hit, I remembered her appearing all over the place in interviews.
But with Survival Love failing miserably and the future changing, Doctor Princess wouldn’t end up being born in this world, would it?
“Why aren’t you saying anything? I asked what your all-time drama is.”
At Han Seungwoo’s urging, I threw out another suitable title instead.
“That one’s a pretty niche drama, isn’t it? Your taste is unique. I like stuff that really blows up and the general public loves. Ratings over 30%—that kind of thing.”
Just then, the assistant director approached us.
“Sunho, you need to get ready for the next scene.”
Han Seungwoo checked his wristwatch, then stood up and said,
“Time flew while we were talking. Anyway, next time, let’s watch a drama that fits my taste too.”
Break time ended and filming resumed.
Han Seungwoo didn’t leave. He set himself up behind the director’s chair.
He said he’d watch a bit before going.
The scene they were shooting this time was one where Jeong Dogyun—completely isolated from the world—screamed in the middle of a crowd, begging to be recognized.
A scene that required extreme emotional shifts: from laughter to anger, from anger to crying, and finally to despair.
“Ready… action!”
With the director’s cue, Ryu Sunho stood in the middle of a bustling street.
Hundreds of supporting extras passed by.
At first, his feet locked up.
Hundreds of footsteps, voices. It felt like all of it would crash down on him.
After living in seclusion in a cage-like home, just standing in a crowded place made him feel suffocated.
But no one looked at Dogyun.
Shoulders brushing past, a hand waving right in front of him—no one recognized him.
As the fear gradually loosened, the corners of his mouth slowly rose.
“Haha… what is this…? No one really sees me.”
Breathing became lighter.
His shoulders loosened, and he felt relieved, as if the distance between him and the world had widened.
“How can it be this free.”
For a brief moment, Dogyun felt liberation in this indifference.
But freedom soon brought hunger.
After avoiding it for so long, he now desperately wanted to receive “attention” even once.
“Hey…”
Dogyun’s voice seeped into the crowd.
“Hey! I’m right here!”
His voice grew louder.
“Look at me, you fuckers!”
A voice that was clumsy even at anger.
Weak and thin.
Trying to draw attention, Dogyun kicked over a trash can and sent flyers fluttering.
He banged on signboards and screamed.
For a moment it seemed like people lifted their heads, but their eyes soon dropped right back into the rectangular screens in their palms.
Dogyun’s anger surged up his throat, and his eyes soaked hot.
“…Please…”
His voice trembled.
“Please, look at me.”
Dogyun dropped to his knees in the middle of the crowd.
The ground clung coldly to his palms.
His breath came in rough gasps.
But people didn’t stop flowing.
Passing by him, they stayed absorbed in music through their earphones and voices inside their smartphones.
Dogyun slowly raised his head.
What entered his view was—
hundreds of bowed heads.
Not a single pair of eyes turned toward him.
In the place where laughter, anger, and tears had drained away,
only cold, heavy air remained.
Dogyun muttered softly, but desperately,
“…Am I someone who shouldn’t even have expectations.”
He lowered his head again.
As if the world had already erased him,
he had vanished completely within the crowd.
“…Cut!”
Director Ji Seongwoo’s shout rang out, but the set stayed quiet for a while.
No one could escape the world of despair Ryu Sunho had created.
The ones who broke the silence were the extras.
Even though the acting had ended, a few approached Ryu Sunho—still collapsed on the ground, unable to lift his head—as if on cue.
“Are you okay?”
“Drink some water, at least.”
His acting was so real that they forgot it was acting and felt genuinely sorry for him.
Only then did Ryu Sunho lift his head.
With eyes still bloodshot red, he gave a faint smile toward the people looking at him with concern.
“Ah, I’m fine. Thank you for worrying.”
At that, admiration burst out among the staff.
“Wow… first time I’ve seen extras take care of an actor after a scene.”
“That’s how real it felt. I got choked up too, for a second.”
“The way his voice cracked… that was really good. It perfectly brought out that clumsy Jeong Dogyun vibe.”
“Even the timing of the tears falling was art.”
Director Ji Seongwoo looked down at the script.
A scene ten times more miserable than what he’d written had just unfolded before his eyes.
“So this is what they mean when they say to trust the actor…”
Han Seungwoo, watching from behind.
He stopped chewing the gum he hadn’t even realized he was chewing.
His earlier light curiosity was gone without a trace.
I came to watch for fun… but this isn’t a joke.
Han Seungwoo’s eyes were fixed on Ryu Sunho.
An expression like he was being overwhelmed by something—beyond admiration.
Han Seungwoo muttered quietly.
“…He’s got it.”
That evening, the same day.
At a pub near Doldari Intersection in Guri, Gyeonggi Province.
Rowdy music, the savory smell of fried chicken, and the cheerful clink of glasses filled the interior.
Joo Hanbit—who had ended her life as an aspiring writer in Seoul and returned to her hometown—was meeting friends after a long time and savoring her sense of freedom.
Joo Hanbit slammed her beer glass onto the table with a bang and shouted,
“To the successful failure of Survival Love!”
“To it!”
Her friends clinked glasses with a laugh.
“Ah, seriously, I can finally breathe now that I don’t have to see that dwarf bitch Choi Jeongin’s face. This liquor tastes fucking amazing!”
“Well done! Joo Hanbit, you’re amazing! You should’ve quit ages ago!”
After laughing and carrying on,
a friend in red glasses asked carefully,
“But are you really done with writing forever now?”
“I’m done.”
“You don’t have any writing you’ve already done?”
“I do, but I’m going to bury it. That bitch Choi Jeongin screamed that she’d make sure I can’t even set foot in this industry. It’s bullshit, but she’s someone who actually has that kind of power.”
“But it’s a waste. At least submit it somewhere.”
“I thought about it, but… if it gets accepted and then she flips it right in front of me, I think that would be even harder to endure.”
Joo Hanbit gulped down her beer.
Sadness settled in her eyes.
Watching her, the friend in red glasses stared hard at the label on the beer bottle in their hand, then raised it and said,
“You know I work at an ad agency. There’s a beer ad copy I like the most. And you know what it says?”
Joo Hanbit, who had been looking with sad eyes, turned to her friend.
The friend in red glasses grinned and said,
“If you do nothing, nothing happens.”
They lightly clinked their beer bottle against Joo Hanbit’s glass.
A clear clink rang out.
“Sure, the higher you fly, the more it hurts when you fall. But still—doesn’t it make you itch to just lie flat on the ground forever?”
“……”
“At the end of that ad, it finishes like this: ‘Crash into it—thrillingly!’ You should crash into it once too. Whether the glass breaks, or the foam overflows thrillingly—you only find out by crashing. Who knows? Maybe shards from your broken glass will get in that bitch’s eyes and she won’t even be able to see straight.”
Life returned to Joo Hanbit’s empty eyes for the first time in a long while.
“…Should I?”
The next morning.
With a pounding hangover, Joo Hanbit turned on her computer.
Then she searched “drama script contest” online.
Among the various contests, one jointly held by Content Trinity and JTBN caught her eye.
After a brief hesitation, Joo Hanbit moved the mouse.
“Yeah. Let’s crash into it once. I’m bigger than Choi Jeongin anyway.”
?”
