The First Thing to Be Crushed (2)
“Being a rookie writer, she must’ve felt the pressure since it’s airing in the same time slot as Kim Sang-hee’s drama.”
“It’s not even the same network, just the same time on different days, though?”
“That’s not how she saw it, apparently. She kept comparing herself internally. Even when the PD said it was good enough, she kept revising the script—over and over and over.”
“……”
“Not to speak ill of her, but the PD’s got a temper too. When the writer kept doing things he told her not to, he lost his cool and said something he shouldn’t have. Things escalated from there. It was a powder keg waiting to blow…”
“And it finally did big time, so she ghosted. That about sums it up, right, Director?”
“Yes, that’s the situation.”
Jang Seung-won scratched his head, grumbling like it was all too much.
“PDs these days… They really need to manage their writers’ mental states better. Especially rookies.”
“Exactly. PDs and writers alike—they’re all so jaded, acting like they were never rookies themselves. Give me a break.”
“Speaking of rookies who don’t act like it, we’ve got one right here.”
“Hahaha, now that you mention it, Actor Jeong Seo-hoon doesn’t feel like a rookie at all.”
“I thought the same watching Illegal. Is that guy really a newbie?”
They forced weak laughs, awkwardly changing the subject—a brief escape from the grim reality.
But you can’t turn your back on problems forever.
If you run from a big credit card bill, the collectors will stalk you next.
“Can’t you just plug the hole with another writer?”
“We looked into it. But who’d step in to patch someone else’s script? Too risky—what if issues pop up later?”
“Fair point. If the original writer resurfaces and sues, it’d be a headache.”
“We tried reshuffling it to another slot, but that’d mean recasting everyone. No time. Even starting filming now, we’d barely hit the March 1 airdate.”
Neither continuing the production nor keeping the slot was feasible.
“What’s the PD saying?”
“Just apologizing, blaming his own temper. But pointing fingers won’t help. We need to fill that slot first.”
“Priorities, yeah… This is a mess.”
Jang Seung-won looked troubled.
It wasn’t their problem, so they could brush it off curtly—but the man was the drama department head.
Even in an era where top scripts could bully networks, this was still a small world of people.
Rejections had to be polite, no hard feelings.
“Do you think I’d come begging the Haegeuk team if I had options? We need something for that slot. Can’t just air National Geographic reruns.”
“Viewers expecting a weekday 9 PM drama will be pissed.”
“Any chance?”
“It’s not my call alone…”
“The script’s complete. Just adjust the schedule. Who else decides if not you, PD Jang?”
As the department head said, Jang Seung-won held the power.
Writers didn’t care about weekly episodes; actors could handle tighter schedules.
“They say the schedule gets crushed first when production’s greenlit.”
Jeong Seo-hoon chimed in at Jang’s sigh.
“In war, the battle plan’s the first casualty once fighting starts.”
“Same everywhere people live. That ghosting writer’s done for. Won’t set foot in this industry again. What was she thinking?”
“Common around here?”
“Not really.”
Jang shrugged.
“You see all types in this business. Actors stumbling in drunk, writers drowning in soju and tears because they can’t write after last-minute rewrites, diva actors complaining about how their scenes were edited after you’ve slaved to make it work. Villains everywhere.”
The head jumped in like he’d been waiting.
“That’s why the Balance Guardian assigned Actor Jeong Seo-hoon to you, PD—to keep things steady. A rookie footing a 30 billion production budget? Legendary.”
“Flattery won’t change the schedule, Director.”
“Come on, save me. Save CV Network! If you go weekly twice, I’ll personally…”
“Personally what?”
“Paju Studio’s LED virtual production and 16,000-pyeong outdoor set—yours first, anytime.”
Jeong Seo-hoon saw Jang’s eyes light up.
He didn’t know the deal, but it was clearly a big one.
“For real, Director?”
“Absolutely. No bluffing here—I got HQ approval. Say yes, and Paju’s yours.”
“My call completely?”
“As you like!”
“Deal. Twice weekly from March 1.”
Jeong Seo-hoon was mildly surprised.
Deciding on the spot?
What’s Paju Studio that special?
LED virtual production, 16,000 pyeong—sounded like a filming facility.
Helpful for a historical drama?
“Available today?”
“Of course. Top priority—name-drop me or HQ.”
“I’m trusting you, Director. Miss Paju, and the twice-weekly crumbles too.”
“Obviously.”
“That’s why I’m confident. Don’t forget.”
“Never. Thanks—you saved me.”
They clasped hands like kids, beaming.
The ecstatic head whistled out; then Jeong Seo-hoon asked.
“PD, what’s Paju Studio?”
“Opened this year—like a Hollywood lot. Cost 300 billion, they say.”
Jang, excited like a kid with new toys, pulled up tablet photos.
“Main LED wall: 30-meter diameter, over 8 meters high. All LED, so infinite custom outdoor backgrounds indoors.”
“Han Castle overlook from inside? Easy.”
“Exactly. No location hunts for B-roll.”
“They should’ve offered for an 80 billion drama.”
Jang scratched his cheek sheepishly.
“We asked early—got denied.”
“Denied?”
Turning down an 80 billion historical epic?
Shocking.
“CV Group’s doing a blockbuster rival film—priority there. Plus a queue of others. We got bumped.”
“Awkward to give then yank.”
“Now we’ve got leverage. Not small fry, filling their slot twice weekly? Fair trade. Still, some backlash.”
He seemed unfazed—enjoying it.
“If it’s flak for stealing perks from rivals, I’ll savor it. All above board.”
“Shakes up the schedule big time.”
“Huge. Saves time now. Batch limited-angle shots here—no set builds.”
“You look thrilled, PD.”
“Always wanted virtual production. Better than a free Rolls-Royce Phantom.”
Jang dove into rescheduling eagerly.
“Three episodes done, two months left… Ten-plus in the can pre-air? Tight, but doable.”
***
The Haegeuk team entered Paju Studio.
Parked, grabbed essentials like cameras, headed to LED production.
Awe from newbie actors at the towering cylindrical walls.
“Whoa, even cooler in person.”
“Right? Jaw-dropped first time. Thought it was Hollywood-only.”
“Network’s really backing us. Priority access, huh?”
“80 billion drama—minimum.”
The clueless puffed proudly; Jang winked meaningfully at Jeong Seo-hoon.
Jeong walked slowly along the looping historical backdrops.
Astronomical micro-LEDs vividly rendered scenes, but far from real.
“Acting at green screen’s tough—shadowboxing invisible backgrounds or monsters feels awkward. Hard to emote.”
“More immersive, though.”
“Yeah.”
The cast’s chatter didn’t resonate.
How impressive is it really?
A firefly to his camera lens’s full moon.
The evolved lens crafted perfect scene backdrops, pulling him and co-stars in.
The immersion there eclipsed reality, forgetting the ‘outside.’
Wonder how it’ll play here.
Sharpen the lens’s gift, or get swallowed by LED?
Han Seo-hee focused intently on her script ahead.
Among partners like Cha Do-jin, Yoo Jeong-ah, Chae Ji-hyun, she was most sensitive to the lens’s power.
‘Acting with oppa, PD and camera vanish. Like another world, just us—total focus.’
Soon, her take—and others’—on it.
***
‘Teacher, something’s off with him. Camera fades? Sucked into the role? Hard to explain, but different. Don’t buy auras, but he’s got it.’
Lee Min-soo recalled Cha Do-jin’s fuss.
He partly agreed—exhausted from Illegal.
With Jeong Seo-hoon, camera awareness dulled; crew faded.
Jeong’s unique aura, he thought—eyes shifting, total immersion stealing focus.
Still, different from outdoor sets.
He scanned the augmented panorama calmly.
No lung-piercing forest realism, but overwhelming grip on vision.
Like watching a massive forest film, not entering it.
The Grand Prince in hunt garb, five retainers ahead.
LED forest at his side didn’t blend in Min-soo’s view—separate.
Right camera: forest backdrop, glaring at Left State Councillor.
“Standby, cue.”
PD’s signal; Min-soo stepped, channeling the Councillor.
Hm?
Half-transformed, his brow furrowed.
Hallucination: landscape warping.
LED wall from Prince’s side stretched floorward, encroaching.
Floor’s LED too?
Impossible—no word.
Yet plywood under Prince turned rugged mountain—hidden LEDs awakening.
Councillor drooped eyes, staring sharply.
Water droplets from massive waterfall speckled the Prince’s shoulder.
“—Grand Prince, how can you hunt while the nation mourns?”
“Just checking rabbit snares. Hunting? Hardly, Councillor.”
Prince’s calm voice chilled Min-soo suddenly.
Not just good acting.
Waterfall roar fragments mingled realistically—though no sound added.
“—Snares, yet bow and arrows?”
“This? For tigers in these wilds. Like so.”
Prince mock-aimed empty bow at Councillor—twang, release.
Councillor’s gaze caught phantom arrow shadow.
Deepened focus edged with ancient forest breeze.
“—Grand Prince? Empty bow, yet such mockery…”
Suppressing rage, stepping—sudden rock underfoot.
Impossible tactile; he glanced down instinctively.
Right foot wedged in soil-cracked rock—groaned unwittingly.
“Cut! NG!”
Ah, flubbed.
Absurd mistake; LED floor vanished instantly.
No rock—flat plywood.
Stunned at shoe, Jang asked cautiously.
“Teacher? Foot okay? New prop shoe?”
Min-soo laughed blankly, shaking head.
“No. Just saw things.”