It's Always the Desperate Side

It's always the desperate side that ends up as the weaker party.

When a PD from Studio NMIX called me directly yesterday, I honestly thought it was a scam.

Didn't the proper order of things go: announce the contest winners first, then move on to contracts and drama adaptations?

That doubt stuck with me all the way through lunch today—until school let out and I saw a black luxury sedan waiting at the front gate. The suspicion vanished in an instant.

"Hello. You are Writer 927, correct?"

A pleasant-looking middle-aged man stood by the gate, a white sweater under a black overcoat, and addressed me.

"Ah… PD Na Yeongjin?"

"Yes. I'm Na Yeongjin—we spoke on the phone yesterday."

He smiled and held out a white business card.

Well. He really was a PD from Studio NMIX.

"And the gentleman behind the wheel over there is Jo Yongseok, the junior of our Planning and Production Team One."

At Na Yeongjin's introduction, a solidly built man in black horn-rimmed glasses sitting in the driver's seat gave me a light nod.

"Shall we head to headquarters, then?"

Na Yeongjin opened the rear door for me as if I were some distinguished guest.

The VIP treatment felt completely out of proportion, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

"How did you end up writing a script like that?"

The entire ride to headquarters, PD Na Yeongjin in the seat beside me kept up a steady barrage of questions.

After verifying my identity as a contest entrant yesterday and talking for a short while, he had become fully convinced I was 927—and he had stayed like this ever since. He had even learned I was a minor and, in no time at all, secured my parents' permission for a visit to headquarters.

Unstoppable momentum and razor-sharp instincts. The look in his eyes alone—he was not about to take me lightly just because I was young—made it clear he hadn't risen to a PD's seat by accident.

Well… thanks to that same momentum, my family found out I had written a drama script, and I got publicly executed right in front of them. My mother and older sister did praise the story, sure—but embarrassing was still embarrassing.

"Ah, and I'm curious why you used a pen name in the author field instead of your real name."

"…Was I supposed to put my real name?"

"…?"

Na Yeongjin tilted his head at my answer.

The truth was, I had figured a pen name was fine and just slapped one together. Putting my real name out there felt a little much—given my age and a handful of other reasons.

"So the number 927 doesn't carry any particular meaning?"

"Well…"

It did, actually.

September 27th, shortened to 927. For the record, that was my birthday.

"Hahaha!"

The moment I said so, Na Yeongjin beside me burst out laughing for some reason.

"Ah—I didn't mean to laugh that hard. My apologies. You're a far more entertaining person than I expected, Writer."

"…Is that a compliment?"

"Yes. I'm honored that, for the time being, only Yongseok and I will know the secret of your name."

…?

What was that supposed to mean?

I was about to ask when the car suddenly came to a stop.

"Ah—we've arrived. This is Studio NMIX headquarters."

I stepped out after Na Yeongjin, and a massive building rose before my eyes.

Its walls were all glass—so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sleek you could practically see straight through to the interior. So this was the headquarters of Studio NMIX, one of Korea's premier drama production companies…

It looked polished enough to shove every memory of my previous life's workplace clean out of my head.

The place they guided me to was a small conference room on the fourth floor of headquarters.

Inside, a middle-aged man who looked to be in his mid-fifties sat fidgeting with impatience. And for some reason, the moment he saw my face, he jolted up from his chair in pure shock.

"Y-Yeongjin—is this student really the one?"

"Yes. I reported as much yesterday, didn't I?"

"Hahaha. So it was actually real."

The middle-aged man clapped a hand to his forehead as if he couldn't believe it. Catching my gaze, he seemed to realize his slip and hurriedly introduced himself.

"Goodness! Writer, I'm Park Yongo—I hold the bureau director ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠post at Studio NMIX."

The man who introduced himself as Park Yongo extended a hand for a handshake. I took it on reflex and shook.

"Please, have a seat. This conversation is going to run long."

Park Yongo and I sat facing each other, and Na Yeongjin settled naturally at the director's side.

In the awkward atmosphere, the first to speak was Bureau Director Park Yongo—the one who had pushed hardest for this meeting.

"I'll be frank. From the moment I finished reading your script, I wanted to sign you as an exclusive writer under our production company."

And he led with a fastball straight down the middle. I was already starting to get a sense of the director's personality.

"That seems odd. The contest I entered was meant to select entertaining scripts and develop dramas with the winning writers—yet you're suddenly talking about an exclusive contract…"

I asked back with a puzzled look.

I knew full well how dire the quality of dramas was on this side of things, but even so, this felt a little hasty. Drama writers usually climbed the ladder step by step from the ground up. The standard path was graduating from a broadcast writers' academy and starting as a junior writer; plenty of people also built long careers in variety or documentaries before debuting as drama writers.

But a contest script that happened to hit a producer's needs perfectly, and they wanted an exclusive contract on the spot? Even granting that drama writing was a profession open to people of every age and background, this was still a pretty absurd case.

"Ahem! That's how urgent our situation is. Though—well—given how young you are, the exclusive-writer idea was always just a dream."

Bureau Director Park Yongo gave a hollow laugh.

Fair enough. Under labor standards law, you couldn't employ a middle school student as a worker. Film and drama performances were exceptions, but the procedures were nightmarishly complicated—and I had no intention of going that route anyway.

On the brink of death, I had somehow managed to fulfill the grand dream of producing a drama. But after getting cancer in the process, the thought that hit me first was that a hobby didn't necessarily need to become a career. And wasn't there a saying for this? The moment a hobby turns into a job, the affection for it evaporates overnight. I had lived through that crisis more than once as a junior writer in my previous life, so the saying hit home.

"…"

I looked at Bureau Director Park Yongo across from me. He seemed thoroughly on edge. My script must have struck him hard. The earlier remark about a long conversation was probably so he could find a center of gravity for what to do with it.

A script submitted to a contest remained the author's copyrighted work—a basic provision of copyright law that protected every entrant, winner or not. Which meant that right now, ownership of the script I had written was entirely mine…

From the moment I got the call yesterday until I walked into this room, I had already roughly decided what I would do.

"It's true that my age is what it is, and I still have school to worry about, so collaborating on an actual production would come with a lot of constraints."

"…That's correct."

"So I'll sell you the script."

"Excuse me…? What did you just say?"

Bureau Director Park Yongo asked again, as if he couldn't trust his own ears. I grinned.

"Honestly, I'm the one who's surprised you're treating me this well just for reading my script. So if you're interested in buying it, I'll sell it to you."

"Y-you mean it?"

At my proposal, the corners of Bureau Director Park Yongo's mouth stretched toward his ears. He clearly couldn't hide the smile.

Hmm… but it might be a little early to look that happy.

"There are conditions, though."

"Conditions…?"

"Yes. About three of them."

Three might sound like a lot, but from the side laying down terms, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had cut it down as far as I could.

"First…"

I opened my mouth slowly.

The first condition was that when the drama was produced, the screenwriter credit had to list the name Writer 927—and that any revisions to the script would be coordinated with me. If the story I had built got credited under someone else's name, or if the content got rewritten ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out of nowhere and the plot went completely off the rails, I couldn't think of anything that would piss me off more.

Bureau Director Park Yongo nodded readily, as if that were only natural.

"And roughly how much were you thinking?"

The second point was the slightly sensitive matter of money.

Drama writers' incomes varied wildly, but I had heard that a reasonably successful writer took home roughly a hundred million won per episode between manuscript fees and contract advances. Add rebroadcast royalties and overseas distribution deals and the income climbed further—but that wasn't a topic worth hashing out this early.

For now, I floated a question to Bureau Director Park Yongo about roughly how much they could offer per episode. He seemed to have expected it; he smiled easily and named a figure.

…?

What? Did I mishear that?

"…For real?"

"What would I gain by lying to you? If you truly can't believe it, I'll show you the contract."

At that, PD Na beside him handed me a thick stack of clean white paper that looked like a contract. Skimming the contents, it seemed to have originally been drafted as the terms for an exclusive writer deal.

"If you're looking for the figures you want, they should be on the second page."

Following PD Na's direction, I flipped the page at once.

Let's see…

"It varies with average viewership, of course, but the base is ten million—twenty million if it clears ten percent, fifty million if it clears twenty. And if it goes higher than that, we'd have to revisit the conversation."

Just as Bureau Director Park Yongo said with considerable confidence, the contract held the exact same terms.

No matter how entertaining the story was—was it really okay to offer a middle schooler this much…?

"At Studio NMIX, we hold that age has nothing to do with what's fun."

When I asked carefully, Bureau Director Park Yongo's answer was firm. He seemed genuinely serious.

Whew…

My first time out, and the base was already ten million? My script ran roughly sixteen episodes, so that came to a hundred and sixty million total. And if the ratings cleared ten percent…

Sss…

I was already salivating.

"Ah—then would it be possible to take that money in Studio NMIX stock instead? That's my second condition."

"In stock, you say?"

Bureau Director Park Yongo looked thoroughly puzzled. Then he nodded again, as if it wouldn't be a problem.

The reason I wanted Studio NMIX stock was simple: I didn't need a huge sum of cash right away, and the current share price was extremely cheap. Looking at a drama market with zero sense of crisis, the price could sink further still—but the money had appeared out of nowhere anyway, and I was willing to take that much risk.

Which left only the final condition…

In a way, this was the most important one of all.

"There's one more thing I want to say first. Once I sell the script, I mostly won't touch the drama—not in production, not in casting. I'll hand over the script and nothing else."

Across from me, both men's mouths fell open.

In dramas, the writer who built the story usually had a heavy hand in things, and people walked on eggshells around them. During production they could dictate to the director; casting was always the most contentious stage of all. Most writers were greedy enough to want every role stuffed with big-name actors, and for a production company, negotiating with them was always a hard road.

But I was leaving all of that entirely to the production company's discretion. What that meant was a truly extraordinary concession: aside from the story itself, they had free rein to produce my script however they liked.

Except.

There was exactly one part I intended to touch—and that was casting.

"My final condition is that for the female lead role of Gyeoul, you cast the person I name. Absolutely. No—unconditionally. Honestly… this is the one thing I don't think I can compromise on."

When I drove that stake in, Bureau Director Park Yongo swallowed hard and asked,

"Hahaha. Already thinking about casting the female lead—you're impatient, aren't you. Who did you have in mind?"

At Bureau Director Park Yongo's lightly probing question, I pictured the face of a girl I had run into by pure chance at a café a few days earlier.

A maturity and presence far beyond her years. Features so beautiful a gasp rose on its own.

"Seol Soyoung."

She was the person who had inspired this script into existence—and more than that, she was the character of Gyeoul I had envisioned. That was why I wanted Seol Soyoung, and no one else, to play her.

"…Seol Soyoung? You don't mean the daughter of Seol Hanyong, the CEO of Cheil Electronics?"

"Yes. That's right."

I nodded, and Bureau Director Park Yongo and PD Na Yeongjin exchanged a grave look. Clearly this was a scenario neither of them had seen coming.

"Well… if we were to say we couldn't accept that final condition—what would you do then?"

A moment later, Bureau Director Park Yongo asked carefully, watching my face.

Unfortunately, the answer to that question was already decided. So I simply put on a good-natured smile and replied,

"Then I won't sell it. The script."