A New Opportunity
In the taxi. A yellow cab pulled away from Jongno, heading toward the Han River. The scenery outside the window rushed past in a blur.
Mari silently unfolded the drawing on her lap, clutching the paper tightly with both hands. It was a key animation sheet featuring her likeness. Her fingertip brushed over her own pupil in the image. The rough pencil lines felt strangely novel against her skin. Her waist twisted, chin lifted defiantly, yet her eyes sparkled with unbridled honesty.
"…Truly irreverent."
She muttered under her breath, but there was no real complaint in her voice.
Miyazawa asked cautiously, "Miss. Are you sure about this?"
"About what?"
"The contract… You agreed to it far too easily."
Mari didn't tear her gaze from the drawing. "Miyazawa."
"Yes."
"Didn't you say you'd never seen anything like this drawing before?"
"But he's Korean, and he's only eighteen."
"So?"
A brief silence hung in the air.
"Art knows no borders."
Mari propped her chin on her hand and gazed out the window. "No matter the nationality, someone who can draw something like this at just eighteen—in only ten minutes—is a genius, Miyazawa."
Her eyes curved like a bow as she stared at the Han River. "Not just any genius. One who could turn the world upside down."
In her mind, the image of that dorky short-haired Kyung-ho surfaced.
"…Kyung-ho."
The moment she'd signed the contract, Mari had clutched the drawing to her chest as if someone might snatch it away.
"Miyazawa, call a taxi."
"Right away, miss."
The office door opened and closed, followed by the sharp click of heels descending the stairs—then pausing abruptly. Soon, Mari poked just her head through the doorway and called my name.
"Kyung-ho."
"Did you forget something?"
"Your Korean name."
Korean name? Kyung-ho wasn't exactly a Korean name. If anything…
"Kyung-ho is more like the Japanese reading of the hanja…"
"No! I mean, tell me your Korean name!"
The young lady's face flushed beet red as she shrieked. She looked just like an anime character I'd seen before, and I couldn't help but admire her.
"Kyung-ho."
"Gung-ho?"
Japanese pronunciation struggles with the 'yeo' sound. Still, that was pretty good—I nodded approvingly.
Muttering "Gung-ho… Gung-ho…" to herself, the girl in the turquoise dress slipped out the office door and vanished around the corner of the stairs.
Lost in the moment, I heard a cough behind me. Turning, I found the boss staring at me intently as he lit a cigarette.
"Hey."
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle that?"
I shrugged. "Guess I'll find out."
"Jeez, you're something else."
The boss grumbled, but his eyes were smiling. He believed Kyung-ho could pull it off somehow.
"But listen, Kyung-ho."
He tapped the contract on the desk. "They bumped your rate by 20%—do you have any idea what that's worth? Mind if I take a look?"
Without waiting for an answer, he unfolded the thin Japanese document. At the top was the company name, followed by dense details on production volume, deadlines, and payment terms.
Squinting, he skimmed down, muttering. "Article 3… Production rates." His finger stopped.
"Standard 900 yen per cut."
He pulled out a calculator. Buttons clicked rapidly.
"After the raise, 1,080 yen… Hey, Seung-hyuk. What's the yen rate these days?"
Seung-hyuk, who'd been quietly working, looked up. "Around a bit over 2 won per yen. Say 2.3 won?"
The boss punched more numbers. Click, click.
"1,080 yen…"
He stared at the screen for a long moment, then looked at me. "Hey."
I stood silently.
"That's over 2,400 won per cut."
It was a lot of money, but I'd already earned plenty.
"Yeah, something like that."
My nonchalant response made him slam the calculator down. "It's not about the money, kid."
"Then what?"
"Paying this much means it's that important."
I already knew that.
"And?"
He exhaled a long plume of smoke in frustration. "If you nail this, you might even head to Japan."
"What?"
The office fell silent.
"504 cuts."
He flipped the contract again. "Normally three people over four weeks."
He tapped the numbers. "You're doing it solo in five weeks?"
"Yes."
More button clicks. Click, click. "A hundred cuts per week."
He paused. "Six days a week…"
Click. "I draw seven days a week."
"Ha, of course you do. Seven days…"
More furious tapping. "Fifteen cuts a day."
Fif.Teen.
He emphasized each syllable. "If you deliver this on time, you'll prove you're a key animator who can churn out fifteen cuts every day. And you're no ordinary key animator. That drawing from earlier… Whew."
The boss shuddered dramatically for effect. "Hey, Kyung-ho. Know what's the riskiest thing in this business?"
"Mm, not recognizing real talent?"
"Kid, that's basic. If you can't spot it, you shouldn't even start a business."
He smacked the back of my head. "The real danger is when your company's ace jumps to the competition."
"Fair point."
"Exactly. And that ace? It's you. You draw killer stuff and you're fast."
Leaning back in his chair, he continued. "Tatsumino's no pushover. If Toei's making moves like that, they won't sit idle. They might skip the outsourcing and go straight for a full-time hire."
I tilted my head. I'd heard their president hated me.
"You think so?"
"Yeah, obviously. And," he fixed me with a stare, "didn't you see that Toei girl earlier? Her eyes were spinning. Thought she forgot to breathe staring at your drawing."
I recalled Mari's face. Clutching the sheet with both hands, calling it irreverent but eyes gleaming.
The boss chuckled low. "You could tell from that look. She loves it. You—or your art, whatever. Point is…"
"…Is that so."
"I'm telling you! Toei might call too."
Seung-hyuk whistled. "Straight to Japan, then?"
The boss nodded. "So work hard. Didn't you say you wanted to go?"
I swallowed.
"Nail this, and you're Japan-bound."
I glanced at the contract again. I'd just scrapped one Japan plan, and now another opportunity dropped in.
The room was quiet. Timesheets and envelopes sat by the desk; key animation sheets stacked under the desk lamp. The top one bore a red-inked cut number: C-134.
I stretched my back, then leaned forward again. Gripped the holder pencil.
Scratch.
Not roughs—close to clean-up. Everything was already mapped out in my head.
Scratch, scratch.
Lost in the lines, one sheet finished before I knew it. Slid it under the stack.
Glanced at the wall clock. 9:13 p.m. The second hand ticked loudly.
Time was short. I set the pencil down and closed my eyes briefly. Scenes played in my mind: camera work, timing, transitions.
A short sigh escaped. Before bed: 18 key animation sheets and 7 in-betweens left.
Even cutting Shinwon Production work tomorrow, today's envelopes were already mine.
Earlier, before leaving the office, I'd asked Seung-hyuk casually. "Hyung, could you check a few sheets by morning?"
Half-reclined in his chair, eyes barely open, he'd groaned. "Dude… I get you're swamped, but I wanna sleep too?"
No comeback to that. Everyone was at their limit.
Meant I had to do it all.
My wrist felt heavy. Nonstop since afternoon—strength fading. Back ached too.
Lifting my head for a stretch, a sharp electric tingle shot from my inner wrist. My overworked wrist screaming.
The knuckle gripping the holder pencil was stiff. Shook out my right hand, gripped again.
Dull pain in my right fingers. Right hand was done.
Switched to left. Not fully recovered, but better than right.
Scratch.
Twenty-five cuts left.
Scratch, scratch.
The line wobbled. I stopped. Eraser, redraw.
This scene: pre-explosion. No room for weakness.
Then the door creaked open cautiously.
Squeak.
"Kyung-ho."
Mom. Light seeped through the gap as she peeked into my room.
"Still at it, even with your body like that?"
I nodded.
"Just a bit more. Today's the busiest."
She stepped in. Stared at the stack of key animation sheets.
"All this by tomorrow?"
"…Yeah."
Silence. She sighed softly.
"Aren't you taking on too much?"
Worry laced her words. "You bring in living expenses, so things are easier, but if you wreck your health…"
While rolling the holder pencil in my palm, I replied. "I'm fine."
"Fine my foot. Out all day, skipping dinner…"
"Eating breaks focus during crunch time. Upsets digestion, makes you sleepy."
She glanced at the cold rice bowl by the desk.
"What if you collapse?"
My hand paused. Collapse.
The word lingered oddly. Flashes from my past life: warehouse, fluorescent lights, folding bed.
I shook my head lightly. "Don't worry. It'll be done soon. And… this one's important."
"What's so important?"
"Nail this, and I might go to Japan."
Mom went quiet for a long time. Her eyes flicked between the stacked sheets, red cut numbers, timesheet, and my hands.
"You really wanna go to Japan that bad?"
"Nowhere else lets me do what I want, Mom."
She said nothing more. Instead, she quietly cleared the cold bowl and paused at the door.
"I'll fridge it. Eat before bed, okay?"
"Yeah, I will."
She left without another word. The door closed softly.
Into the late night, the graphite scraped relentlessly across the paper.