Everyone Needs to See This

Riding the wave of its growing popularity, Pachehi released its fifth episode. Perhaps the hook at the end of the last episode had done its job, because the moment it dropped, subscribers flooded in with comments.

The two who emerged from the storage room headed for the rooftop. Chae-won, eyes glazed in her trademark dead-fish stare, tore open a stick of Pepero and held it between her teeth. Then she offered one to Jun as well.

The two traded words as flatly as office workers on a coffee break.

Sfft—. With the sound effect of a page turning, Jun's flashback began.

It started exactly like Chae-won's: in front of the school gates.

Jun looked nothing like he did now. His voice carried none of that weighted, world-weary cynicism; he seemed like an ordinary, easygoing high schooler. Even so, that Jun flickered and faded, over and over.

Unlike Chae-won, Jun had caught on by pure instinct — that if things went on like this, his very existence might vanish. And then, into his field of vision, Hina appeared. The camera closed in on her, brimming over with life. As it happened, the two of them ended up seated side by side.

Twisting her head at the perfect angle from the neighboring seat, Hina struck her ultimate killer pose. Faced with behavior that ran against every fiber of Korean sensibility, Jun turned his gaze to the window without meaning to. But comically enough, it worked like a charm.

Over a beautiful BGM, the curtain by the window swayed at an absurdly languid pace. Flower petals bloomed into effect art all around Jun.

Saying that, Jun let out a dry, hollow laugh. The two talked like modern workers commiserating over their shared hardships.

Next to Chae-won, Jun was nothing like the cardboard cutout protagonist of a shoujo manga. He simply acted his age.

A quiet BGM began to swell. It was the main theme of Pachehi — a melody somewhere between bubbly and heart-fluttering. As the sound of soap bubbles popping playfully dotted the track, their conversation continued.

Through the conversation, Chae-won pieced together a few key facts. Jun had already been trapped in this world for over half a year.

In Jun's world, the cherry blossoms had been falling without ever finishing, for six months straight.

Chae-won pressed a hand to her head for a moment. Deep anguish radiated off her.

Watching episode five, Ae-ta-mi nodded along.

"Yeah. This is what a high schooler looks like."

Every time the show parodied shoujo-manga education, her fellow subscribers had always grumbled, 'So what exactly is escalator admissions again? Because we don't get any of that — we get Suneung prep books and practice exams….' Now those same subscribers were leaving comments.

Chae-won, picking up the last remaining Pepero, reached her conclusion.

A gloriously simple solution.

Chae-won stared at Jun with the same unmoved dead-fish eyes. Jun, for his part, nodded along for now.

And the next day, Chae-won stopped being a cost-effective heroine and became a sincere one. She refused to play the part with a single lazily scrawled sticky note.

When lunchtime arrived, she climbed to the rooftop carrying two lunchboxes, then made her way — as always — toward Jun, perched on top of the shipping container.

Chae-won smiled down from the ladder. Jun took her by one arm and hauled her up onto the container.

Chae-won said it in a voice that contained not a single gram of sincerity. Then she opened the lunchbox.

The lunchbox, which was supposed to be charmingly dainty and adorable, was somewhere between tragic and ruined.

Jun ate the lunchbox in silent resignation. His expression looked nothing short of agonized — but Chae-won's event marathon was far from over.

Even during class, she suddenly threw her hand up with a question.

Chae-won had begun rewriting the plot entirely on her own authority. Her resolve to bulldoze every cliché in shoujo manga in one go was plainly visible.

Sticky notes began multiplying beside Chae-won.

The clichés piled up without end. Chae-won parted her dead-fish lips.

The comments began pouring in faster than ever before. Ae-ta-mi gazed at the comment window with brimming pride.

"See! My instincts never miss!"

Already fully lost in over-immersion, she was posting real-time reactions on the drama community threads. There was a special joy in anticipating the next episode together with everyone.

"God, how long has it been since a drama came along that I could actually respect…."

Ae-ta-mi briefly reminisced about the dramas of years past.

"Now that our youngest has joined the team, should we do a company dinner at Mr. Yoo's dakgalbi place?"

Excessive product placement.

A hasty, slapdash wrap-up with zero payoff for any of the planted foreshadowing.

The sucker punch of a rushed final episode. And on and on, this and that….

At some point, loving dramas had become a source of stress for Ae-ta-mi. And now, out of nowhere, a show appeared that she could watch laughing without a thought in her head. It was the first happiness she'd felt in her drama-buff life in a long, long time.

"This is…."

Before episode five had even finished, Ae-ta-mi began taking screenshots.

"This… everyone needs to see this!"

The final episode was barely a week away. She wanted to savor the dopamine fireworks of the finale even more intensely when it came.

"I'm putting my drama-buff life on the line… Operation: Promotion begins now."

The episodes of Pachehi touched by Ae-ta-mi's hands began to spread across the web.

"This is genuinely fun."

Not a ten-million-viewer director — but not a nobody either. The kind of director whose name drew blank stares, but whose film titles made everyone nod in recognition.

He had climbed from the directing staff into adaptation work, and from adaptation into directing, putting in long years in the film industry. Three features under his belt as director. A personal best of 3.6 million tickets sold.

"The kid's good."

Gong Mu-jin — a man who relieved stress by watching videos — had Pachehi up on his monitor.

JC ENM's new venture was already drawing heated attention across the industry. And the one basking in the brightest spotlight of all was Han Yeo-reum.

"She's hogging the whole screen, every last frame of it."

She had a gift for making overwrought acting land without excess, and flat, unremarkable acting feel anything but flat.

While skimming the comments, Director Gong clicked on the script-reading video sitting in the playlist beside them.

"Han Yeo-reum — around this part, I think."

He dragged the scroll bar down, and her lines appeared immediately.

Diction that resonated without ever straining. Breathing so seamless you couldn't tell when she drew breath.

"Now that right there. If she were in theater, that's a voice you'd drool over."

Yeo-reum kept pulling him into analysis without meaning to.

It was the director's chronic ailment: the merchant's instinct that, upon glimpsing a raw gem, ached to polish it, cut it, and rush it to market.

Director Gong stared down at the scenario ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠laid out on his desk.

"No…. Mu-jin. No…."

It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the file saved as 'Final_ReallyForReal_TRUEFinal_END.hwp'. Less than half a day had passed since it arrived from the print shop.

"I… can't…."

And yet he wanted to revise it. Watching Yeo-reum stride through the auditorium — playing the heroine with those dead-fish eyes that concealed a glinting, gleaming performance — a brand-new episode had come to him.

He wanted to capture the shine of that raw gem in his own work.

"But the minor-role casting isn't finished yet anyway, is it?"

Gong Mu-jin clicked on a file in his folder.

The scenario of a ten-million-viewer film, from a series whose every installment had exploded in popularity. And into it, Yeo-reum was beginning to seep.