Too Much Interest

"Boksun?"

A familiar voice drifted in from somewhere far away. It seemed to be drawing closer, little by little.

"Boksun!"

Without a moment's thought, Yeon-doo called the name back. She kept shouting it, over and over.

"Woof! Woof woof!"

From somewhere above, Boksun peered down at Yeon-doo, panting happily and wagging her tail as if she couldn't possibly be more delighted to see her.

And then it happened. The flashlight lying on the ground flared back to life, bright as a miracle. Light spilled into the darkness of the pit, washing over it in a soft glow.

"Village chief! She's down here!"

"That Boksun of ours, what a clever girl…"

Voice after voice drifted down to her. A lump rose in Yeon-doo's throat, and she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. But it was no use. Only then did she finally let herself sob, loud and unrestrained.

"I— *hic*, I'm not the village chief…! I said I won't do it…! Waaah…!!!"

For Jeong Yeon-doo, who had lived in a world where no one cared about her—and where she refused to care about anyone in return—

"Aigoo, we're sorry, our brother here misspoke, that's why you're crying."

"We had no idea you hated being called chief so much…"

—people who would comfort her when she cried, at long last, had appeared.

"Waaah… not chief, I'm not chief…! Why do you all keep calling me that…!"

An umbrella opened above the head of Yeon-doo, who was crying like a child. The grandmothers fussed and fluttered around her, doing their clumsy best to soothe her.

Amid the bustle, the voices of the firefighters joined in, and the flashlight beams that had come searching for her glittered like starlight.

"Is the missing person all right in there?"

Little by little, the screen faded back to black.

"What is your relationship to the missing person?"

As the scene dimmed, the dialogue faded along with it, the volume dropping bit by bit. But Ae-ta-mi, and everyone watching, could still hear every word.

"Aw, she's our granddaughter, that's what."

Tears had found their way down Ae-ta-mi's cheeks at some point. The emotion she'd felt watching the finale of Find Cheon Pyeong-hwa came flooding back all over again. Her chest swelled until it ached.

"Yeon-doo…"

After Pi Chae-won, this was a second name. Han Yeo-reum had stopped playing a character and simply become one.

Not Interested At All had five minutes left. The office worker had just stepped off the bus and was climbing the hill road. Even the humid, sultry heat of the summer night felt pleasant somehow.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

On screen, Yeon-doo was typing away, just as she always did. A narration flowed out over the scene.

"For so long, all I wanted was to run away. The endless weight of responsibility, dragging at me like a ball and chain — it wore me down."

To stay pooled in place, alone forever, in a place where no one cared about anyone at all. That was the only thing I ever wished for.

Yeon-doo saved the manuscript glowing on her laptop.

She clicked Save and opened the next window. Once again, a sales graph towered toward the top of her screen as if it meant to punch through the ceiling, and a comment feed floated open beside it.

At a glance, it looked like the same daily routine as before — but something had undeniably changed. As Yeon-doo stretched her stiff neck and reached for her coffee cup, waiting there beside her was—

"Whiiiine!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's been five minutes."

Boksun. After pouring kibble for the puppy whimpering around her food bowl, Yeon-doo stepped out to the living room. A quiet narration filled the scene.

"But now I understand. What I was trying to escape wasn't only those things. Maybe I was running from the fact that, for no one in this world, I had ever been a reason to stay."

Yeon-doo switched on the microphone set up in front of the TV, a motion worn familiar by habit, and cleared her throat.

"Ahem. Attention, residents of Danbok-ri."

Yeon-doo's voice rang out loud and clear through the speakers posted around the village. The grandmothers working in their fields tilted their ears toward it, smiling warmly.

"At five thirty this evening, the macaron one-day class we announced last time will be held at the community hall. And since you'll all be eating macarons, don't go hauling fruit over from home again. Your chief's going to grab a short nap before then, so handle your own lunches, alright?"

The grandmothers cackled at her announcement.

"I've been waiting for today and nothing else! Every day it's mackarong this, mackarong that — how'm I supposed to die wondering what it even tastes like? They don't sell 'em in the town bakery neither!"

"Our persimmons are mighty sweet this year… chief'd like 'em if she tried one, I reckon. But if I bring 'em, will I get scolded?"

"Novel or no novel, a body's got to look after herself first. What're you doing pulling all-nighters like that every day, child?"

And with that, Yeon-doo signed off. On the living room wall hung a photograph of her with the grandmothers.

Yeon-doo had become the village chief of Danbok-ri after all. The warm sunlight of Hyangdo County shimmered beyond the curtains. Having finished her meal, Boksun was nuzzling at Yeon-doo's feet, panting and grinning up at her.

The beautiful scenery of Hyangdo County drifted slowly out of focus as Yeon-doo's narration played on.

"The process by which 'each other' becomes 'us.' In a place where you and I are bound together, at last, I—"

With a soft scratch of a pen on paper, the title appeared once more.

And then a red underline appeared beneath the word Not — exactly like the spell-checker in a word processor. A blinking cursor settled in beside it.

After a moment, with a soft tap of keys, the word was deleted — and a new title blinked to life in its place.

Over a harmonica melody warm enough to melt the heart, the names of the cast and crew rolled across the screen in small, quiet credits. And so the sixty-minute single-episode drama finally came to an end.

The office worker's footsteps stopped — right in front of the convenience store she always dropped by without thinking.

Ding-a-ling.

She walked in on autopilot and found herself staring blankly at the four cans of ten-thousand-won beer she usually bought to take home. For some reason, tonight felt like a night she could go without.

"Do you need a bag?"

"No, I'm okay."

Drinking a single can of sikhye, sweet rice punch, just the way Yeon-doo had in Not Interested At All, the office worker headed home. Tonight she wanted to spend her evening without beer. Fiddling with her phone, at last she pressed down hard on the contact saved under the name Grandma.

"Hey, Grandma—. Work? No, nothing like that. I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."

She wanted to live a little better tomorrow. For no reason at all, that was how she felt.

This was a samgyeopsal joint near the MBS drama department. So Ye-sol and the rest of the production crew gazed at the screen with soft, satisfied smiles.

It was only a one-part short drama, so there was no proper wrap party to speak of. A modest gathering — but the atmosphere rivaled any drama's finale banquet.

"Woooh—!!!"

"Great work, everyone!!!"

Applause rang out from every corner of the tables. Dokgo Gyeol and Dokgo Min, who had somehow ended up tagging along to the wrap party, clapped along too. It had been a one-part drama as perfect as perfect could be.

"Everyone… thank you, truly. Our Not Interested At All, made with everyone pouring their hearts together…. It was flawless, wasn't it? Especially our Hyangdo County grandmas~."

Director So, who had fashioned a microphone out of a soju bottle with a spoon stuck in its mouth, rose from her seat. Everyone was pleasantly tipsy. The actresses playing the village grandmothers were cackling merrily as well.

"Oh, what did we even do! It was all you, Director, this and this and this!"

"That's right, that's right~. You and our daughter here did all the work, dear~."

Amid the banter, the grandmothers pulled Summer into a fierce, unselfconscious hug, makgeolli cups still in hand. Even though the shoot had been short, they'd grown deeply attached to her. Summer leaned on their shoulders and hammed it up shamelessly.

"Now then, a few words from Summer as well…."

When Director So held out the soda-bottle microphone, Summer accepted it with a laugh. The sound team erupted into insane cheering.

"Jeong! Yeon! Doo!"

"Jeong! Yeon! Doo!"

Feeding off the energy, Summer raised her hands in the air, demanding more. The whole restaurant filled to the brim with voices chanting Jeong Yeon-doo's name.

"It was a short shoot, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but the director and every single member of the crew took such wonderful care of me… that I got greedy. I wanted to keep living as Jeong Yeon-doo a little longer."

A mere stopgap, a filler piece — a light little gamble by the network that nobody expected ratings from. Not Interested At All had been dismissed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exactly the same way.

Everyone gathered here knew it.

"I promise you, the viewers will feel everything we all felt while making Not Interested At All! Everyone, please stay healthy. I hope someday, without fail, we get to make another great piece of work together!"

Still — it had been good. At the very least, there was not a single thing about this production to be ashamed of.

Low budget, absurdly cramped schedule, a rookie director and a twenty-year-old newcomer actress, an unfinished OST — and yet the finished product was superb.

"Summer! Give us a song, come on—!"

That was why they could all laugh together. Leaving Summer behind, belting out a tune into the soda-bottle mic, Dokgo Min fixed her gaze on Director So.

"Wanna give your impressions too, Dokgo Min…?"

"Pass."

Instead, Dokgo Min shoved her phone screen in front of Director So, who was busy stuffing her face with lettuce.

"You can see that, right? The like count."

Summer's latest photo — the still cut from Not Interested At All uploaded just moments ago — had already racked up several thousand likes in under ten minutes.

"Still, this round is mine, I'd say…. Anyone with eyes can see she's my muse."

"Mm-hmm~. I'm starting work with Do Gyeo-ul soon, by the way."

Dokgo Min's eyes snapped up to glare at Director So.

"Ah, right, Do Gyeo-ul's new drama — you said you were doing it… What are you shooting, a pictorial?"

"You don't need to know that part. All I'll say is: you're going to regret what you told me last time."

For the first time in her life, Dokgo Min understood, down to her bones, what it meant to make work she had to do rather than work she wanted to do.

Han Yeo-reum was going to climb higher, at a speed that made the present moment look laughably slow. More people would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come calling for her, and the fear was thickening that Dokgo Min's turn might simply never arrive.

"I am never, ever riding Summer's coattails, got it? Mm-hmm. Because I'm a genius. It's going to be me who shows Summer to the world. Not you, Director ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠So."

Director So gave a snort of a laugh, looking thoroughly amused.

"Sure. Go on then, give it your best shot…. Though I'm not sure you can really compare with me when it comes to mass appeal…."

Refusing to lose, Director So landed her jab quietly and neatly.

Dokgo Min jabbed a finger back at her and shouted, and the dinner party grew louder and rowdier still. Tomorrow the ratings would come out, and everyone would be able to walk away carrying a reasonable, comfortable sense of satisfaction.

Except, the next day—

"…I'm sorry, what did you just…"

A mere stopgap, a filler piece — a light little gamble by the network that nobody expected ratings from.

"The ratings…"

Low budget, absurdly cramped schedule, a rookie director and a twenty-year-old newcomer actress, an unfinished OST — and in spite of all of it,

"It hit 3.7?"

It was a runaway, insane success.