Masterpieces Require Sacrifice (1)
Recently, the buzzword sweeping terrestrial TV was "innovation."
It meant literally shaking up the stale organization and making it new again.
Not that they particularly wanted to—it was more like they'd gotten beaten black and blue by cable channels and YouTube, leading to a collective "Uh... this might not be okay..."
Anyway, in that process, the slogan of "flexibility" had emerged.
—Terrestrial broadcasting is the pinnacle of excellence in Korea, and this can be scientifically proven!
—While general programming channels have been shitting out short-term net losses for a decade straight, making them no match for us, cable is just a mass-production factory dependent on outsourcing! As for YouTube, it's too trashy even to mention!
—Yet those lowly things are slapping us in the face because of our rigid organization and internal culture,
—So the key to promising a bright future for public broadcasting is to rally the entire organization whenever needed, focusing all our efforts on a single program!
Of course, the employees trembled in horror at the thought: "What a terrifying, monstrous idea!"
And rightly so—it was like saying if Diablo struggled, everyone from StarCraft, WoW, luxury watch brands, and restaurant staff should all rush over to help. Utter nonsense, not even close to realistic.
Naturally, MBS's higher-ups weren't dumb enough to let that slide, so the ambitious committee member's grand plan was shelved and forgotten.
It seemed to be forgotten.
Until precisely today.
"So..."
Two days after Kim Ho-jin and Harry Gordon's heartwarming showdown, Drama Department Production Team 1 CP Yoon Seong-won blinked vacantly.
"You're saying we should pull staff from our side and send them over to Must Die to Live?"
"Yes..."
"And right now?"
"Yes......"
"......"
"...It's the vice president's orders."
The operations team leader averted his eyes from the CP's glare, which screamed, Did this bastard pick a fight?
Unfortunately, this conversation didn't end with Production Team 1. The operations team leader, looking genuinely reluctant as he avoided eyes, made the rounds through the Drama Department.
Just a day later, at the Ilsan Production Center, ten talents scraped together from Drama Teams 1 through 4 from across the department stared at each other in stunned disbelief.
The awkward silence, like encountering uncles from another unit, didn't last long.
The group erupted in outrage one after another.
"I get that your show's blowing up lately, but isn't this too much?!"
"Exactly!"
"Like it's the only project that matters!"
Ten people.
Not a huge number for a drama shoot.
But when you consider they were all veterans with seven-plus years under their belts, pulling their weight—that changed everything. It was like ripping out the pillars from other departments just to patch holes for Must Die to Live.
To compare, these were folks equivalent to head designers at luxury watchmakers or top restaurants. They couldn't help but suspect the vice president's screws were loose.
And on top of that, they were being asked to help with planning?
Like, they drag in foreign actors on sheer momentum and then go, "Uh, no idea what to do now!"
Good for you blowing up! Lead actor wins an Emmy, leverages that for two world-class actors! But paralyzing the entire Drama Department for it?! Is this right?!
The kid didn't even win that Emmy for a drama!
When someone hits the lottery, the neighbors feel the worst envy.
For them, King and Sovereign and Must Die to Live were just that.
Lucky timing, that's all. Were their own works inferior? And Must Die to Live was just bloated by the prior PSA quartet and William White's Emmy hype!
The support team couldn't help but feel pissed.
They huddled, conspiring in whispers, and ultimately made a secret pact.
"No opinions in the meeting, right?"
"Obviously. Time to show 'em what for."
"Why should we clean up their shit?"
When giving help, you have to clearly distinguish giver from receiver. Who do they think they are, ordering us around?
Time to teach them a real lesson—
With that resolve, the support team flung open the Must Die to Live team's conference room door.
Hmm.
Lately, Kang Min had been thinking about one thing only.
Not the worldly chatter about Emmys, Broadway, or Hollywood.
One must always look to the future.
I've always thought my acting's perfection lay in my nightmares. That recreating them verbatim made for flawless performance—that's what I've subconsciously believed.
The events in his dreams were nearly real.
No—at least to Kang Min experiencing them, they were perfect reality.
If method acting's measure of greatness is immersion, Kang Min's performances would score near-perfect.
But maybe that's not all there is.
Aislinn Lewis.
For some inexplicable reason, this odd friend had come to Korea for a vacation, yet itched for busywork. On stage, she'd shown a style utterly opposite to Kang Min's thinking.
You can't do theatrical asides in drama.
But there was something to learn from her approach.
An actress from the polar opposite realm.
Aislinn calculated purely how she'd appear to the audience, regardless of her own self-perception.
Kang Min had seen her eyes measure the auditorium's width on Broadway, then select movements for maximum dynamism at that angle.
His mentor, Principal Hong Ji-ho, would surely rage it was heresy. But the audience's cheers—and Kang Min's profound impression—were undeniable facts.
Acting tailored meticulously to the viewer could indeed strike deep chords.
Kang Min had used it himself that day on stage.
But was it truly better than his usual style?
Or could you even blend the two—
Kang Min had been pondering that nonstop.
"......"
"...Hello."
"Ahem."
Of course, Kang Min's inner turmoil wasn't visible to the eight newcomers entering the Must Die to Live conference room.
Seeing him with eyes closed, they grumbled, Even if he's just here to fill a seat, sleeping on the job? Straightening their backs, they sat down.
A mere nod to Han Ye-seul sufficed for greetings.
Damn, they sure act pricey...
Han Ye-seul let out a small sigh but said nothing. Naturally, they wouldn't be thrilled either.
No need to fight or fuss.
Soon enough...
"Good morning, haha!"
"Ah, hello!"
"Sorry I'm late."
Director Shim Yu-hyeon and writer Yoo Ji-min entered. Senior staff followed, taking seats.
But as people trickled in, the support team's displeased glares stayed fixed on Han Ye-seul.
Not one was younger than her. All were MBS lifers.
In that context, how could they not resent this parachute PD paralyzing other departments on her flimsy popularity?
Ability aside, it was arrogant. They had to ensure it never happened again.
"First off, we'd like to know exactly what we're supposed to do."
Once the meeting started, a Production Team 2 camera staffer fired the opening shot.
Glancing at the documents before her, she shot Han Ye-seul a snide look laced with sarcasm.
"We figured we'd be thrown onto set, but this is a production meeting? What's the deal?"
"...As you know, with the two new actors joining, we needed tweaks to the script units. Plus, the awards show squeezed the timeline."
"Ah, so you needed manpower, huh?"
"Well, precisely..."
"Still, this feels way too haphazard."
As Han Ye-seul tried to continue, a Team 4 staffer shook his head, cutting in.
"This is for episode 13, right? Episode 10 just aired. Even if we wrap this meeting and draft the script, that's five days. So how the hell are we supposed to shoot, edit, and mix in time?"
"Hear me out. We have existing footage. What we need now is—"
"That'll shave off maybe a day, tops."
About three or four days short. What kind of schedule is this?
Han Ye-seul's eyebrow twitched at the staffer folding arms with exasperated mutters. Her temper flared at the blatant provocation—as expected.
But they wouldn't back down. If a fight broke out, it was what they wanted.
They even raised their chins defiantly, as if daring her.
Even haphazard planning for four days then rushing to shoot is a zero for any PD. Wrong?
Running a project on this slapdash schedule from the start is the real joke.
Several tense seconds passed, eyes clashing between the parachute PD and support staff.
That's when the burly guy, oblivious to the mood and scratching his head, spoke up, looking utterly confused.
"Uh, hey. I'm not following..."
"Director Shim Yu-hyeon, if you've got gripes, speak up! Editing gets screwed here!"
"Right! This is when you—"
"No, I mean... why does this meeting take four days?"
"...Pardon?"
"First time hands-on with a drama, so maybe I'm off, but doesn't it usually wrap in four or five hours?"
"......?"
The support team stared in collective disbelief.
What the hell is this guy saying?
Idiot?
The 11-year vet who'd spoken even let out a hollow laugh in sheer absurdity.
"Uh, Director Shim Yu-hyeon?"
"Speak."
"This is a production meeting. There's not just one or two things to cover."
He lectured patiently.
"First, set the script direction. Then draft the script. Consult script supervisor to tailor for actors. Not all? Tons of locations mean day/night splits, daylight timing per shoot schedule, lighting, camera positions, equipment rentals, props... Four days is already a rush job."
"......"
"Shouldn't have let the schedule get this bad. No matter the hype, you don't take foreign actors if it's this tight. No other explanation than zero planning."
"Agreed."
"Honestly, it's absurd."
...?
Watching Shim Yu-hyeon blink, the support team was convinced.
30% ratings or whatever, this team was amateurs.
The outsider editing director didn't even grasp drama production basics, and the rookie writer was worse. They'd rolled on hype so far, but the limits were showing.
That's why they called us.
PD's desperate, big time.
They smirked.
Situation graver than expected. Good for them.
This might be easier to sabotage than thought—
"We do all that?"
"Pardon?"
"And it takes four or five hours?"
"...?"
Shim Yu-hyeon blinked.
The support team blinked.
What the actual fuck—
Some support members finally snapped with irritation. There's a limit to bullshit.
The moment they opened their mouths to unload on the clueless kebab guy—
That's when Kang Min lifted his head.
"Rough draft's ready. Mind if I show mine first?"
"?"
What, the actor butting in like he owns the place?
The support team gawked in bewilderment.
But apparently, only they did.
Affirmations poured from everywhere, as if they'd been waiting. Kang Min closed and opened his eyes.
And then.
"Gahk...!"
"?"
"...How about something like this, everyone?"
"Perfect."
"Love it, hyung!"
"Spot on, Actor Kang!!"
The room filled with satisfied exclamations, while the support team blinked dumbly.
"????"
What.
Alien communication now?
Yoo Ji-min was a rookie writer.
Even collaborating with stars like Kang Min and Yoo Ji-yu was shocking enough, but now Harry Gordon and Aislinn Lewis joined the international roster.
Half the industry envied him; the other half pitied him. Success was expected, failure his fault—immense pressure.
But Yoo Ji-min endured.
He had faith beyond the pressure, backed by real proof.
Kang Min's tone was always casual.
"Harry or Ms. Lewis—nothing to overthink, Ji-min. You create the roles and slot them in."
"Got it, hyung!"
"What's the male lead's intent in aiding heroine Hye-yeon's revenge?"
"Curiosity."
Yoo Ji-min answered instantly.
"Curiosity about when her revenge thirst dulls."
"Why?"
"He's that kind of being himself. Turned into something inhuman by some curse, but even he forgot what."
"Lack?"
"Close. I figured humans deficient in something either seek it from others or steal it—usually one or the other. Feels half like play to him."
"That's why his attitude's been so playful?"
"Yes."
Kang Min didn't stop at words. He assembled the character in his mind.
Innumerable years.
Boredom.
Lukewarm curiosity.
A being for whom death wasn't the end.
How would such a one die?
Painfully, of course. A mortal wound.
But wouldn't even that intrigue him?
Kang Min embodied it in performance.
"Kuh-huk...!"
Yoo Ji-min's eyes sparkled.
The rookie's vague concept materialized perfectly before him via the actor.
Inspiration from a living human dwarfed hazy brainstorms. Crystal clear.
His fingers danced on the laptop keys.
The ten support staff watched blankly.
"Heroine loses humanity bit by bit with each failed revenge? Her human form too."
"Yes. Male lead induces it deliberately. Crafts hopeless scenarios to force her death. That's what he wants."
"Irreversible?"
"No, reversible."
"How?"
"Regain humanity."
"Abandon revenge?"
"Probably not necessary. Just realize she can't kill innocents for her vengeance. I think Ho-jin hyung and Gordon should handle that reveal. But current script's weighting is tricky..."
"Hmm."
Kang Min pondered briefly. Then "Gahk...!" and collapsed again.
Once with resentment, obsession screaming Why must I die like this?
Once with resignation, despair of I can't escape this fate.
No prep, utterly different emotional arcs—the support team gaped.
Yoo Ji-min hammered keys with newfound certainty.
"Heroine now—former or latter?"
"Latter. Or close to it..."
"Not fully?"
"Yes."
"Hmm, answer's clear-ish. PD Han, your take?"
"Give detective roles to Kim Ho-jin, Gordon—that idiot brigade."
Han Ye-seul casually struck through her planning doc.
"Make it two masked figures. They were hired detectives. Unraveling this bizarre ghost mess and weirder serial killings."
"Not blocking revenge?"
"Stopping her from killing. She's the villain. Midpoint realization. Tease it for suspense—boost ratings?"
"Their dynamic?"
"Bad. Poirot and Holmes'd grab collars. Even without fights, fun. Of course, Great Demon King Kang Min holds the weight."
"How's it sound, Ji-min?"
"Underestimating me."
"It's working... yeah..."
"Ours isn't."
"Don't rush him, bad temper."
"You got no right to say that to me, Min! Who dragged them here?!"
"Erm..."
The support team watched speechless.
What.
What the hell are we watching—
Actor delivers near-thousand-faces improv.
Writer frantically scripts off it.
PD gripes beside, instantly reworking into shootable storyboards.
Impossible scene,
Yet,
Here it was, reality.
"Gahk!" "Like this." "Merge here." "Gahk!" "Work?" "Night shoots." "Gahk!" "Indoor this."
Eventually, pure Kang Min "gahks" and Han Ye-seul's words sufficed for communication.
Less genius, more magic trick.
Insane...
Even the cocky support team realized how stupid grabbing control had been.
The "sleeping" Kang Min wasn't mere seat-filler. Nor lucky Emmy kid off a few ads.
Truly great actors shine in meetings, not sets.
That half-joking truth was unfolding.
Impossible...!
What actor...?
Monster... that thing...
And Han Ye-seul wasn't just lucky to snag such an actor.
If Kang Min was the lead, she was the core.
Flagged unrealistic shoots, merged lukewarm scenes, summoned directors on-site for storyboards when lacking.
No wonder her confidence.
For them, it truly wasn't too late.
Thus, two hours after the Kang Min Special crew dominated the room—
"Hmm."
The final member stroked his chin, accepting the output.
Skimmed, bracketing spots.
"This, this, this—I can cover. Rest post-shoot."
"Done."
"Whew, long one."
Everyone stretched.
An eager AD rushed duplicated scripts and storyboards.
Opinions aired, final discussion, all wrapped.
Shim Yu-hyeon checked his watch, shrugged.
"Under three hours."
"......"
"Four days? Such whiners."
"......"
This mad meeting can't be normal!!
The support team wanted to scream at newbie-editing Shim Yu-hyeon first witnessing drama ops and smirking rookie writer.
But they couldn't speak. What could they say without looking worse?
The staffer who'd called it "zero planning" and "absurd" still stared shell-shocked. No recovery soon.
As all froze dumbfounded, one glanced around and spoke.
"Um, so..."
"Yes."
"What exactly are we supposed to do, PD?"
"Oops."
At the suddenly polite tone, Han Ye-seul seemed to remember.
She handed out copies.
"Help with equipment loans listed here? We're tapped out, borrowing from Variety too."
"......"
"Easier for Drama Department overall if questioned later... VP said so! The department head!"
"......"
The support team took the papers in daze. Peak stupidity faces in their careers.
...Until two days later, pre-Aislinn shoot. Then those were the least dumb.