Unexpected Synergy (3)
On the day Unbelievable episode 1081 aired,
public opinion was in utter chaos.
The already heated debate exploded completely once the preview dropped.
Overseas reactions were predictably dismal too, with the quick ones already translating Reddit threads and such.
The bait had been dropped, and reactions boiled over even harder.
And the ones watching those reactions most anxiously were, of course...
In the MBS vice president's office,
the sweating vice president pressed down hard on his assistant's shoulders and asked,
"How's public opinion?"
"Feels about 98 degrees. One wrong move and it'll boil right over."
"...Y-you're sure, right, Variety Chief? This one's a total banger, yeah?"
"No clue."
"Goddammit...!"
Normally, when a show's on the brink, it's the PD sweating bullets.
If it's big enough, the CP joins in.
If it's a real monster hit, maybe even the department head.
In other words,
the vice president—on a holiday—frantically kneading shoulders was utterly unprecedented...
"Board's pissed. They're freaking out that we're sabotaging their cash cow just as the mega-hit drama starts raking it in."
"...From the outside, it looks like Variety's screwing Drama over. Unfair for us, but the board's suspicious too."
"Fuck, what kinda lightning bolt is this from one psycho...!"
But he couldn't just vent freely—the psycho in question was the one who'd made their mega-hit King and Sovereign.
The vice president could only clutch his head, stuck between a rock and a hard place.
The Variety Chief tried to console him.
"Min-jun's never been that confident before. It'll be fine."
"Fine my ass! We're screwed! Lined up for the board to bash our heads in!"
"......."
Truth be told, the Variety Chief wasn't all that confident either.
The two waited in endless anxiety for Unbelievable at noon on Sunday.
The opening wasn't promising.
Adolf Hitler!
His end came in 1945 Berlin, in the Führerbunker.
Hitler married Eva Braun, then took his own life with a pistol, leaving two letters behind.
But!
Claims persist in some circles that Hitler didn't actually die.
The familiar narration.
But viewers were already crying trauma.
Overseas folks enduring the time difference weren't thrilled either.
As some lamented, the unfolding story wasn't great.
Stefan Geisler's Dragovich carried insane weight, swallowing the entire drama whole.
Domestic netizens smacked their lips in disappointment, overseas ones were let down, and the vice president clutched his head: "We're done. Totally done...!"
In other words,
the sudden shift in tone hit like a gut punch, eerily so.
"Many ordinary folk struggled to understand me, Dragovich."
"Ah, the Junker! Incompetent Junkers and Jewish tongues have devoured another great Aryan, Dragovich!"
"Will—will is everything, Dragovich. The will to remake humanity! If I weren't the superman called to it, I'd gladly yield my place!"
It was like twilight waiting for sunset. Docile while the sun shone, it devoured the whole play the moment you blinked.
Dr. Kremer shone on his own.
Hui-yul shone through others.
The priest, though? Pure shadow.
His face was gentle, voice calm.
But by the time everyone caught the stickiness in that voice, evil had crept up to their nape.
Viewers blinked in a daze.
"Democracy, majority rule, conscience, solidarity, peace—countless implanted notions crumbled our ethnic consciousness and bred self-loathing."
"Loyalty oaths are obsolete now. The fighter's vow—'I fight'—is all."
"Dragovich."
"Can you fight?"
Bang—
Blood dripped.
Revenge-obsessed Dragovich stared blankly at the pistol whose trigger he'd pulled.
Viewers held their breath too.
He had to pull it.
The flow demanded it.
But something was terribly wrong—
"Well done. He was a traitor defiling Aryan purity! Taking orders from Jewish minions to corrupt the greatest race!"
"...Not following you. This scum was one of my son's killers."
"You'll soon see those aren't so different."
No twisted evil or malice warped the priest's face. He was endlessly gentle, soft-spoken, righteous. Even seeming frail.
Definitely.
Enthralled—
Post-war Germans all testified thus.
They knew it was wrong, knew they held the knife, yet like demon-possessed, they could do nothing.
Swept in madness.
Dragovich, and viewers watching him, too.
They couldn't help staring blankly at one man's wretched distortion.
"Excellent! Marvelous, Dragovich! Vengeance unfolds. And you're completing!"
"Don't forget I could shoot you anytime, priest."
"Irrelevant. But pity. Such a waste, Dragovich. My failures stemmed from filthy traitors. Liars, disloyal, reactionary, blind to beauty."
"Junkers all the same."
"Yes... And my failure? I wasn't the superman to behead them all and stand alone."
Looks didn't matter.
One with sinister malice was a demon. And demons could wear any face.
"My old friend the doctor mocked Dostoevsky. Christ erred giving freedom knowing man chooses hell."
The priest whispered.
Dragovich gripped the trigger.
He'd never let go, never dropped guard.
But precisely so, malice seeped in steadily.
"Bribe with bread. Instill fear with power. Awe with miracles. That's the only way to make saints of all. You're worthy to succeed me, Dragovich."
"......."
"The doctor said we'd mock with laughter at the end. 'Oh Christ, I've surpassed you!'"
It was bizarre.
Dragovich's reason remained sharp.
His judgment keen.
His instincts wary of the priest.
But lost direction turned it all meaningless in a flash. Nay, it turned inward, endlessly wrecking his pride.
No coercion, oppression, violence—just words and sticky malice birthed the fall.
Folks couldn't dismiss it as "good acting."
The fall was steep.
Dragovich killed the man.
The woman.
Elders and kids.
Revulsive. Horrific.
Against common belief, Dragovich took no joy, no pride.
And so, conviction dwelled there.
Its value shone purer for the disgust and fear.
Viewers now felt awe beyond revulsion for the priest.
And,
that total fall culminated when the mentor priest died.
"Cough... cough...!"
"Damn! How...! Junker? Jew? Who's behind this...!"
"Oh, all of it, Dragovich..."
The priest laughed.
Bloody, twisted, yet gentle.
"Pity, Dragovich. I should have died by your gun."
"...I wouldn't have, Führer. Too much enlightenment you gave me."
"That's the pity."
He whispered.
Dying, his eyes brimmed with conviction accepting martyrdom.
"Supermen complete through trials, Dragovich. You had to kill me. Shed old shell, gain new wings."
"......."
"Time's short. Listen well. My final counsel."
His words? Madness incarnate.
Universal suffrage elects no great leaders—nonsense.
Majority always craven idiots.
History advances by exceptional individuals, not mob rule.
Religion's birth? Humanity's worst calamity—
But screen and audience were too far gone to see madness. Dragovich nodded.
The priest's last question:
"Dragovich."
"...Speak, Führer."
"Can you fight?"
No need to say. Tears streamed from Dragovich's eyes.
Ecstasy overflowing.
To outsiders? Pure terror, alien.
As reactions poured in, on-screen Dragovich wiped his eyes and stood.
Saluted, turned, marched out. Each step brimming conviction and rage.
Hesitation absent makes supermen—he truly was one.
"Hm, well."
And,
alone, the priest shrugged suddenly.
"I never said my name was Adolf Hitler."
Open to interpretations, the screen faded to black.
The narration followed—like a brief epitaph after a saga character's death.
Father Crespi. Some claim he was the dead Hitler, citing evidence:
Cuenca village suspected Nazi hideout, frequent strange Germans, vegetarianism, odd accent.
But truth remains shrouded in darkness.
The usual shady conspiracy wrap-up.
But who cared.
The final hook was too tantalizing.
Waldemar Dragovich vanished; none saw him after.
Rumor has it, ashamed of Slavic surname from remarried mom, he changed it.
Waldemar Schütz.
Founder of Germany's NPD. Grandfather of "neo-Nazis."
Classic Unbelievable "take it or leave it" conspiracy. Schütz was a legit vet anyway.
But after that spine-chilling malice, no one dismissed it as BS.
Domestic and overseas, everywhere ignited.
Ratings graphs and trends pierced the ceiling, still climbing.
Unbelievable for a Sunday noon slot.
The beneficiary? Obvious.
"What the..." Dazed MBS VP snapped back soon enough.
Regaining senses, he clenched his fist and whooped like despair never happened.
"Yes! We're golden!"
He jumped shamelessly.
The Kang Min crisis was horrific. From routine meetings to summoned four times in two weeks horrific.
But over.
MBS's might turned dread to opportunity...!
"S-saying it's our might's a stretch when Han Ye-seul PD was a parachute outsider..."
"Who cares! Ratings! Ratings!"
"One sec. Chaos everywhere, can't get through..."
23%.
Hearing the unimaginable, the VP burst into mad laughter.
"Kahahaha! Yes! Crisis breeds opportunity! Perfect! Sun finally shines on MBS...!"
And this was just domestic! Overseas buzz, King and Sovereign exports awaited...!
Ten years back, beef with a monster PD left MBS sucking thumbs while rivals snuck overseas.
But done now! Trials heralded MBS soaring, him earning creds for broadcast committee glory!
"Uhahahahaha!"
He laughed on, adding days to his life.
Stunned Variety Chief joined eventually. Couldn't not be happy.
Rocket-like futures, bright tomorrows awaited!
And lo—genius moves heaven.
Soon, a call from a place tied to his dreams.
But his secretary's face paled yellow.
"V-VP... sorry, a call came..."
"Hahaha, already! Who first with congrats!"
"W-well..."
"Who I said! Heh!"
"...KCC."
Laughter stopped. Jaw shut.
Long silence.
Blinking VP mumbled blankly,
"...Who?"
"Korea Communications Commission."
"......."
"Uh... they have... lots to say about the broadcast's intensity..."
"......."
Sunday noon.
12+ rating.
Yet eerie, horrific, hyper-real malice overflowed—KCC, defying lazy rep, reacted fast.
Not "suggestion," "advisory," "caution"—a full warning.
Viewer boards exploded again.
Enraged board summoned easy-target VP again, naturally.
"......."
"......."
"Why the hell's that psycho so dead serious about Unbelievable!!!???"
The VP wailed,
"I lose. Apologies, young friend. You're a scary actor."
"...Pardon?"
"Soon I'll brag about sharing a show with you. Hit me up if you come stateside."
"?"
Kang Min shook Stefan Geisler's hand with a "what BS is this?" look,
meanwhile,
the final dagger to blast him was forging.
"Done...!"
In the workshop,
panda-eyed Baek Chae-i clenched her fist at the finalized King and Sovereign episode 18 script.
Conviction gleamed in her eyes.
This Hui-yul—
"Could ride Min's wave even higher...! Make S-grade directors barefoot pilgrims...!"
Alas, he'd never asked for it.