I Became the Faceless CEO of an Entertainment Company -4
The project I had been conceptualizing for a full decade—ever since 2008—was none other than Godeungeo Game.
It was simply too provocative and violent a subject for any Korean broadcaster to touch. The company that finally reached out was the American OTT giant Metflix. As a result, the very same Godeungeo Game that Korea had rejected as too stimulating and brutal was praised overseas as a unique, fresh concept and ignited a worldwide sensation.
2019’s Emperor, which introduced Korean zombies to the world; 2020’s Parasite, which swept the Oscars; 2021’s Godeungeo Game. That was the true beginning of the global K-content syndrome.
“Whew…”
I let out a long sigh of relief, pulled the wireless earbuds from my ears, and sank into my chair. I had just locked down the acquisition of an OTT company. The purchase price came to roughly 187 billion won. Adding the production company I had already bought, the total investment hit 287 billion—enough to birth an OTT platform fully capable of producing its own content.
There were still a few loose ends—signing the formal agreement, wiring the funds—but we were essentially finished.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. The discussion ran longer than I expected.”
“Not at all.”
Director Hwang Jeong-su had been sitting on a script that had been buried for ten years and would almost certainly never see the light of day, yet he showed neither desperation nor impatience. That made sense; as a film director he already enjoyed solid critical respect.
“May I ask a few questions?”
“Of course.”
“An idol agency wants to invest in my work?”
From his perspective the situation had to feel absurd. The people who had recognized the value of his project weren’t a production house, an investment firm, or a network—they were an idol agency.
“Not exactly. I simply had no other way to reach you, so I asked President Won Chaeyoung here for help.”
“So this has nothing to do with Lime Entertainment?”
“Correct.”
“Are you with an investment firm, then?”
“No.”
“A production company?”
“No. I’ll explain everything you’re curious about right now.”
4.66 million, 8.66 million, 3.84 million. Excluding his debut, the man had drawn seventeen million viewers across three films. Naturally he had been approached by every kind of con artist and smooth talker. Suspicion was only reasonable; clearing it was my job.
“I’ve just acquired both an OTT platform and a production company. We intend to produce your project under our studio and release it on our own platform rather than any domestic broadcaster. We’re also planning a co-production with Metflix in the States.”
Leaving Metflix out of Godeungeo Game was unthinkable. The series had to be made with them. The actors’ performances and Director Hwang’s writing and direction had been crucial, but the single biggest reason for its success had been Metflix itself. Even a masterpiece dies if it only screens in a rural theater; people won’t travel that far or risk the ticket price, and most will never even hear the film exists. Metflix, with its global subscriber base, was the indispensable engine.
“Of course the directing will be entirely yours, along with full authority over the creative staff and camera team. Per-episode budget will be three billion won if we partner with Metflix; if that falls through, we’ll still guarantee two billion per episode from our side.”
I knew the original production cost had been two billion per episode. Anything less and the quality would start to warp—from casting all the way through the shoot.
“Hoo… Have you already spoken with Metflix?”
“The production company I acquired is currently making a Metflix original series. I’ll be meeting their people soon; once a meeting is set, we can go together.”
That series was Emperor, the Korean zombie period piece that would premiere in 2019. I had chosen the studio precisely because of its existing Metflix relationship; the odds of collaboration were high.
“So the budget has already been approved by the higher-ups?”
“I am the highest-up.”
“Excuse me?”
The meeting with Director Hwang ended smoothly. We didn’t sign a contract that day, but we would soon—and I would even set him up with an office inside the production company.
“I’ve got about sixty-three billion left… still short.”
According to my memories, Season 1 of Godeungeo Game was nine episodes. At two billion each that came to eighteen billion just for production. Marketing and contingencies easily pushed the real need to thirty billion. A Metflix partnership would cut that in half, but either way I needed more capital for everything else I had planned.
“You bought an OTT platform and a production company… Just how much money do you actually have, Representative?”
After the director left, President Won Chaeyoung set a cup of coffee in front of me and asked.
“Enough for a few generations to live without working, probably.”
“Ha… Someone with that kind of money should be busy just enjoying life. Why take on all this? I know the rich are usually greedier, but you don’t seem the type. You told me your dream was to live an ordinary life.”
“It just sort of started, and once I was in I decided to do it properly. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go broke and this will end up being the job that feeds me.”
It wasn’t quite the same as buying insurance. I didn’t have some grand mission or sense of destiny. I had simply begun, and now I intended to finish well. That didn’t mean I took it lightly. I was already carrying not only my own life but the lives of everyone tied to what I was building. I wanted to do it right so none of them would fall into despair because of me.
“President Won, there’s one more surprise.”
“You’re buying a broadcast network this time?”
“No. I’m founding a company.”
“Starting a business… not exactly shocking news.”
“I want to appoint you as its professional CEO—the president of a holding company that will own Lime Entertainment, the OTT platform, and the production company as subsidiaries. You’ll hold both posts for now.”
“……”
“The five-percent equity contract transfers as well—five percent of the holding company instead of Lime.”
Five percent of a three-hundred-billion-won company had been fifteen billion. Now another 287 billion had been added—158 billion more. The holding company’s shares might not be worth that much yet, but if we succeeded they could skyrocket far beyond. Knowing that future value was exactly why Won Chaeyoung froze with the coffee cup still in her hand.
“I told you—you hit the jackpot.”
“I… suppose I did… You’re not still offering two hundred million a year, are you?”
“Haha—of course not. The base salary stays the same at first, but dividends are separate. And we renegotiate every year. Show results. Or you might end up making less than two hundred million.”
“Ah… it’s been a while since my competitive fire lit up like this. Later on you’ll have to prepare something special.”
“What?”
“A blank check.”
“Wow… I’ll fire you before that happens.”
“I’m never leaving.”
I had a simple dinner with President Won and headed home. The moment I walked in I sat at the computer and opened the carefully organized timeline files.
“Whew… really nothing much.”
In 2018 the only notable play was the eight-billion-won stock position I already held. A few names would more than double, but the entry windows had already closed. I turned my eyes overseas. Most of the major companies listed showed nothing special, yet one name jumped out. Invest now and in five months I could expect roughly a 200 percent rise. The catch: it was a semiconductor company that manufactured computer components—an underdog. With crypto gone, would its stock still climb?
“The real question is whether that rise was tied to crypto or not…”
After thinking it through I decided to invest. It wasn’t pure gambling; I had checked every other company first. Antel, Menvidia, TMCS—no special news. The entire 2018 file was blank. That meant the climb had come from pure corporate performance or development breakthroughs, not crypto.
ACM—5,405,405 shares purchased for 54 million dollars.
This time I really was broke. Roughly three billion won left in the account. In May the eight billion would balloon to forty, but so far there was no sign of the surge. Surely this future hadn’t twisted too…?
If even the ACM I bought this morning was somehow linked to crypto and the timeline had shifted, I would be finished. I might have to sell Tesola or Ekrof and give up those multi-thousand-percent gains. Or, if I needed cash, I could always start by selling the building near Hyehwa Station.
“You call people over and then just sit there? Spit it out already.”
“Soli just likes looking at you like this~ Take your time, Sunwoo~ Hehe.”
“Read these once.”
“Witch… Future Studio… Dawon Media…?”
“Oong? What are these?”
“I’ll explain later. How do they feel? Easy to say?”
“Witch and Dawon Media roll off the tongue. Future Studio’s a little meh.”
“Ung! Soli thinks the same as Naye!”
“Not completely bad, though?”
“We need to know what they are first.”
“Yeah! Soli’s curious!”
“That’s enough. You can go.”
“…What?”
“Uuung!!!! Curious! So curious!!!”
Witch—the English word for “witch”—was the new name of the OTT platform. I chose it because it would bewitch people the way a witch does. Future Studio was the production company’s new name, meaning it would only make hits from the future. And Dawon Media was the holding company and investment firm that would own both plus Lime Entertainment. Online, the pure Korean word was said to mean “the person everyone wants, the person everyone loves.” It was fake, of course—not even in the dictionary—but the meaning and sound were perfect, so I kept it.
I considered renaming Lime Entertainment too, but the bright, fresh feel suited a girl group perfectly, so it stayed.
Dawon Media.
Lime Entertainment.
Witch.
Future Studio.
From this moment on, the future was one I no longer knew. I would have to build it with my own hands. I would still use future knowledge as a shortcut, but I had begun creating a brand-new future that had never existed in my previous life.
I wondered whether this tiny flap of wings I had started would end up swallowing me—or swallowing the entire world.