The Association
Bernard Fenton's eyes went wide as he listened to Yeon-woo's explanation.
"Th-that's a brilliant idea. And you've already spoken with Vincent Clerc of Armand? And he reacted positively?"
"Yes."
Yeon-woo gave a light nod. Bernard clapped both hands over his mouth, white whiskers poking out between his fingers.
Watching him, Yeon-woo found himself thinking something completely unrelated.
Hmm. I think they call that "mouth-block."
It was one of the neologisms he had studied ahead of time. Bernard was a foreigner and would never understand it even if he said it out loud, so he kept the thought to himself—but this time it felt like he had used the right slang at exactly the right moment.
A little proud of myself.
Of course, the source of that pride was not the clever solution itself, but the fact that he had instantly recalled the perfect modern slang.
Unaware of any of this, Bernard immediately clasped both of Yeon-woo's hands. His expression was that of a man who had finally had a rotten tooth pulled. The heavy stone that had been crushing his chest had clearly been set down.
"Mr. Ryu. I truly cannot find the words to thank you enough."
The look in Bernard's eyes was completely sincere.
He must have been suffering over this more than I realized.
Even counting from his previous life, Bernard Fenton was far older. Helping the white-haired old man set down one of his burdens was satisfying in itself, whether or not Yeon-woo gained anything from it.
Besides, Bernard was the one who came all the way to Korea—a place Hollywood barely noticed back then—and believed in me when I was still a nobody by their standards.
Bernard released Yeon-woo's hands and continued.
"Honestly, I already thought of us as good business partners and, despite the age gap, friends who understand each other quite well. But as of today, I, Bernard Fenton, intend to regard Ryu Yeon-woo as a true friend."
Yeon-woo gave a short laugh.
"We were already friends. What's the difference?"
"Ah, well, a friend and a best friend are entirely different things."
Bernard had no intention of explaining the difference with more words; he planned to show it through his actions from now on.
Yeon-woo waved a hand.
"It isn't completely settled yet. They said they would review it positively, but there's still a chance it falls through."
"That's fine. Connecting with Armand would be the best possible outcome, as you said, but even if it doesn't work out I can still use my network to link us with a brand that has a solid name, even if it isn't Armand. We've found a path. Even if it doesn't go through, I'm more than satisfied."
That was good enough. Yeon-woo nodded and rested a hand on his stomach.
"By the way, I'm starving. Your best friend's stomach is growling."
"Oh my, of course! Master, allow me to escort you to the restaurant."
Bernard, realizing Yeon-woo was deliberately changing the subject to stop him from pouring out more gratitude, smiled with genuine pleasure and bent at the waist in a playful bow, like an old butler serving a young master.
While Yeon-woo rested at Bernard's hotel, episodes 11 and 12 of Parabola aired in Korea.
The ratings climbed past 19 percent, rewriting the history of cable drama. With so many channels and a shrinking live-TV audience, producing a national drama that cleared 20 percent the way they used to was now realistically almost impossible.
Twenty percent is the kind of number even terrestrial weekend serials at eight o'clock barely manage to scrape past.
Anything over 15 percent was already considered a massive hit in the industry. For a non-terrestrial channel like TVM to achieve results on the level of Parabola had only happened three times in the entire history of ratings.
Meanwhile, after a string of scandals, SBC hastily swapped out this week's schedule for Daytona and emergency-aired a pilot for an observational variety show still in development.
I never intended to damage Daytona specifically.
He had planned a clean, head-on victory. But Lake Film's CEO Jeong Yang-gi and director Jo Hoon-gwang had turned out to be even more corrupt and rotten than Yeon-woo had expected. Beyond simple embezzlement, casting-period bribery allegations of every kind had surfaced; instead of careers in broadcasting, they now faced the very real possibility of lengthy prison terms.
Add the collaboration between the reporter who broke the story, Kim Joon-kyung, and the prosecution's pitbull Kwon Chang-jung, and Daytona was headed for mid-run cancellation.
If it had only been the producer and director going off the rails, the show might have limped on under a cloud of criticism. But the production budget itself was illegal money, so there's no way around it.
In the end the real victims were the staff and the cast who had been thrown into the project.
Yeon-woo sat on the terrace of his hotel room, letting the Santa Monica sea breeze wash over him, and picked up his phone.
What should I check first?
There were reactions to Armand, and reactions to episodes 11 and 12 of Parabola. He started by searching his own name.
[Alpha News] Ryu Yeon-woo showcases his multifaceted charm in Armand cover pictorial
[Double List] Armand pictorial released — Ryu Yeon-woo hits a new peak with that captivating gaze
[HPN Sports] Ryu Yeon-woo, the dazzling new face of Armand
Ugh…
He searched to gauge the reaction, but articles that laid the gold leaf on so thick made him hesitate to click.
Honestly, the fans' reactions are the same…
He was endlessly grateful, of course, but as the person being praised it still made his toes curl.
He switched tabs to look at other reactions.
Sorted by newest, every kind of post appeared.
A civilian girlfriend, huh…
The very word "girlfriend" felt so foreign and awkward that he let out a short laugh. Then one post caught his eye.
"Sent a love letter and got rejected by me?"
Curious, he clicked.
Okay, the title is pure bait so I could show you guys this.
I like writing, so I scribble stuff for fun.
When I heard my bias Ryu Yeon-woo was going to be a judge for a scenario contest, I figured even if he just read my piece that would make me happy, so I entered.
And then I got obliterated at light speed T_T How do you get rejected this fast…
Right now it feels exactly like I confessed and got dumped. Did Yeon-woo-nim actually read my writing?
Yeon-woo tilted his head after reading the post.
What is this supposed to mean?
It wasn't that he failed to understand the content. Words like "bait" and "obliterated" were within his current vocabulary. The problem was the fact of the rejection itself.
I'm a judge and I haven't read a single scenario yet. How are there already people who got eliminated?
He opened his phone gallery and checked the internal schedule he had photographed earlier.
Judging day is still quite a ways off…?
The schedule had only been released internally, and there had been a note that it could shift according to the judges' availability. Yeon-woo had planned his return to Korea so he could finish judging within the window. The idea that judging was already complete and rejection notices had been sent out was strange no matter how he looked at it.
He had been told the process worked like this: every judge scored each entry, the totals determined who passed the preliminary round, and the same method was used for the finals. That meant his scores had to be included. Results simply could not be out yet.
Hmm. Do these people really only see me as a publicity prop? If not, how are there already rejections when I haven't even started judging?
Yeon-woo immediately searched communities and portals with the keyword "contest rejection" and collected posts. He found far more accounts of people who had received rejection emails than he expected. More than ten rejection stories online meant the actual number of people eliminated was much higher.
Using publicly available information—IDs, email addresses, and the like—he pieced together profiles and lined them up. Residences inferred from SNS, genders, educational backgrounds—everything was scattered. Only one data point matched across the board.
Oddly enough, every single one of them is under twenty-four.
One participant appeared to be a high-school student, two were soldiers, and the rest were mostly university students.
It's 10 a.m. in Korea right now.
He messaged Jeong Hyeok, who was still in Korea, asking about the contest schedule and whether any scenarios had arrived for him.
The reply came quickly.
The contest schedule is still plenty loose. They just want the scores and comments compiled in the proper format by the end of the month. Judging after you return as planned should be fine. I did receive the scenario files, but I deliberately held off sending them so you wouldn't start working during your break. Want me to send them now?
Yeon-woo's expression turned complicated.
Look at these bastards.
He replied to Jeong Hyeok first.
I see. Thank you. I'll start judging after I return as planned.
With the message sent, he began reconstructing the association's intent.
They probably aren't trying to mess with me or deliberately shut me out…
Participants under twenty-four would mostly be complete newcomers or aspiring writers with no real production experience. The most likely explanation was that the association had simply filtered them out of the system without reading a single page and planned to start from there.
Judging everything would take too long and be too much work, so they pulled a little trick.
That was a problem. The entire reason Yeon-woo had accepted the judge position was to see those raw, unpolished scenarios.
And they collected entry fees, then filtered people out however they liked. That looks like a clear violation of the rules no matter how you slice it.
Aspiring scenario writers had paid expensive entry fees and submitted work they had poured their hearts into, only to be erased without even a chance. Even without fees the fairness issue would have been serious; with paid entries it was outright wrong.
Of course he would need more investigation to confirm the theory. Hacking a private association's internal data would be trivial for him, but the problem was that his own name was already attached to the contest.
Blowing this up in the press wouldn't do me any good either. The public starts by cursing the perpetrator, then eventually lumps the victim and the whistleblower together and chews them all up.
Public rage was contagious by nature. Eventually the original issue got distorted and twisted until people simply enjoyed tearing someone down for its own sake, and the criticism turned blind.
Yeon-woo drummed his fingers on the terrace table, lost in thought.
How could he dismantle these association bastards in the cleanest way possible—without his name ever appearing in the media—while still getting everything he wanted?