The Email
Yeon-woo sank deeper into the scenario he was reading, his focus sharpening with every line.
In truth, it was closer to a short story than a proper screenplay. The writer seemed to have zero grasp of how filming actually worked and had clearly never studied the craft of writing a scenario. Even so, the quality of the writing stood well above the other submissions.
Hmm…
The piece followed a con man with a thousand faces—an Interpol Red Notice fugitive—who, for reasons of his own, begins cooperating with the authorities. As Yeon-woo read, one real-life figure rose unbidden in his mind.
Frank Abagnale Jr.
The legendary American check forger and impostor who now worked as a corporate security consultant, drawing on the very scams that had once made him infamous. He was also the real-life inspiration behind a famous early-2000s Hollywood film.
In a way, this feels like a spin-off series that just lifted the character of Pierre Choi straight out of Master Plan.
A film that had drawn ten million viewers; it was more than possible the writer had been influenced by it. Yet the fresh spark Yeon-woo felt while reading had little to do with the plot itself. Stories like this had already been told countless times; the narrative offered nothing particularly new.
What truly caught his interest was the image of the character.
Most scenarios let you sense the mental picture the writer held of their creation. Sometimes that sense went further—almost as if the figure stood visible before your eyes. It had been that way with Jay and Nari in Sketch. The same had happened with the recent film Moon: the image of Hong Yu-jeong that formed in Yeon-woo’s mind from the script alone had matched almost perfectly with the actress Hong A-yun he later met in person. He had looked at the face of an unknown stage actress in a tiny theater and seen an astronaut traveling back through time. That was how solid the character image a director or writer formed in the production stage could be.
But the protagonist of this scenario…
Strangely, even though he was only reading words on a page, Yeon-woo saw himself. Whenever he tried to picture the lead the writer had created, the person performing that role was him.
Sitting quietly in his chair, immersed in the pages, Yeon-woo drifted into thought. There were probably two explanations for why he kept seeing himself in the protagonist.
First: the amateur writer had envisioned Yeon-woo from the very beginning while shaping the character.
And the second possibility is that I want to play this character so badly I’m projecting myself into the role.
He shook his head.
No—make that three possibilities. Both of the above at once.
Yeon-woo’s gaze settled on the stack of scenarios piled on the desk. He could have read them as digital files, but paper let him sink in more completely, so he had asked for them to be printed. Over the course of several hours he had worked through roughly half the pile. Of all of them, the single usable piece was the one he had just found.
Hmm. No matter how strange or hard to read they are, someone poured time and effort into every one of these…
As a judge, the least he owed that effort was a measure of sincerity. So he remained at the desk for hours more, methodically reading through the remaining scripts one by one. And with every page, the certainty of whom among those countless aspiring writers he needed to contact grew firmer.
Entry number 2182.
Yeon-woo checked the submission number written at the top of the scenario, then opened the Excel file Han Hae-un had sent him—the list of contact details.
no. 2182
Contact: [email protected]
Hmm. Just an email should be enough for them to check, right?
If he ordered a full background dig he could have the person’s entire personal history in minutes, but at this stage he had no desire to waste high-level assets on something so minor.
If we actually decide to work together, then we’ll look into any potential problems.
Of course, the odds that an ordinary civilian—filtered out of the contest precisely for lacking industry experience and being a college student—had any connection to the secret organization Baeksol were vanishingly small. Still, if collaboration was on the table, checking for moral or ethical red flags was non-negotiable.
They’re the type who invent tax-evasion scandals out of thin air if none exist…
Before sending the email, he first messaged Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon.
A short wait, then her reply arrived.
Yeon-woo stroked his chin, considering, then shook his head.
Right after her reply, the Saebyeol Media company account credentials arrived. Yeon-woo logged in and began drafting the contact proposal to the account named [u_retok2].
Hello. This is Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon of Saebyeol Media. After reviewing the work you submitted to the recent scenario contest, I would very much like to speak with you.
Due to the contest organizers’ personal-information protection policy, we have access only to your email address and the submitted work itself. I hope you will understand why I am reaching out this way first…
Bzzz—
Meanwhile, Hong Yu-ri sat in the multipurpose room of the university library for an interview study group when her phone vibrated. Could it be a reply from one of the companies she had applied to after seeing their job postings? She steadied her racing heart and, careful to keep the phone out of the other members’ sight, quietly lifted it.
It wasn’t a text. It was an email.
Huh? What’s SBmedia?
She had never sent a résumé to any company by that name, so she tilted her head in confusion. She tapped the message open and the body appeared.
Hello. This is Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon of Saebyeol Media. After reviewing the work you submitted to the recent scenario contest…
The long, completely unexpected email made Hong Yu-ri shoot to her feet. The other members, mid-study, stared at her.
“S-sorry. Something urgent just came up—I think I need to leave early today.”
She hurriedly gathered her things, then bowed again to the group.
“I’m really sorry! Please continue without me.”
The moment she stepped out and closed the door, the remaining members shook their heads.
“Ugh, if that’s how she prepares, she’s never going to survive a job market this tight.”
“Right?”
“Let’s pick up where we left off.”
Outside the multipurpose room, Hong Yu-ri left the library with her heart hammering so hard it felt ready to burst. The shortness of breath had nothing to do with how fast she had left.
Saebyeol Media…!
The unfamiliar address SBmedia belonged to a name that was both familiar and impossibly distant to her: Saebyeol Media. Saebyeol Entertainment was the agency that managed her boyfriend’s friend, her close junior, and—above all—her ultimate bias, Ryu Yeon-woo. Saebyeol Media was the production company affiliated with it.
To receive an email from a company that close yet so far away, inviting her to a meeting, and not have her heart try to explode would have been grounds for a cardiac checkup. Every nerve stood on end; the ordinary world around her suddenly felt alien.
Across the street, students laughed and chattered outside the campus café. Their department-logo baseball jackets marked them as first-years stuck on campus for summer session. Behind the benches, far down on the soccer field, a cluster of guys sprinted and shouted at one another. It was the same peaceful campus scene as any other day.
The only thing that had changed was a scrap of data that had landed in her inbox. Yet in that instant Hong Yu-ri knew, with absolute certainty, that the time had come to leave the school that had sheltered her and step out into the world.
All through senior year she had submitted applications and prepared for interview study sessions, steadily building toward employment. But the single email that had just arrived felt as if it would decide her path more decisively than any of that.
I might just be getting ahead of myself…
She sat on the bench in front of the main library and, weighing every single word with painstaking care, typed out her reply. And she thought, with pure instinct:
I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my life.
With her heart still pounding, Hong Yu-ri arrived at the Saebyeol Entertainment building. She had been here once before last year, when Yeon-woo had called her over to help with a group project.
Back then I never dreamed I’d be walking through these doors again for a reason like this…
She had considered texting Yeon-woo beforehand, then decided against it. Today she was not visiting as Hong Yu-ri, Yeon-woo’s acquaintance; she was visiting as a writer.
He said a few days ago he was flying to the States for a shoot—I don’t even know if he’s back yet…
She headed for the first floor. The ever-popular bakery and restaurant still drew lines that snaked all the way around the building. She squeezed through the crowd and stepped inside. She was still nobody, yet she could feel the people in line murmuring. Maybe it was pure imagination, but she thought she caught fragments like “Must work at Saebyeol,” and “Lucky—if you work there you get to see Jin Yu-han or Ryu Yeon-woo every day.”
Her face flushed for no good reason as she reached the security gate and dialed the number listed in the email.
“Yes, this is Team Leader Gong Min-jeong of Saebyeol Media.”
“Ah, yes. I’m the… w-writer Hong Yu-ri. The one scheduled to visit today.”
Even as she introduced herself, the word “writer” felt painfully awkward on her own lips.
“Ah, have you arrived on the first floor?”
“Yes! Yes, I have!”
The voice on the other end was as warm and professional as a call-center agent’s; it told her someone would come down to meet her shortly and asked her to wait. Hong Yu-ri stood there, fidgeting with her fingers, desperately trying to calm the frantic thudding in her chest while she waited for Team Leader Gong Min-jeong to appear.
At that moment she still had no idea that the person coming down to fetch her was “YeonwooBabyUjuju” coming to meet “Yuri_Rabbit.”
Nor did she know who was already waiting for her on the third-floor café.
And of course, the person waiting on the third floor had no idea that the visitor coming up was Hong Yu-ri either.