Movie Master Plan (3)
The screen held in blackout for three full seconds.
Three seconds is longer than it sounds. In broadcasting, three seconds of dead air is enough to call it an on-air accident.
In that stretch of silence the audience’s minds raced through a thousand possibilities.
Then rough breathing cut through first. When the screen finally lifted from black, the view was still dark, filled only by a coarse, textured surface.
“Mmmph!”
A muffled, struggling sound, as if a mouth had been gagged.
“Looks like that thing from earlier woke up. Bring him out.”
A man’s voice drifted from somewhere distant, followed almost at once by a thunderous crash.
Bang—!
Crunch—.
Wood splintered under the blow. Light leaked into the frame.
The screen that had been locked to Park Gang-woo’s point of view finally opened onto the room itself: shattered planks scattered across the floor, and Park Gang-woo lying bound and sprawled in front of them.
“Eek!”
He shook like a leaf at the sight of the massive foreigner gripping a blood-red lumber axe.
And seated before him, legs crossed, looking calmly down, was Pierre.
Park Gang-woo—who had climbed to the top of his organization through social cunning rather than courage, through reading the room rather than raw force—scrambled frantically onto his knees. With his arms and legs still bound, the posture forced his forehead straight to the floor.
“Interesting. Very quick on the uptake. Treat our guest properly.”
“P-please spare me.”
“You’re alive right now, aren’t you?”
The positions of Pierre and Park Gang-woo had flipped one hundred and eighty degrees from the moment before the blackout.
Critic Yu Gang-jin watched and quietly marveled.
When Park Gang-woo entered the party hall he kept climbing those marble stairs—rising the whole time—his voice climbing with him. Even when he grabbed Pierre by the collar, the taller actor Ryu Yeon-woo deliberately hunched so the angle would place Park Gang-woo above him.
Yu Gang-jin’s eyes returned to the screen.
Now Pierre Choi sits on the high chair looking down, while Park Gang-woo keeps trembling and collapsing until his head is planted on the lowest point in the room—the floor itself.
Ascent and descent. The bright party hall against the ship’s darkness. Through pure contrast of light and height the film was aesthetically laying bare their reversed relationship.
People only call him a commercial master, but if Director Park Chan-hong ever decides to go all out he could chase awards overseas with an art film. And the actors carrying that vision are extraordinary. Especially that young one—Ryu Yeon-woo.
Yu Gang-jin studied the face of Ryu Yeon-woo as Pierre Choi on the screen.
The scene in which Pierre proposed a poker game with Park Gang-woo’s very life as the stake was unfolding.
Reporter Ju Yeo-ul felt the goosebumps rise across her entire body as the realization finally hit.
Ten years as a film specialist, and if she still couldn’t catch the hints after this many of them she ought to take down her nameplate.
There’s probably one more final twist waiting.
Most of the audience, however, still wore puzzled expressions and simply stared at the screen. Because the scene had opened in Park Gang-woo’s first-person viewpoint, even though he was the villain the immersion still worked; the tension bled straight into the seats.
Just as it had during filming, the poker hand ended with Park Gang-woo’s dramatic full-house victory. He walked away with the domestic drug rights handed over by the “Italian mafia’s Asia representative.”
The film raced toward its ending.
Several scenes later, Pierre and Park Gang-woo appeared again, finalizing the deal deep inside the ship.
“Haha. Looking forward to working together. Once Sicilian brothers form a bond of trust, they never betray first.”
“Of course. I look forward to it as well.”
At that moment an urgent voice crackled over the radio.
Tense music surged. Pierre Choi’s face twisted in panic as the camera pulled wide across the interior. He drew his pistol, aimed it at Park Gang-woo, then swung it toward the subordinate behind him—his confusion written in every frantic movement.
“What the hell! Was it you?”
“Y-yes? What are you talking about?”
The hatch slammed open. Special agents in black tactical gear poured in.
“Interpol! You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The sudden turn left the audience stunned.
Han Yu-kyung—who had won the Woo’s fan-café lottery under the nickname CosmicSeohee—was just as shocked.
So Pierre uses Park Gang-woo as a human shield and runs? What happens now?
But contrary to her expectation, Pierre showed no intention of fleeing. Park Gang-woo, on the other hand, was already backing away, both hands raised high.
“I-I have nothing to do with this!”
“Stop! Don’t move!”
From the opposite corridor another group stormed in—masked, armed, shouting. Pierre Choi swung his pistol in every direction and roared,
“What the hell is going on?! Which one of you bastards is it?!”
Among the men in black suits, one especially massive figure ripped off his mask and leveled his gun at Pierre Choi. The face that appeared was Kwak Ji-cheol’s.
“It’s me, you son of a bitch.”
Pierre’s expression crumpled into something that could have been laughter or tears.
“This is too much fun. Life really is this entertaining, isn’t it?”
In the audience, Han Yu-kyung’s thoughts could no longer keep pace with the plot.
…What? So Kwak Ji-cheol has been acting this whole time? Just to catch Pierre Choi? The logic’s completely broken. Our Yeon-woo… he got stuck in a weird movie…
The rest of the theater was murmuring the same way. Viewers who had been deeply immersed in Kwak Ji-cheol from the very first scene simply could not accept the turn.
On screen, Ryu Yeon-woo exploded with rage and fired at Kwak Ji-cheol. That single shot became the signal. The three armed groups opened fire on one another at once. Park Gang-woo clutched his head and bolted for the hatch.
Gunfire thundered through the steel bulkheads as Park Gang-woo and his subordinate fled the ship on trembling legs. When the camera returned to the interior it ignored the fleeing men entirely, lingering instead on the indiscriminate slaughter—bodies dropping, blood spraying, machinery sparking and shattering, ceiling lights flickering and dying.
The gunfight played out in slightly slowed motion, giving the audience just enough time to think.
So everyone dies and only Park Gang-woo walks away—a bad ending? Then who ends up with the thirty billion he transferred? Jennifer?
The screen held on the silent aftermath: a room carpeted with corpses. The space that had been deafening with gunfire fell into absolute quiet within seconds—so abrupt the contrast itself felt eerie.
A few more seconds passed. Only a single fluorescent tube dangled from the ceiling, flickering weakly, while the occasional crackle of broken machinery sparked in the dark.
Then, from the middle of the pile of bodies, Pierre Choi sat up like a zombie. He clamped a hand over his mouth so no sound would carry outside and began to laugh.
“Still too much fun.”
One by one the men who had been lying in pools of blood climbed to their feet.
“Kwak Ji-cheol. That felt a little personal. There was no swearing in rehearsal.”
“Ahem. Damn, that was realistic. The ‘junk-shop’ old man really is something. Everybody up, hurry.”
Only then did the audience understand. Goosebumps raced down their arms as their mouths fell open.
So the whole thing was a con…? From Park Gang-woo’s side he just handed over the money and his trading partners all died. Whoa…
After that the team climbed aboard Jennifer’s waiting boat and slipped away from the ship.
“Hey, am I the one who gets to press it?”
“No way. I’m not giving up the best part.”
Pierre raised the detonator high and pressed the button. The bridge erupted in a massive explosion. Cross-cut with the blast, Park Gang-woo—still staggering off the ship on shaking legs—collapsed in shock.
Reporter Ju Yeo-ul nodded to herself.
With one more twist, Park Gang-woo is left with nowhere to complain—neither in the light nor in the dark. A perfect operation. Truly a master plan.
Unlike the raw footage from the shoot, the finished CG layered over the actors’ performances painted every face in the theater with the crimson glow of the explosion.
Light, rhythmic music rose as the boat sailed toward the sunset. The same logo that had opened the film appeared once more.
The screen brightened again for the cookie video—footage that would play only after the full end credits once the film opened tomorrow.
“Hey, where should I drop you off?”
“Not sure.”
Jennifer laughed at Kwak Ji-cheol’s answer.
“Hmph. I knew it. This old man’s gotten a taste for it.”
She jabbed his side with her elbow as if she already knew everything. Watching them, Pierre let out a quiet snort of amusement.
“Get off whenever you feel like it. Nobody’s going to complain if you stay.”
The cookie video ended with Kwak Ji-cheol joining the crew—an open promise of a sequel. The lights in the premiere theater came up.
The director and cast stepped onto the stage to a standing ovation that refused to die. Thunderous applause and cheers poured over them without pause, long enough that even the people on stage looked startled.
Waaaaah!
Clap clap clap.
“Everyone, just a moment.”
As YeonuJina, CosmicSeohee, and the rest of the fifteen-member Woo’s fan-café strike force tried to leave after the screening, Manager Kim Min-su stepped into their path.
“Hello. I’m Kim Min-su, Manager for Actor Ryu Yeon-woo. If it’s all right with you, the actor would like to treat everyone to a meal. Is there anyone free to join us?”
The fan-café members’ eyes went round. Hands shot up in a rush.
“Of course! Even if a meteor hits right now, I’m still coming!”
“Holy crap.”
Meanwhile Yeon-woo, on his way out of the theater, had been stopped by a call from Director Park Chan-hong and was waiting briefly.
“Ah, Yeon-woo. It doesn’t look like we can talk properly right now, so if you’re free sometime soon I’d like to buy you a meal. There’s a project I’d like to discuss with you.”
There was a faint hesitation in the director’s voice. Yeon-woo smiled gently.
“Of course, Director. Just say the word and I’ll clear my schedule and come see you.”
“Good. Thank you. You worked hard on this one.”
Park Chan-hong patted Yeon-woo’s shoulder with a warm, satisfied smile. For a moment Yeon-woo remembered the first audition—how the same director had stared at him with flat, uninterested eyes, as if new actors barely registered. The distance between that day and this one felt almost dizzying. He smiled back.
Afterward Yeon-woo headed for the restaurant Min-su had reserved in advance.
At the same time the premiere was still in full swing, the internet erupted into a storm of hate comments aimed at Yeon-woo.