Michelangelo
Inside the editing room, a man was on the phone, his face twisted with dissatisfaction.
A dry, flat male voice came through the receiver he was clutching.
"That doesn't mean we can invent something that isn't there, does it? We're not those kinds of extremists."
"Come on, though—you people invested quite a bit, didn't you? Instead, that half-baked supporting actor they tossed out turned into a blessing in disguise for the other side with his cameo appearance."
At the continuing whine, the voice on the other end of the line turned ice-cold.
"...Hey. PD Kim Seung-gwan. So you should've directed the damn thing properly in the first place. Is that something you say to the people who put up the money? You think we're a joke? Are you acting up because you don't even want to do that pathetic little job of shooting your drama?"
PD Kim Seung-gwan, who had been venting out of sheer frustration, snapped fully awake at the man's words.
The chief director of MBS's Baldur recalled the influence these people—whose true identities he still didn't fully grasp—wielded over the entire political and financial world of Korea, along with the terrifying rumors he had heard secondhand.
"Ah, n-no, that's not what I meant, sir. I must have lost my mind for a moment out of pure frustration."
"People only regret the past after they've lost something. How much better would it be if they just did things right from the start? Be careful so you don't end up regretting anything."
"...Yes, sir. I'm sorry."
With a contorted expression, Kim Seung-gwan answered in subdued obedience.
"Anyway, Kim Ju-seong has this one locked down tight, so there's nothing we can do. Drop the attachment. ...Which is why you should've made a decent drama in the first place."
Click—.
"...Hah."
Still holding the phone to his ear after the one-sided hanging-up and the humiliating lecture, PD Kim stood frozen in place and let out a long sigh.
Meanwhile, the man who had just poured venom into Kim Seung-gwan slammed the phone down hard in his office.
"I'm sorry, sunbae."
In front of his desk, a subordinate sat with his neck stretched out and head bowed as if he had already climbed onto the guillotine.
The man who had ended the call picked up the black nameplate on his desk that read "Department Head Kim Gye-sik" and tapped it against the subordinate's neck like an executioner.
"Don't bother reporting this one separately to the Chairman. No need to trouble him over something as small-fry as this. You understand what I mean."
"...Yes, sunbae."
The subordinate bowed even deeper.
"...One way or another, we still need to dig up some dirt on that bastard Kim Ju-seong."
The audience numbers for Master Plan rode the momentum of its opening week and kept sailing smoothly onward.
By the second week it had already broken six million, long since clearing the break-even point of 4.7 million.
A portion of those viewers naturally flowed over to Star Beyond the River, the drama currently airing with Yeon-woo in the lead, and his market value soared through the roof.
"Hmm. What would be good..."
In his officetel, Yeon-woo had several commercial storyboards spread out and was deep in thought.
Back in Seoul after the trip with his friends, he had no fixed schedule and, just as Representative Kim Ju-seong had suggested, planned to take on non-project work like CFs and fan signings.
More money was always better.
Even in this life he had no intention of hoarding cash and living like a miser the way he had in the last one. And even if personal wealth and glory weren't the goal, if he was going to go up against an organization as shadowy as Baeksol, war funds would be essential—support from Baek Noya through Han Hae-un or not.
"Still, taking on too many wouldn't be smart either."
Objectively speaking, his value was only going to climb higher with every project he completed.
That meant once he signed an advertising contract for a product, he would be locked in for the duration even if his fee rose, and he would have to turn down higher offers from competing brands. Snapping up every single ad that came his way would be pure stupidity.
"I'll lock these two in first."
He set aside the car and soft-drink commercial storyboards.
Looking at the boards, he was confident he could deliver far more than the concepts they had sent.
For the rest, there was still plenty of time until the Netflex audition, so he could take it slow and think them over.
Bzzzt—.
His phone vibrated.
"Hm? Director Park Chan-hong?"
Yeon-woo slid the screen and answered.
"Yes, Director."
"Ah, Yeon-woo. Are you busy?"
"No, I was resting. I saw the article today about breaking six million. Congratulations."
At Yeon-woo's congratulations, a hearty laugh came through the phone.
"All thanks to you. I should be the one congratulating you—the blue-chip actor who seized both the big screen and the small screen at once."
"You're too kind. Thank you, Director."
Yeon-woo gave an awkward smile and returned the thanks at the unusually chatty words from Park Chan-hong, who normally never matched that image.
Then the director's voice continued.
"The reason I called today is about what we talked about when we left the premiere."
"Ah, I'll arrange the meal, then."
"No. I have a favor to ask, so of course I'll take care of it. I'm free anytime starting today. Tell me a time that works for you."
What kind of favor could it be?
Yeon-woo tilted his head at the uncharacteristic humility from Park Chan-hong.
"Today works fine for me as well."
"Is that so? Then I'll send you the place and time. Sorry for springing a meeting on you like this."
"Not at all. Just let me know, Director, and I'll be there on time."
After hanging up, Yeon-woo sank into thought.
What favor could the director possibly need from me besides casting me in a film? That would be something I'd jump at with both hands, not something he'd ask for in this low posture.
Not long after, a message with the location and time arrived on Yeon-woo's phone.
Rattle—.
Following the staff member's guidance, he slid open the door and stepped inside. Park Chan-hong rose to greet him.
"Come in, Yeon-woo."
"Director. Hello."
Yeon-woo bowed and offered a two-handed handshake. Park Chan-hong clasped his hand, smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Sit. I've already ordered the course. Anything you can't eat?"
"I'll eat whatever."
The two of them sat facing each other.
"I heard you wrapped drama filming well."
"Yes. Thanks to everything I learned and how much I grew while shooting Master Plan with you, I was able to finish strong."
"Haha. Saying all that just to make an old man feel good."
Park Chan-hong looked at Yeon-woo with a satisfied smile, then continued.
"When people talk about the persona of my film career, most of them name Jeong Ha-gyun."
"Yes, I know."
A persona, in a director's career, referred to an actor who had always walked beside him—almost like the director's own alter ego.
Looking at the filmography of Jeong Ha-gyun, who had played the villain and target Park Kang-woo so brilliantly in Master Plan, it was clear he and Park Chan-hong had collaborated on countless projects over the years.
"I wrote a screenplay this time. Or rather, I've been holding onto it ever since I first entered the industry."
Park Chan-hong pulled a yellow document envelope from under the coat he had draped beside him, set it on the table, and went on.
"Until now, if I'm honest, I was drunk on commercial success. I kept thinking about how to draw more audiences, how to make things look bigger and more spectacular. Even while directing Master Plan, it was the same."
He lifted the water glass in front of him, wet his throat, then looked at Yeon-woo again and asked,
"Do you know how the press evaluates me?"
"...As a master of commercial cinema."
"That's right."
Park Chan-hong nodded at Yeon-woo's answer, then continued with a bitter smile.
"That's the generous version. Some people call me a director of empty entertainment films who only chases money."
Yeon-woo simply watched him in silence after the self-deprecating words.
"But you see... while shooting this film, watching you inside the frame over and over again, that old screenplay I wrote long ago started calling to me with real force."
He slid the yellow envelope across the table toward Yeon-woo and continued.
"Michelangelo said he found an angel trapped inside the marble and carved until he set that angel free. It might sound grandiose when I put it like this, but watching you act inside the frame, I felt like Michelangelo discovering this screenplay. Directors call that a persona."
Unlike the way the media casually threw the word around, to directors a persona was not simply an actor who appeared in many of their films.
Did you cast an actor who fit the role in the screenplay?
Or did the screenplay itself rise up because you saw that actor?
There was a vast difference between the two, and Park Chan-hong had never once met a persona of that kind—so he had never attempted the art-house film that would match one.
Yeon-woo stared quietly at the yellow envelope the director had pushed toward him.
The Park Chan-hong sitting across from him today felt completely different from the man he had known until now.
Normally he was not this talkative, nor someone who openly displayed what he wanted.
In his previous life Yeon-woo had watched countless people from countless countries, and while infiltrating the political and financial worlds of various nations he had met many who succeeded in every field.
Looking at Park Chan-hong now, Yeon-woo made up his mind.
A few seconds of silence passed, and at last Yeon-woo opened his mouth.
"I'll do this film."
Park Chan-hong's eyes widened at the young man who accepted without even looking at the screenplay.
"No, listen to the explanation first. I'm planning to make this as an independent film with my own money, so I can't pay much. The genre is a humanist drama, and the goal is film-festival submission—whether it wins anything or not is..."
"Director."
Yeon-woo cut through the cascade of additional explanations.
"While doing Master Plan, I felt myself growing. I want to shoot another film with you. Instead of taking a fee, I'd like to invest in this movie myself."
"...I wasn't planning to take any investment at all, but if that's how you feel, then I welcome it. Looks like we'll be making this film together."
Right now Park Chan-hong was hurriedly listing every caveat because Yeon-woo had accepted without reading a single page—yet Yeon-woo could feel with absolute clarity that the director's eyes were filled with certainty of success.
People who fail talk about the sweetness of success with their mouths, but their eyes hold no conviction, only fear.
Successful people, on the other hand, speak of the worst-case scenario with their mouths, yet their eyes are always full of certainty.
Whatever was written in that screenplay would succeed. And if Park Chan-hong had discovered the story by looking at Yeon-woo himself, then the role would fit him as perfectly as a custom-tailored suit.
There was simply no reason to refuse.