Hidden Settings
“How the hell do we handle this?”
Was he exhaling cigarette smoke or letting out a sigh? The president of Mongnett had been staring at the script for hours now.
“President!”
“My ears are falling off.”
He quietly set the script down. Objectively speaking, Plague wasn't a particularly eye-catching title. So why? Why had it pushed aside the mountain of scripts piled on his desk to be the first one he read? And why was he agonizing over it like this?
“No matter how I look at it, this won't work. Why do we even have a casting director? Sure, other writers assume actors in mind when they write, but there's got to be some compromise.”
The writer they'd finally tracked down after all sorts of twists and turns was a young man in his early thirties. In the film world, he'd met all kinds of people, but this guy had a personality like no other.
“Using a pen name? Fine.”
A strange pseudonym meaning something like “Child of the Thatched Roof.” Maybe there were situations where he just couldn't write under his real name—he'd insisted on keeping his identity completely hidden.
“Adaptations to fit the budget or other circumstances, tweaking it together with him? Partially okay.”
The employee ticked off points on his fingers, recalling their previous meeting. The Mongnett president watched without a word. Then, as if he'd made up his mind, he stubbed out his cigarette.
“But on casting actors? He's got a stubborn streak like a bull's horn dipped in shit. Just toss it. It's a good script, sure, but there are plenty more out there.”
Even after crank-up, there was no guarantee it'd succeed. You'd only know once it unspooled in theaters. At this stage, where they were just selecting scripts, the company had zero reason to bend over backward. Especially not for an unknown rookie writer!
“Aren't scripts a dime a dozen?”
“They are. Everywhere you look. But this one's one of a kind.”
“The others are unique too.”
“Yeah, but... that's the danger of taste.”
The employee gasped at the president's words. That was it in a nutshell—why he was obsessed with Plague.
“No way! Seriously!”
“I keep reading it, and it's just... good. Fits our company's vibe too perfectly. Plus, what about Director Seo Jeong-mun?”
“Well...”
Having a master director attached meant a lot. Higher chances of public appeal, and investors would love it.
“We've come this far. I see it as an opportunity.”
Pushed out by skyrocketing rent, he'd made it all the way to Chungmuro. He couldn't miss this chance to blend the company's unique flavor with commercial viability. Plague felt like a gift from the gods.
Grab it and climb. Whether it's a rotten rope or a golden one, you won't know till you try.
“President, how are you planning to line up the cast? You think you can convince Director Seo Jeong-mun? I sure couldn't.”
The employee practically begged, waving his hands desperately. In film casting, the director's authority was near-absolute.
“Who knows? Maybe he'll get it once he reads it.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Set up a meeting first. Better if I talk to him myself. Spin it a little.”
The president made a tiny gap with his fingers and grinned. Frame it as the president's enthusiastic actor recommendation, not the writer's stubbornness—easy fix.
“But that Aok writer? He's something else. Gave me chills the moment he named the actors. The way he breathes life into characters is top-notch.”
A small Post-it in his hand listed actors that had popped into his head while reading. Most had come straight from Aok's mouth.
“Director'll agree, I'm sure.”
It felt like the actors themselves had descended into the story. With sync rates that high between actor and role, the final product had to be something special.
“You're killing me here.”
“Let's see. Who were they again?”
At the president's prompting, the employee recited the names like he was choking them down.
“The child lead is Yoo Yu-na.”
The most recognizable child actor out there. Just nine years old, but thanks to her PD dad, she was already three years into her career.
“Honestly, no other kid could pull it off but Yu-na, right?”
“...Far as I know, yeah.”
She wasn't just some one-off with connections. The nuanced emotions and acting skill no ordinary kid could muster. Critics and audiences alike hailed her as the next big thing.
Good thing she was born a PD's daughter. Otherwise, we'd have missed her childhood brilliance.
A child star earning that kind of acclaim—no issues on acting chops. Plus, the story was... pretty violent.
“All the more reason it's Yu-na. She's got experience. Experience.”
“You mean Uncle Next Door?”
“Yu-na's agency? G&M, right?”
The president jotted the agency next to her name. Once sorted, he'd send the script and schedule a meeting.
“Jin is Mark. Louis is...”
“Yi Hi-jun.”
“Yi Hi-jun. Right. Pace fits perfectly, but... ahem. Anyway.”
Celebs with two faces? Nothing new. The president swallowed his words and twirled his pen.
“What's this one's agency?”
“Sealing Actors.”
“Ah, Sealing. Got it.”
He scribbled “Sealing” next to Yi Hi-jun. And right then—
Bzzz. Bzzz.
“Why's it ringing off the hook today?”
The president joked at his wildly vibrating phone. But one glance at the screen, and of course.
“Na Geum-dong!”
"It's Na Geum-dong!"
“Knew it'd be you. Phone only blows up when you call. Geez.”
Na Geum-dong, president of Big Win Enter. Birds of a feather—they had a lot in common. Struggling companies, easygoing personalities. And unyieldingly tough on work.
“What's up? I'm in a meeting.”
"Heard you found the Plague scriptwriter?"
“Oh ho. See? Word's already out. Bad omen?”
The Mongnett president covered the receiver and muttered to the employee. Industry buzz often turned into public hype.
“And?”
"Let's grab a drink!"
Drinks? The president narrowed his eyes. Na Geum-dong only suggested booze in two cases.
“No recent flops, so not drowning sorrows.”
When a film's box office tanked. Or...
“Casting troubles?”
"Talk over drinks?"
“Huh? Bro.”
“Yeah. Free booze? No reason to say no. Hang up for now—gotta wrap this meeting.”
The Mongnett president flipped his phone shut and grabbed his pen again. He circled “Yi Hi-jun, Sealing Actors” for Louis.
Scratch.
“Check schedules here too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Meanwhile, Ha Moo-young sat at his dorm desk, flipping through the Plague script. Headband firmly in place.
“Studying hard, huh?”
“Midterms are over, aren't they?”
Park Mun-seong and Choi Hwan, back from dinner, flinched. Bellies full, they'd planned some gaming—but Moo-young like this was a buzzkill.
“Midterms are done.”
“Then?”
“Prepping for my next project. Audition coming up, so getting ahead. Hm? You guys ate meat, right?”
“Gasp!”
Moo-young turned, a black face mask plastered on. The two froze by the door.
What the hell is he doing?
“Company gave 'em. Makes your skin super soft, they say. Want some, hyungs?”
Special care for midterm-dried skin.
“Pass. You do it.”
“Carving lines on a pumpkin won't make it a watermelon.”
“There's tons, though.”
Bags stuffed with masks. Go Kyung-min had handed them over guiltily, double-fisting them. Everyone else got spas or dermatologists... all he could offer were these.
“Guess we gotta be quiet then? Was gonna game—head out?”
“Nah. Play here. I'll practice lines.”
“Cool. Then... log in quick.”
“Okie-dokie.”
As the hyungs booted laptops, Moo-young underlined lines, murmuring. He wanted Louis, but just in case, memorizing every role.
Flower pollen doesn't scatter for nothing.
An opportunity he had to seize. Web drama auditions gave lines on-site; this time, the script was already in hand.
Do everything I can.
Highlighter streaked Louis's lines. Dormmates dove into their own worlds.
Minutes later.
“Yes! Supply drop! Pot? Ooh, got one!”
“Gimme that. I'm one-potting.”
“Wait! Back off! That's FG property!”
Screech.
Kim Bong-gun's entrance revealed chaos: two guys raging at their game, Moo-young deep in rehearsal. Complaints from next door? No defense.
“What, everyone's lost it?”
Headset guys didn't hear; Moo-young was so zoned he hadn't noticed Bong-gun arrive.
“Quarantine zone? What're we supposed to do? This ain't Korea anymore? The door'll open eventually, and then you're all executed.”
Muttering at the wall. Bong-gun sat, watching. Cycling lines, voice pitch shifting, atmosphere flipping on a dime.
“Executed? Bullshit. We'll all be dead first.”
“That's your hope!”
“Shut up and hand it over quick!”
Bong-gun's jaw dropped. Urgent, flowing with the scene—zero wobble. Two people? No, three talking at once.
“Forgot what the government said? It's the plague. We shouldn't—we should round up the symptomatic—”
“Idiot! You believe that?”
The script remained unseen, yet the entire situation, the shifting mood, the underlying emotions, and the atmosphere of the actual scene were all crystal clear to him. Bong-gun tsked audibly at the realization.
Genius. That bastard.
Insane. Three characters with just face and voice. Black mask and all!
Still...
“You're FG, right? Spill it. That gas—what the hell is—”
“Whoa, hold up. Moo-young, pause.”
Bong-gun, eavesdropping, grabbed his shoulder in shock.
“Waaah!”
“Ack!”
Moo-young toppled, clutching his pounding heart, glaring up. When'd he get here? He peeled off the dry mask, pouting.
“Hyung, don't sneak up—scares me.”
“You scared me more.”
“The mask? Looks rough but works great.”
“No, kid. Not that!”
Bong-gun eyed the script in Moo-young's hand.
“Where'd you get this?”
“This? The next project I mentioned...”
“Sounds familiar.”
Someone from Seoul United Theater Club had shared a similar draft. Early version, contact cut off after.
“Protagonist's got a burn scar on his wrist, right?”
“Uh. Yeah. Mentioned in lines.”
“Damn. Thought it got shelved, but he kept at it. That brown-haired guy he hangs with? Shows up?”
“Hangs with? Louis? Louis has brown hair?”
“Set it that way, I think...”
Bong-gun snatched the script, reading. Moo-young watched, tugging his hem.
“Hyung, tell me. What's the deal? You know Aok?”