The Production Company's Predicament
"Hello. I'm Jo Mi-young, CEO of Square Film."
A conference room at Seoul City Hall. Staff from Square Film, tasked with producing the promotional web drama, had gathered with city officials. It was time for final adjustments before production began.
"Let's keep it casual. Casual. But I saw the report, and it looks fine. Can't we just go with it as is?"
The head of the promotion department flipped through the documents carelessly. It was obvious he didn't want to work. And who could blame him? They'd outsourced it with instructions to handle it themselves, yet here they were, calling meetings nonstop.
"We need to fine-tune some details," Jo Mi-young replied.
But from Square Film's perspective, this wasn't just any client—it was the government. Among the projects they'd handled, this was one of the biggest. They couldn't afford to slack off on a single thing.
"Details? Like what?"
Jo Mi-young projected the working title onto the large screen. Hanbam Pochah. A small street-side tavern that opened every night in an alley—that was the main setting. The story centered on encounters between the everyman owner and his guests, drawing out comfort and empathy.
"Have you checked the PPL list by any chance?"
And especially important were the foods placed between them. Items dubbed K-food. That was the promotional focus and the drama's core material. Korean dishes, including popular ones trending on YouTube, would feature heavily.
"Yeah, yeah. There were a bunch, right? Spicy chicken ramen, mixed dumplings, Otto curry, Mirak sikhye. The big ones were about those, weren't they?"
The department head glanced at his subordinate as he spoke. But the list he'd reviewed had over nine product names.
"Including the Korean dishes requested by Seoul City, we need a total of twelve foods to appear. And that's excluding drinks and snacks."
"So?"
"As you know, seven episodes is the baseline."
Production would extend to ten if it hit a certain view count and got good reactions. That was the contract.
The department head furrowed his brows, as if wondering what the problem was.
"Too many food items for the episode count."
"Put in two per episode. Done."
A grinding sound. The staff near the CEO noticed her teeth clenching. But the nonchalant officials seemed oblivious.
"The sponsors won't like that—it's not feasible. Plus, with episodes running fifteen to twenty minutes, focusing on too many would dilute the story's impact."
"Ha! They're so damn picky!"
The room froze at the crude remark from the department head's mouth. He waved it off coolly.
"Not aimed at you, CEO. The companies. No offense."
Jo Mi-young just smiled brightly. Gapja and eul. She repeated the words silently to herself. Otherwise, she'd lose her grip on reason.
"Anyway, too many foods for the episodes we have to shoot, right? That's the issue?"
"Yes. So, if possible, how about dropping the Korean dishes requested by Seoul City—"
"No way! That's the most important part! Bibimbap, bulgogi, what else?"
His subordinate jumped in. "Cup rice."
"Right, cup rice! We planned this to promote that—!"
The department head waved his hands emphatically, insisting it was non-negotiable. The other officials nodded in agreement.
Jo Mi-young had half-expected this reaction.
"Then how about reducing the PPL?"
"Who's paying for the sets? You can't throw taxpayer money around these days—it'd be a huge scandal! Why pour budget when we don't even know the view counts?"
With corporate sponsorships, everything would be smooth sailing. Any production issues were the production company's problem, not theirs. That was the vibe.
"Since the alley and tavern are the main sets, we'll scout a suitable location to cut costs."
"Come on, CEO. Don't act like an amateur."
The department head snickered, gesturing dismissively. She'd been in the trenches for nearly a decade now. Amateur? Her smile deepened.
"You said each episode takes three days to shoot. Times seven is twenty-one days. Imagine lighting up the alley every night for three weeks, staff coming and going. The residents will love that, right? Especially in a multifamily housing alley, not some apartment complex."
If reactions were good and episodes extended, it'd be nearly a full month. The neighbors would live by floodlights instead of the moon.
"Complaints would be a problem. A real problem."
Unpleasant, but not wrong. Seoul City might be fine, but production disruptions were inevitable. Shooting could grind to a halt.
The department head scratched his philtrum and spoke magnanimously.
"Fine. Twelve items, right?"
"You mean the food types?"
"Yeah, that. Let's amend the contract. Keep the terms the same, but bump it from ten to twelve episodes. If reactions are good, we can shoot them all no problem."
This fucking asshole. Jo Mi-young kept smiling, but inside, a torrent of curses raged. God knows when they'd spill out... Her staff shifted uneasily.
"If you can't make it work, figure it out yourselves. Square Film's got skills, right? You're blowing up on YouTube lately. Isn't that so? Haha!"
The subordinates chuckled along obligingly. Cram in two foods per episode, tweak lengths—handle it however. As the sandwich between sponsors and the city.
"Aigoo, look at the time."
"Lunch?"
"CEO, you haven't eaten, right? Join us?"
They weren't wasting a minute of the upcoming lunch break. The CEO refused with her perpetual bright smile.
"No, we have sorting to do."
"Alright. Good luck, then. Make it awesome! Yeah? Haha!"
Led by the department head, the officials filed out en masse. Silence blanketed the room. The CEO, still standing tall, gripped the table and bowed her head.
"This—"
The team leader flung open the door, scanning around. Checking for stragglers.
"Fucking dogshit asshole—"
"Not too loud. This is city hall."
"Rice-bowl civil servants, real empty-headed fucks..."
Jo Mi-young spat venomous curses as she collapsed into a chair. Her head throbbed. The customer is king, sure—but wasn't this too much?
"A poisoned chalice."
The team leader ruffled his hair with a sigh. They were just starting to gain ground in the market. A major project with Seoul City was supposed to be a huge asset, not this brake screech.
"What now?"
At the staffer's question, the team leader gathered the documents.
"What choice? Hit the sponsors tomorrow and plead our case."
"So two per episode?"
"If possible. Better assume no extension—less stress. Right, CEO?"
Put in one per episode banking on extension, then miss some? Worst-case scenario.
"...How far's the script?"
Synopses were done. Adding menus meant rewriting plots and directions.
The team leader stroked his chin. "Up to episode two."
"Recite the synopses."
"Uh, sure. Hang on."
He plopped down beside the CEO. The staff subtly followed. Lunch was off the table.
"Episode 1. Protagonist, living away from home, gets news of his father's death. Left behind: a street cart and a will. Son, I hope you'll run the cart at night. There are people who'd be sad if it vanished. He reluctantly starts the business."
"Cut the backstory. Who's the customer?"
"Episode 1's a retired family man."
Different episode, different story. Patrons with their own woes.
Jo Mi-young closed her eyes, thinking, then spoke.
"Change it."
"Pardon? To what?"
"YouTube web drama viewers are mostly young, right? Especially students."
"Target them first. Swap episode 1 from middle-aged to student. The exam-taker episode?"
A lost high school senior, crushed by college entrance exams with no time to ponder life's path. Perfect for resonating with key viewers.
"Yes, that's slotted for episode 3."
"Keep the script on hold and pull that episode to the front. And—"
Time for a bold gamble. To reach extension, it had to go viral. Results in just seven episodes meant hitting hard from the start.
Jo Mi-young tapped the table.
"Put care into casting."
"Guidelines?"
"Top-tier acting and looks."
"Uh... CEO, we're not rookies. For a student role, age range is narrow."
Talents with both looks and skill in that age group were already at big agencies. And it was a one-off supporting role in a 20-minute web drama. Why would they bite?
"Give up on one. I recommend focusing on acting. Enbin's already shaky enough."
Enbin, the idol snagging the lead as Seoul's promo ambassador. Handsome, but his acting... sorely lacking.
"No. Find one. Auditions are still open, right?"
"We'll find someone. But if not? I'm the one who dies."
Jo Mi-young waved off the team leader's whine. Then murmured with conviction.
"There is one. Definitely."
Someone to grab this mess by the throat and hard-carry.
"Moo-young. Straighten your back."
Yu-chan held the camera, directing Moo-young. He stared awkwardly at the lens, then flashed a bright smile and cleared his throat.
"It's weird. Usually first round's documents."
"Gotta show acting on video. Tilt a bit? Your left side's better than right."
That was why Yu-chan handled cameras well. He knew his face objectively. And exposed the best angles aggressively.
"Like this?"
"Perfect. Start from there."
"Ready. Cue me."
"Okay—action!"
Recording started. Moo-young greeted and introduced himself.
"Hello. I'm Ha Moo-young. I graduated high school this year and am about to start university."
No info on the web drama. Open to all ages, genders, no physical restrictions—O-seok had tilted his head too, wondering what role they wanted.
"I've only recently started acting, so no credits yet. Also—"
And the video had to include life struggles alongside the intro.
"As for my struggles..."
Moo-young read slowly from the paper taped beside the camera.
"This one's pretty new, actually. As a high school senior, I felt so lost—not knowing what to do or how to live. All I'd done was study... Then I stumbled into acting by chance, and now I'm chasing it as my dream."
Moo-young smiled brightly. Yu-chan gave a thumbs-up on the screen. Perfect.
"Now, free acting."