Plan B
Mi-joo, that cheeky little brat, had shown us a few performances just as Cheon Yua had asked.
After a moment's consideration, Cheon Yua gave a small nod, acknowledging the girl's potential.
"Of course the fundamentals are lacking — that's only natural. But for a child role, it's more than enough."
"Wow, really?"
"Mm, but becoming an actress is a slightly different matter. I'll discuss that with the director separately."
"Uh, um... that might be a problem, though."
"If the director says no, it's not happening anyway."
Right, that's how it is.
Her spirit was so outstanding that I'd momentarily forgotten, but this kid can't do anything without the director's permission.
There was no way that gentle-faced director would welcome a seven-year-old heading out into the working world to earn her keep.
"Alright, audition over. First I'll persuade the director, then contact Yuri. After that, we'll take you in."
"...Yes, ma'am."
Cheon Yua had smoothly defused the little one's abrupt ambition, and now she turned to me with an awkward smile.
Evidently she'd found this whole situation rather absurd herself.
"That aegyo act earlier — it was all performance, and this is what she's actually like?"
"Yes, that seems to be the case."
"Wow, she's a born actress. You could drop her into a production right now and most child actors wouldn't even register on her radar."
"Then why didn't you take her in? If it were you, sunbae, I think you could've persuaded the director."
"She's too young."
"That's it?"
More than anything — she'd be becoming an actress for money. This facility is about to have no need to earn money of its own. Child acting is brutally hard work as it is; if the only reason is money, she's better off not doing it at all."
"Is that so?"
Fair point.
Starting a broadcasting career from early childhood is no small burden, and if money were the sole motivation, it would truly be a mistake.
But more than any of that, I couldn't help marveling at Cheon Yua's insane flex.
From the look of things, she seemed to regard this place as something like Flame Entertainment's satellite branch.
It appeared she intended to keep the support flowing indefinitely.
Then again, if I were running a charity budget myself, I'd probably pick a childcare facility this well-managed too.
And with her connection to Yang Yuri, there wouldn't be a better option anywhere.
But still.
'This facility will no longer have any need to earn money.'
That line. That one. Is it just me, or does it make your heart flutter?
If someone told me, 'You just stay home quietly and keep house,' I don't think I could hold out.
And if the person saying it were a peerless beauty on the level of Cheon Yua...
"Of course, that's just a pipe dream."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Oh — nothing."
Time to get my head back on straight.
At this rate, I was going to lose to the Heavenly Demon's imperious aura.
I must never forget that those grapes are sour grapes.
In Murim, I was—
Right. Good thoughts. Good thoughts.
"Oh, by the way, sunbae."
"Yes, Siwoo?"
"Does our company happen to have a casting department?"
"Of course."
"And would I be able to recommend actors as well?"
"Naturally. Recommendations are open to anyone."
I'd been mulling over what to bring up, and while watching the little one's audition, something had occurred to me, so I decided to ask.
Our company was strange in many ways, but at its core it was still a talent agency.
And yet its only contracted actors were me and Cheon Yua.
One look at our building made it clear there was no reason to staff it for just two actors — the company would need to recruit more eventually, and I'd grown curious whether a contracted actor could recommend others.
So I asked, and the answer was yes.
"By 'recommendations are open,' you mean there's no guarantee of the outcome."
"Naturally. That's a decision for the company to make."
"Hmm..."
"Why, what is it?"
"How about instead, you give me something like a Free Pass?"
"A Free Pass?"
"Yes. Even if it's just for one person, I'd like to have one. When I hand it over, you recruit that person wholeheartedly — no questions, no conditions."
The company had its own position to consider; I didn't expect them to accept every actor I recommended.
I didn't have anyone particular in mind at the moment anyway.
But I did think I deserved the right to freely sign at least one actor of my choosing.
Right now I couldn't recall anyone, but as I worked, a truly exceptional actor might come to mind.
Imagine recommending, with great fanfare, an actor with an even temperament, real skill, and guaranteed star power — only for the company to reject them. That would leave a bad taste.
Flame's discernment could surely sort decent gems from duds on its own, but you never know with people.
Casting especially is a territory no one can predict.
A regressor like me, carrying even a hazy five years of future memory, ought to have at least this much privilege to feel secure.
"A Free Pass, hmm..."
"An actor's eye and a company's eye can differ, after all. But in my experience, actors that fellow actors recognize always rise in the end."
"That's true. It may take longer, but they reach the destination eventually."
After a moment's deliberation, Cheon Yua nodded and granted a single Free Pass.
"I'll propose it to the CEO. Adding one more actor won't cause any problems. In exchange — one person only."
"Of course. I'm not greedy."
She said she'd propose it to the CEO, but there was no chance in hell he'd refuse Cheon Yua's suggestion, so as good as decided.
With this, I could acquire at least one beast of burden to feed the company in my stead.
I was confident that entrusting me with a single casting right would be a good deal for the company and for me alike.
"Still — you're not planning to use that Free Pass on Mi-joo, are you?"
"Please. Of course not. The little one can grow up just fine on her own."
Given the circumstances, Cheon Yua apparently suspected I might be about to rope the kid into the company.
But seriously.
Why on earth would I recommend a child actor who can't do a proper day's work yet?
Besides, that brat is sharp enough to make something of herself even without acting.
Who knows — she might dream up some outlandish scheme to persuade the director and end up joining our company anyway.
So I'd save my casting right for the moment I truly needed it.
Time to scout out someone who really gets things done.
One more capable colleague, and the future would open up happily for me, for the company, for everyone.
A few days after that rather cheerful donation flex.
These days I was focused on building my body.
Two-Faced Devil, with its substantial action sequences, occasionally called for exposure, so some upkeep was in order.
There was nothing else to prepare for at the moment anyway.
Fooling around at the gym and the pool with our guard friends, the days just slipped right on by.
"Siwoo. We have a meeting."
"A meeting? Don't tell me — results already?"
"Yes."
"I can tell just from your expression."
"More or less. So let's discuss where we go from here."
The response to our inquiries — sent out with the revised script to broadcasters and prominent investment firms — had come back faster than expected.
One look at Cheon Yua's face told me things hadn't gone well.
And answers arriving that fast meant most of them had been flat rejections.
From their perspective, this was a project not even worth deliberating.
"Figured it wouldn't be easy. Well, it's not like this drama ever stalled over the script before."
So what do we do with this now.
Best to hear what the company people have to say first, then think it over.
The conference room held Cheon Yua, Representative Ju, and Team Leader Seo.
And lastly, Yang Yuri — the author of the script itself — all of them already waiting.
With me joining, that was more or less the full roster of everyone involved.
"Then let's begin the meeting."
The first to speak was the CEO himself.
A dignified middle-aged man who looked to be in his fifties.
He'd been pulled away on other business back when I signed my contract, so this was my first time meeting him in person — and he carried more gravity than I'd expected.
So that's the man who served as Cheon Yua's power behind the throne all those years?
He was the one who had personally run Cheon Entertainment, her personal agency.
Moreover, most of the staff now employed at Flame had come over from Cheon Entertainment as well.
Around a dozen or so, by my rough count — though for what purpose a company devoted to supporting a single woman ever needed that many employees, I couldn't say.
Then again, seeing as they'd hunted down every last troll on the internet, perhaps they had a team specialized in exactly that sort of work.
In any case, the company as it stood was effectively run by Representative Ju and the Cheon Entertainment veterans under him.
"To give you the results first: we were unable to find investors. And the broadcasters say they can't offer a programming slot."
"Really? So the cable channels turned us down too?"
"Yes."
"What about OTT platforms?"
"They claim they don't have spare capital at the moment."
"That's an excuse."
"It certainly seems so. It has the feel of a polite refusal."
With investors secured, production itself would hardly be a problem.
Give a production company money, and it will find a way to make your drama.
But without a programming slot, the drama can't be made at all.
So scheduling was the first thing to consider — and while I hadn't expected much from the terrestrial networks, the fact that even the cable channels riding high on genre dramas and the OTT platforms had all refused left us with no cards to play.
"Still, I didn't think the script could get torn apart that badly... ah. Right."
Yang Yuri's script, revised along the lines Cheon Yua suggested, was a cleaner, tighter form of the Joseon Gold Rush I remembered.
So if programming had been refused, the reason ultimately came down to the production costs demanded by its scale.
And if there was one more reason...
"This — me being the lead was probably a problem too. The script has my name written right into the role, after all."
Me, in other words.
"Unfortunately, I suspect that reason can't be ignored either."
"Just as I thought..."
As Cheon Yua had said, if an actor of truly top-tier stature had been attached, some ambitious broadcaster might have bitten despite the production costs running over budget.
Dramas ultimately lived and died on a binary of success and failure, and as long as a show succeeded, even a lavish budget was guaranteed profit.
But with costs already enormous and a walking question mark like me embedded in the lead role, it read as pure folly.
Of course, when this drama was actually produced in my past life, the leads had all been unknown newcomers as well — but back then the budget had been slashed so far it cost the show its quality, so the circumstances were different from now.
If we cut the projected budget substantially too, some party might approach us on a long-shot gamble.
"Finesse asked for a production budget cut. They said it was too much of a risk — though if it succeeded, they'd grant our full requested budget for a second season."
"Reasonable, but it doesn't tempt me. With a shrunken budget, how are we supposed to produce quality work?"
"Besides, a second season isn't really a consideration right now, is it?"
"I did have some thoughts about a second season, actually. Though I certainly have no confidence in slashing the budget and making a season one succeed."
Whatever the case, there was no obvious way out of our current situation.
"Then there's nothing for it. Yuri."
"Yes, unnie?"
"Rewrite the script."
"...The script?"
"Mm. We're going with Plan B — the one we talked about before."
"...Really?"
"Yes."
"Yesss~!"
What on earth had they discussed in the past that got that Demon Brain woman seizing up like that?
But the conversation that followed left my jaw hanging open too.
Because things were moving in a direction entirely different from anything I'd imagined.