Chapter 10
An Jihee, her hair tied back in a ponytail, was rather flustered. Kang Jaeha was standing across from her and looking at her rather intently. Had he told her to sit down too quickly? Or was there something on her face? Or—was he looking at her again and thinking he didn’t like what he saw?
I should’ve put on makeup. I came bare-faced because I thought it through, but—
She had been sitting, but a faint anxiety rose in her chest, and she awkwardly lifted herself off the chair before asking Jaeha, “D-do you have something to say to me? Or is my bare face not to your liking?”
Kang Jaeha let out a short laugh and shook his head.
“No.”
Only after he answered did he look away from An Jihee and sit down in the chair himself. Still watching him nervously, Jihee sat back down. The smile vanished from Jaeha’s face as he crossed his legs.
“You tied your hair back.”
“Huh? Uh—yes. Oh! Not because I didn’t wash it or anything! I just felt like tying it up today...”
“Yeah. It suits you.”
Kang Jaeha was complimenting her as though he were looking at an actress through a mask, because with her hair tied back and no makeup, An Jihee’s hidden freshness stood out all the more. But that freshness was rough around the edges. Dry freshness, maybe?
If she wiped the expression off her face and held a box cutter, the whole genre would change on the spot.
Meanwhile, An Jihee darted her eyes around for no reason at all. Her cheeks were turning red. She wasn’t used to compliments.
“...Huh? It suits me?”
“Why, do you not like it yourself?”
“Ah, no. It’s not that—just, I didn’t expect it.”
“It might be a weakness in the idol world, but it’s an advantage as an actress.”
“Ah.”
Feeling her cheeks heat up, Jihee fanned herself with one hand. Watching her, Kang Jaeha recalled the déjà vu he had seen earlier.
The background, or rather the setting, had clearly been a lavish film festival.
A place where many famous actors and directors had gathered.
And there, the name An Jihee had rang out confidently before his eyes.
And, as a bonus, there had been Jihee’s dumbfounded face as well. It was still too early to say he had unearthed her properly, but Jaeha felt a quiet relief that his eyes hadn’t gone rusty.
He had spent his time in another world constantly sorting talent.
Among hundreds of mercenaries, he had to pick out the raw stones and gems, then deploy them where they would matter most, leading them to victory while keeping losses to a minimum.
At any rate, that eye of his—the instinct for gauging talent—was still alive and well.
The future that had appeared in déjà vu for the first person he chose in this world, An Jihee, had been dazzling indeed. When would her greatest moment come—the day of that déjà vu? This year? Next year? He couldn’t know for sure, but Jaeha was almost certain.
I don’t need to wait. I’ll make it happen this year.
It was not unheard of for a rookie actor to win a newcomer award at a film festival in their debut year, though it was rare. And because it was rare, both the film industry and the media made a lot of noise over it. If the work itself was hot, the buzz doubled.
As Jaeha was adding another layer to the blueprint in his head, he spoke to the wide-eyed Jihee.
“An Jihee.”
“Yes!”
“Have you forgotten all about the idol world?”
She lowered her eyes slightly and let out a small breath before answering. Her voice trembled faintly.
“Idols... what’s that? I don’t know anything about them at all.”
That was kind of ridiculous. Jaeha let out a quiet laugh, sensing a strange, offbeat streak hidden in her.
“Good. Keep forgetting.”
He slid the contract he’d brought with him toward her.
“The contract you’re signing today.”
“...”
“What?”
“I’m just... moved? Touched? By it.”
“I haven’t finished talking yet, so listen to everything first before you decide.”
Jihee nodded and straightened herself up. Jaeha pointed at the contract in front of her with his index finger.
“Your idol contract is over. I’ve already convinced the higher-ups to let you switch over to acting.”
“Ah—”
“However, the contract period is one year.”
At the words one year, Jihee’s eyes widened.
“...One year?”
Kang Jaeha looked unconcerned.
“Yes, one year. You’ll have to show the company something within that time.”
“That’s too stingy—too short, isn’t it?”
“It is short. Still, in your situation, even one year is something to be grateful for.”
As always, Jaeha didn’t bother to beat around the bush. He wanted Jihee’s position made absolutely clear.
Had he said it before? Entertainment agencies aren’t charitable organizations. That meant they wouldn’t hand out generous chances to an ex-trainee who had already wasted six years. Well, without Kang Jaeha stepping in, An Jihee would never have had a chance at revival to begin with.
“For that year, I’ll be the one taking care of you.”
“...”
“Of course, you’re free to refuse.”
No sooner had she heard that than An Jihee flinched in alarm.
“No! I won’t refuse! I don’t really know what refusing means! I’ll do it—the contract!”
“Good.”
Jaeha gestured for her to read it carefully. As Jihee slowly went through the contract, he spoke again.
“When that one-year contract ends, you’re free after that. You can renew with Leon, or go somewhere else.”
A little while later, An Jihee signed the one-year contract. The moment she did, Jaeha handed her something else—a rather thick stack of paper.
She took it, question marks practically rising over her head, and while checking the contract, Kang Jaeha explained, “For now, read that script until I contact you.”
“Ah—yes, yes.”
“Not once. Several times. At least five.”
Before long, An Jihee’s fighting spirit had risen, and she checked the title written on the script cover.
Condensation.
A few days later, the weekend arrived.
Saturday dawned—Kang Jaeha’s day off. Though honestly, whether it was a weekend or a weekday, an entertainment manager never really had a proper break, at least not if the artist they handled was doing well.
But Jaeha’s charge was the washed-up Yoon Dayeon, so he could rest on Saturdays like any other office worker.
Of course, that would change once she got busy.
At the moment, Kang Jaeha was inside the used car he’d bought before, driving down the road. He wore a thick padded coat against the winter wind and had pulled his hat low over his eyes. But he wasn’t alone in the car.
An all-too-familiar face sat in the passenger seat.
“Man, to think I’d ever get to ride in a car driven by the commander.”
Lee Chanhoo livened up the mood with a streetwise grin. He widened his narrow eyes as much as he could and bounced in his seat.
“This is an honor. A real honor. We need a photo for this.”
“Quit acting up.”
“No, but this is a moment worth preserving. How often do you get to ride in a car driven by the commander?”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a car ride.”
“Well, sure. But how ordinary is our relationship, really?”
“Yeah. Pretty ordinary.”
“That’s cold.”
“Get out.”
As soon as Kang Jaeha lowered the passenger-side window, Lee Chanhoo hastily rolled it back up. He knew perfectly well that this was the kind of man who might actually throw him out the window.
“Easy, easy. But you’re driving a more modest car than I expected.”
“Then what am I supposed to drive?”
“Given the commander’s image—I figured you’d be driving some car where the doors open like wings.”
“What’s the point of doors opening like wings if the thing itself can’t fly?”
Chanhoo snickered, saying that was fair enough. He looked genuinely cheerful. The two of them soon arrived at the parking lot of a rather old-looking building near Yangjae Station. After parking, Jaeha and Chanhoo rode the elevator with practiced ease and entered an empty office space on the fifth floor.
The place was a little worn, but fairly spacious. Chanhoo was the first to react.
“Damn—still looks great, even the second time.”
Apparently he had been here before. In fact, Kang Jaeha and Lee Chanhoo had already visited this vacant office once. The lease had been signed yesterday. This would be the first foothold of the new company they were opening.
“This is the new office. Even as a salaried front president, I’m fired up just looking at it.”
“Is that so?”
“The commander doesn’t seem all that moved.”
“Maybe not.”
Jaeha certainly wasn’t feeling bad. He simply had bigger plans for it.
“If you need a desk, a sofa, anything, buy it. Don’t waste money.”
“You think I’m insane enough to just spend the commander’s money like crazy? I’m not trying to die just yet.”
Lee Chanhoo murmured that with surprising seriousness before moving toward the office window. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous city view, but he seemed to like it, smiling as he looked out.
“Maybe far in the future, but—some day we’ll be looking at some insane night view from a stupidly high place, right?”
Kang Jaeha gave a small laugh and ordered, “Put up what you brought on the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jaeha sat down on a folding chair while Chanhoo pulled something from the paper bag he’d brought. It was a freshly made nameplate and a signboard. Naturally, the nameplate bore Chanhoo’s name.
Representative Lee Chanhoo.
Looking at it, Chanhoo was moved all over again.
“Representative. Representative—man, that word tastes good.”
The real owner was the man behind him, Kang Jaeha, but the front president Lee Chanhoo didn’t seem to care at all. After carefully placing the nameplate on the floor, he picked up the signboard with English lettering on it instead.
He fixed it onto the office door with meticulous care.
Soon Jaeha stood as well and came to stand beside Chanhoo. The two of them looked at the signboard on the door and smiled.
MEG
Chanhoo nodded and muttered, “MEG. Yeah, that looks fucking legit.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
The company name was MEG. Written out, it stood for Mercenary ENM Group. Mercenary meant mercenary, and ENM stood for investment and comprehensive entertainment business. Put together, it was something like a mercenary unit. They wouldn’t be waging war or slaughtering people, of course.
In the entertainment industry, a company name could be whatever you wanted without causing much trouble.
In fact, there were plenty of production companies, investment firms, film companies, and entertainment agencies built from all sorts of word combinations. Whatever the hidden meaning was, it was enough that only Kang Jaeha and Lee Chanhoo understood it.
“Let’s see—”
Back inside the office, Kang Jaeha made a suggestion to Chanhoo.
“Days like this call for Chinese food, don’t they?”
“As expected of the commander. You know what’s up.”
As Chanhoo quickly ordered jajangmyeon and tangsuyuk, Jaeha changed the subject.
“How’s the tail on Director Kim Cheoljung going?”
That was what Jaeha had ordered a few days earlier: dig into the Director of New Business at Leon Entertainment. After placing the Chinese takeout order, Chanhoo grew serious.
“It’s in progress. I’m watching him during his commute to and from work, and I’m checking him once a day with Search too. I’m also looking into Kim Cheoljung’s entire orbit—his family, friends, background, hobbies, lovers, all of it.”
“He has a lover too?”
“Looks like it.”
As expected, he was sharp. Chanhoo was handling things beyond the direct order on his own, taking care of what seemed necessary. It felt like his instincts from the assassination squad were still alive.
“He does meet a lot of people, but nothing really stands out yet. Still, I’m collecting photos and anything else I can get.”
“Fine. We only need one thing to fall into our lap.”
With one leg crossed, Kang Jaeha issued the order not as a subordinate commander, but as the front president of the newly opened MEG.
“And the investment. Start it.”
By around lunchtime on Monday the 24th, a construction site was echoing with loud noise and crowded with workers. It was lunch break now, so things had quieted down considerably, and a man with glasses stood out amid the site. He looked young.
The man seemed as though he had just come from a grueling stretch of work.
“Phew—”
He let out a long sigh and dropped heavily onto the ground. Taking off his hard hat, he had the look of someone generally mild-faced, and despite the winter cold, his hair was slick with sweat. Maybe because he wore glasses, he also had a faintly smart air about him.
“Ugh—this is killing me.”
The man kneaded at his forearms and shoulders. His whole body was screaming with pain. He probably wasn’t used to a construction site like this. Still, as though determined to endure it somehow, he stretched for several minutes.
“I’m hungry.”
He picked up what he’d set beside him. A convenience store kimbap roll.
Man, I’d kill to inhale a steaming bowl of soup with some cubed radish kimchi on top.
He could easily go eat the soup and rice stew served at the cheap diners the workers here used, but the man forced himself to chew on the kimbap instead and endure.
No, I need to save money.
A bowl of soup and rice stew cost almost ten thousand won. If he could get by on convenience store kimbap, he’d save quite a bit. The reason this man was doing manual labor instead of a normal part-time job was simple: it paid more. Then he stuffed the kimbap down like cattle feed and picked up his phone.
He logged into the Leon Entertainment homepage.
After tapping the screen a few times, a contest page appeared on his phone.
Leon Entertainment / Short Story Contest
The winners had already been announced. The man searched the page thoroughly, but the word he was looking for wasn’t there.
“...Nope.”
In truth, he had already checked Leon Entertainment’s contest page long ago. But every spare chance he got, he checked again. It was desperation. He even stopped eating the kimbap and rubbed a dry hand over his face.
“So it really didn’t work.”
A sense of emptiness and self-disgust, momentarily forgotten, came surging back. He hadn’t expected much, but seeing that he’d lost the contest after all still hurt. Leon Entertainment’s contest wasn’t even a huge one—just a mid-sized, event-style competition the agency held.
And yet they hadn’t even given him a comment from the staff in charge.
“...”
Maybe this was for the best. Yeah, what right did someone like me have to dream of being a director? The dream is too expensive. My peers have already gone down other roads. Chasing this any longer is probably a waste of time.
Still. He had wanted it. He had wanted it so badly.
The man looked ahead.
Construction dust hung thick in the air, like his own future.
The world. Reality. It was brutal.
That was when it happened.
His phone, still in his hand, rang.
Startled, the man checked the caller ID. It was an unknown number. What the hell? he thought, then put the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
An unfamiliar male voice came through the line.
“Am I speaking with Director Kwon Seongmin, the writer of the short film Condensation?”
The man’s eyes flew wide open.
“...Excuse me??”
“Am I mistaken?”
“Ah—no, I am him, but—who is this?”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lee Chanhoo from MEG.”
“MEG?”
“Yes.”
Then, from the other end of the phone, the man called Lee Chanhoo said something entirely unexpected.
“We’re thinking of investing in your Condensation.”