A Strong Start
The set for MBS’s daily drama Last Man was in full swing, with dozens of staff members moving about in a frantic blur. Inside the set, Yoon Dayeon was fixing her makeup, and a man with a mild, unreadable face stood nearby watching her.
It was Kang Jaeha.
“...”
With his arms folded, he studied the scene for a long moment. He looked as if he were thinking of nothing in particular, but his mind was working at a fast clip. He was measuring everything: what was happening now, the options that might unfold from it, and the variables that could still surface.
The worst case, the second worst, and any possible twist in between.
This had always been part of Kang Jaeha’s routine when he was in the other world. Back then, he had done it even more rigorously. He had to. It was the only way to improve his odds of surviving, even a little.
Then his phone buzzed briefly.
It was a text from Lee Chanhoo. The message was simple: they had fired the opening shot at the Natdaljib side. Of course, Jaeha had already instructed him to do exactly that, so he barely reacted.
He lowered his phone and thought of Natdaljib, or rather of Director Hong Manseop. More precisely, he recalled the Déjà vu connected to Hong Manseop, along with what he had learned himself and what Lee Chanhoo had dug up.
So Natdaljib really isn’t an ordinary film. It’s an animated one.
Natdaljib was not art-house or independent fare, but an animated film. The production company was Cheongyeon Studio, a house that specialized in animation. The project was already in the middle-to-late stages of production. Its screenplay had been written by Director Hong Manseop, who had also released an animated feature in the past.
That previous film pulled 660,000 viewers. An awkward number.
It had been neither a failure nor a success. In commercial-film terms, 660,000 was a disastrous result, but for an animated film it was at least respectable. Even so, it was only barely above break-even; no one could honestly call it a hit.
That was how barren the domestic animation market had become.
Hollywood and Japanese animated films still had healthy demand, but Korea’s own animation market was close to collapse. It had been nearly ten years since the last purely Korean animated feature had been released. In other words, Natdaljib would have meaning simply by existing. It would be carrying on the last thread of a dying market.
But this time, Natdaljib is going to knock one out of the park.
According to Déjà vu, Natdaljib would draw more than three million viewers. Maybe not a grand slam, but still an impressive result. And Kang Jaeha was the only one who knew it.
He still did not have the screenplay for Natdaljib, but he had a rough idea of its contents.
That came from the keywords Lee Chanhoo’s Search had pulled up: scholars, yokai, and a Joseon-era setting. There was also the word occult attached to it. Once he had the script in hand, he would know for sure, but Kang Jaeha could already infer what kind of animated film it was.
And if things went the way he had laid them out...
Three million, huh. If I cut out the Chinese capital, probably. No, definitely more than that.
It would be a first for the industry, and Natdaljib would stir up a wave with real force.
The director who had written that Natdaljib was now in a meeting room at Cheongyeon Studio, his eyes practically bulging out of his head.
The room was occupied by Cheongyeon Studio, where he was meeting with the Chinese capital group Huaen Partners.
Just before he was about to accept Huaen Partners’ unreasonable conditions, he had received unexpected good news.
A staff member from the company had handed him a Post-it note.
The note read: MEG had just called to say they were interested in investing in Natdaljib.
The moment Hong Manseop understood what it meant, his body went rigid. But his mind started racing.
MEG? He had never heard of an investment company by that name. He wanted to ask the staff member about it right away, but...
No. Stay calm first.
If he reacted too strongly, the people across from him would catch on. So Hong Manseop forced himself to show only enough reaction to buy time.
“Director?”
One of the Huaen Partners representatives on the other side of the table pressed him.
“Will you accept our conditions?”
Up until a moment ago, Hong Manseop would have nodded, even if the offer had been disgusting. They would have stuffed a Chinese character into Natdaljib, no doubt.
But the situation had changed slightly.
Nothing was certain yet, but a thread of hope had sprung up. Hong Manseop slipped into performance. He smoothed his expression as though nothing were wrong and cleared his throat before answering.
“Well... to be honest, I never even considered inserting a Chinese character.”
“Really? But as we said, it’s not an unreasonable request. You’d only need to add one character with a proper narrative. That alone would solve the funding shortfall.”
Like hell that wasn’t unreasonable, you bastards. Hong Manseop rubbed at his thick eyebrows to keep himself calm. Suppressing his irritation, he lowered his voice.
“Hmm, I’ll need some time to think it over.”
“Time?”
“After all, introducing a new character this late in production means revising a great deal. I’d have to build the character as well. It’s not something I can decide lightly on the spot.”
“...”
Huaen Partners watched him closely. They knew Hong Manseop’s situation extremely well; they had done their research before making contact.
Hong Manseop will end up accepting our terms, in the end.
That was their conclusion.
“We can’t give you a long extension.”
“Two weeks.”
“You’ll have one week.”
“...Understood.”
Hong Manseop could not simply throw Huaen Partners aside. If he treated them carelessly just because a faint hope had appeared, and then ended up burning the bridge with an unknown investment company, he would be done for. Putting the terms aside, Huaen Partners were still the only ones who looked close to actually investing.
And so Natdaljib was given one week, and the meeting ended.
Huaen Partners filed out of the conference room in a rush. Only after they had disappeared from Cheongyeon Studio entirely did Hong Manseop finally speak with some ease to the staff member who had delivered the note.
“Exactly how did this place called MEG contact us?”
Before long, the studio’s representative and a few others gathered around him. Every one of them looked grave. The future of Natdaljib was on the line.
The staff member repeated the conversation word for word.
“It was a man. He sounded really calm, and he said they were interested in investing in Natdaljib and asked us to call them back.”
She handed over the company name, MEG, along with the number she had written down. Hong Manseop did not waste a second. He picked up his phone and called MEG immediately.
The connection did not take long.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came from the other end, neither light nor heavy in tone. Hong Manseop introduced himself with seriousness.
“Hello. This is Director Hong Manseop. I was told you contacted us.”
“Ah, yes. Director Hong Manseop of Natdaljib?”
“Yes, that’s right. I heard you were interested in investing in our Natdaljib.”
The man on the other end answered with a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Are you done with your meeting? Yes, that’s right. My name is Lee Chanhoo, and I’m the representative of MEG. We’re planning to invest in Natdaljib.”
“If I may ask... have we met before? At some investment company I visited, perhaps?”
“No, we haven’t met.”
“Then...”
“You’re wondering how I got to know about Natdaljib?”
“...Yes.”
Hong Manseop was merely checking. Lee Chanhoo’s answer came quickly, and with a touch of coldness.
“I have a pretty wide information network. But does that kind of trivia really matter?”
The tone carried Jaeha’s instructions in the background, of course.
“What matters is whether we invest in Natdaljib or not.”
For a moment, Hong Manseop’s brows twitched. Not because he was annoyed, but because he felt suddenly alert.
“Yes. That’s the core issue.”
“Shall we meet? I think this is a bit too heavy for a phone call.”
“Where would be convenient for you?”
“Hmm. I can come to Cheongyeon Studio.”
“Thank you.”
As Hong Manseop answered, he glanced at the desk calendar on a nearby staff member’s desk. There was no time to waste. Huaen Partners had given him one week. He needed to meet MEG as soon as possible.
“I’m sorry, but would tomorrow morning be all right?”
Lee Chanhoo did not seem to mind in the least.
“Sure. Things should move quickly anyway.”
It was Friday, the sixth day after that, at Cheongyeon Studio.
In the morning, Hong Manseop and several others were gathered in the conference room. They sat around the square table by the window. Yesterday Huaen Partners had been across from him; today, that seat was still empty.
It looked as though Lee Chanhoo had not arrived yet.
The atmosphere in the room was far from bright. No one was talking. Hong Manseop waited for Lee Chanhoo while recalling the investment company called MEG. Naturally, Cheongyeon Studio had looked into MEG already, and the result was simple.
There was nothing.
There was no meaningful information, not even a rumor. That meant MEG was either brand-new or entirely unknown. A faint distrust began to creep in, but Hong Manseop decided to give them his full attention for now.
I still don’t know. Not yet.
Then it happened.
The conference room door slid open, and a staff member appeared first. Behind her came a man in a suit, his hair short, his eyes sharp and slightly narrowed.
The moment Hong Manseop saw him, he stood.
“Good morning. I’m Director Hong Manseop. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Haha, hello, Director.”
The man grinned easily as they shook hands and handed over his business card. Lee Chanhoo, representative of MEG. Hong Manseop sat again and looked across the table at him, murmuring to himself.
A type that’s a little hard to pin down. He seems light, but his eyes are alive.
Lee Chanhoo, crossing one leg over the other at an unhurried pace, scanned not only Hong Manseop but the other people in the room as well. Then he recalled the advice Jaeha had given him.
No matter what posture or attitude you show him, Hong Manseop will take it. He’s that desperate. That pressed for time. So you need to show him you’re decisive, make sure MEG feels like the real savior here.
Just as Jaeha had said, the Hong Manseop in front of him looked restrained, but there was hunger in his anxious eyes and stiffened expression. When Lee Chanhoo gave a slight smile, Hong Manseop spoke first.
“Representative Lee Chanhoo. I was told you’re interested in investing in Natdaljib, so I suppose I should explain the film itself first.”
“Ah, save that for later.”
Lee Chanhoo uncrossed his legs and went straight for the throat.
“Let’s get to the point. How much funding does Natdaljib need?”
“...Pardon?”
Hong Manseop blinked, slightly flustered, then muttered, “We’re looking at about one billion won.”
He kept it off his face, but Lee Chanhoo flinched a little too. One billion won? That was higher than he had expected.
Damn. The commander’s prediction was right. That’s chilling.
Hong Manseop knew very well how large that number was. No one was going to hand ten billion won to a Korean animated film market that was already more than barren, already collapsing. Several companies, including Leon, had turned him down, and Huaen Partners had chosen not to cover the full amount at once, instead splitting five billion into two parts.
So Hong Manseop explained it the way Huaen Partners had outlined.
“Of course, that one billion includes the remaining production costs as well as promotion and marketing up to release. I understand it’s unreasonable to expect it all at once. If we could at least secure five hundred million for the first round...”
“There’s no need to split it if it’s that much.”
Hong Manseop froze.
“Pardon?”
Lee Chanhoo was nervous too, if he was being honest. One billion won. Still, he did not let it show. He trusted the backer behind him, Kang Jaeha. His role here was to move forward with all the blunt confidence Jaeha had told him to show.
“One billion. MEG will invest it.”
“...”
For just an instant, Hong Manseop saw Lee Chanhoo as...
Is, is he serious??!
A savior with a halo behind him.
At the same time, at Munbak Film, where the short film Gyeollo was in production, Director Kwon Seongmin was in a brief meeting with his assembled key staff.
“Once the auditions are sorted out, I’m planning to go out for location scouting right away. I’d like everyone to come along then.”
Pushing his glasses up, Kwon Seongmin was practically bristling with tension. This was pre-production as a director. He had only ever imagined it before; this was his first time actually doing it, and he had no experience leading key staff either.
But along with the rising tension, adrenaline was surging through him too.
This is fun. It’s not imagination anymore, it’s real. I’m actually running pre-production!
Gyeollo was only a short film, so compared to a commercial feature its pre-production was simple, but that did not matter to Kwon Seongmin at all. The pressure was growing heavier by the day, but he was happy.
He was already reaching the point where he could enjoy the weight on his shoulders.
Then—
“Director!”
“Yes??”
A broad-faced man hurried into the meeting room. It was Jeong Taewoo, the representative of Munbak Film, with a tablet in one hand. He quickly turned the screen toward Kwon Seongmin.
“We’ve just gotten two more audition applicants!”
“Oh! That’s great!”
“But those two are from Leon.”
“...Leon?”
Kwon Seongmin’s mouth fell open.
“L-Leon Entertainment??”
“Yes!”
It would have been surprising enough if interest had come from any ordinary mid-sized agency, but from Leon Entertainment, a company widely regarded as on the verge of breaking into the top five? Why would Leon be interested in Gyeollo? The shock hit Kwon Seongmin twice as hard.
“What the hell.”
“And one of the two is unknown, but the other one is a bit surprising.”
“W-why??”
Just as excited, Jeong Taewoo answered.
“Yoon Dayeon. Yoon Dayeon applied.”
Kwon Seongmin’s eyes went round.
“...Yoon Dayeon? The actress I’m thinking of?”