Pioneering (1)
“Thank you. Come again.”
The woman working the convenience store counter looked familiar. It was An Jihee.
“Haa—”
The other trainees were probably still in the practice room, but An Jihee couldn’t afford that luxury. Her family’s situation simply didn’t allow it. She smiled and greeted the customer, but inside she felt as though she were carrying a mountain on her shoulders.
“……”
She had already been told that this grueling trainee life was coming to an end. An Jihee lifted her head.
And then she fell into the past.
Ever since she was little, people had always said she had “it.” Whenever relatives or other people gathered, she would sing children’s songs or dance for them, putting on little performances, and every adult who saw her praised her until they were blue in the face.
“Oh my, Jihee has so much charm! And she’s got such a neat, pretty face too. You should grow up to be an entertainer, an entertainer!”
That spark only shone brighter after she entered elementary school. An Jihee was always noticeable, always popular. Around then, the dream of becoming an idol had naturally taken root in her heart.
She’d thought she was overflowing with ability, with talent.
And in fact, she’d passed her trainee auditions fairly easily. Things had gone smoothly. But that was where it ended. An Jihee had been a frog in a well, and among the dozens of trainees gathered around her, she didn’t stand out at all.
Everyone else was too dazzling, too incredible.
Still, An Jihee hadn’t given up.
If I work hard enough, someday—someday, someone will notice me.
Should she have given up? As time went on, An Jihee was pushed farther and farther into the background. The face that adults once called neat and elegant was now pointed out as a flaw.
“Hah, An Jihee, your vocals and choreography aren’t bad, but your face is a bit plain. Still, keep at it. As for your looks, well, you can always get some work done before debut.”
Her image was just bland enough that it couldn’t even prop up a visual center. No one—not a single person—ever really noticed An Jihee. It was enough to give someone who’d once been confident about her looks an inferiority complex.
I wish I’d been born more glamorous.
In the end, Leon Entertainment had given An Jihee her dismissal notice.
What was funny was this:
“...Me? An actress?”
The one who delivered that dismissal was the first person to ever recognize An Jihee’s face. He was sharp, cold, almost ruthlessly so. And yet, his voice—Kang Jaeha’s voice—kept echoing in her ears, cool and indifferent.
I think you’d be better off as an actress than an idol.
As an idol, she was merely average. But if she switched to acting, that plain face of hers would come alive. An Jihee toyed with the business card in her hand. Kang Jaeha’s card. Was this really okay? Could she really do it? She’d already wasted six years—was it too late to keep going? Could she trust a man like Kang Jaeha? It was scary. She was scared.
An Jihee’s self-esteem had hit rock bottom.
It wasn’t strange. The moment someone became a washed-up trainee, even the way people looked at them changed. The oppression, the pressure delivered through other people’s eyes. If you endured that for six years, of course you’d end up like this.
An Jihee agonized for a long time.
No, not agonized—she was searching for the courage that had hidden itself somewhere deep inside her. It had buried itself so tightly that it wasn’t easy to dig out. Still, somehow, An Jihee found it. That courage.
-Swoosh.
She picked up her phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the number, and before long a calm male voice came through the speaker.
“Yes, this is Kang Jaeha.”
“...Manager-nim. It’s An Jihee.”
The trembling in her hands had infected her voice too, and An Jihee struggled to part her lips.
“If I want to become an actress, where do I start?”
It was really just one step—one terribly difficult step—but Kang Jaeha’s answer on the other end was short and matter-of-fact.
“You need to shed the afterimage.”
Afterimage? Not understanding, An Jihee asked again.
“...Afterimage?”
“Yes. The residue of six years as an idol trainee.”
“Ah—”
“In simple terms, throw it all away.”
“All of it.”
“That’s right. All of it. Can you do that? If you’ve only half-made up your mind, you can think about it again.”
For reasons she couldn’t explain, An Jihee found strength in Kang Jaeha’s blunt, cold tone. Maybe because he sounded like an unsentimental adult who would point her in the right direction?
“No. I’ll throw it all away. Really.”
“Good. Then we’ll have to rewrite your contract.”
Contract. The light of hope that had gone out flickered back to life, and Kang Jaeha’s voice came again.
“I’ll call you back to the company in a few days, so go ahead and relax for now.”
That afternoon.
Kang Jaeha returned to Leon Entertainment’s Team 4 office sometime in the late afternoon. Yoon Dayeon’s filming schedule had been delayed.
“I’ll take Dayeon back myself, so you can return to the company, Jaeha-ssi. You worked hard today.”
Manager Kim Daeyong sent Jaeha back to the office first. It was probably consideration for his first day on the job. There weren’t many people in Team 4’s office, and even Team Leader Jang Hyeongsu was nowhere to be seen.
To put it another way—
This place is dead as hell. Totally different vibe from Team 2.
Living up to the nickname “the junkyard,” Team 4’s office felt like it was rotting from the inside out. It was as if even the office itself had become washed-up. It lacked life, lacked energy. If a cheerful person walked in here, it wouldn’t be strange if they got sick.
Still.
-Swoosh.
As soon as he sat down at his desk, Kang Jaeha opened his laptop.
What he was checking was—
-Leon Entertainment / Short Story Contest
It was Leon Entertainment’s contest, the one that included the short film Gyeollo, which he had seen through his Déjà vu. He’d been wondering whether the results had come out for the short-story contest tied to marketing and corporate image improvement.
For the record, Kang Jaeha had already read the entire Gyeollo script.
He carefully checked the contest details, and within seconds, he had his answer.
The contest results are up.
Looking at the page, the results had already been announced. The New Business Team, which had overseen it, had listed the titles of the first-, second-, and third-place works. The directors who submitted those works had probably already been contacted.
Resting his chin on his hand, Kang Jaeha let out a small laugh.
Just as I thought—no Gyeollo.
It was exactly as he’d seen in his Déjà vu. The contest announcement did not include Gyeollo. And yet the short film Gyeollo would later become a huge hit somewhere down the line. Remembering that Gyeollo-related premonition, Kang Jaeha became curious.
Why had Gyeollo failed?
After already reading Gyeollo, Kang Jaeha’s assessment had been simple: The quality’s seriously good. Good enough to make him mutter in admiration. If a work like that had lost, then the pieces ranked first through third had to be even more impressive?
-Click.
Jaeha crossed his legs and clicked a few times, downloading the scripts for the works that had placed first through third, uploaded onto the company network. Without printing anything out, he started with the third-place script.
“Hm.”
He barely got a few pages in before his focus broke. In other words—
This hook is total garbage.
It wasn’t fun. Slightly puzzled, he opened the second-place work.
Fuck, this one’s even less interesting.
It was no different from the third. What was this? Still, maybe the first-place work would be different. Frowning, Kang Jaeha opened the top-ranked script—and shut it again after exactly five minutes.
This junk got first place?
His judgment of the first-, second-, and third-place works was merciless. And it was justified. They were all complete trash. Of course, taste was subjective.
But quality wasn’t all that different.
Plot progression, hook, pacing, character construction, message, and so on. Anyone who had read even a little screenplay or script could tell at a glance what kind of work it was.
Whether the writer had poured their soul into it—or knocked it out while half-asleep.
By quality, by entertainment value, by sheer craftsmanship, Gyeollo should be first.
And yet Gyeollo had been eliminated. It wasn’t even mentioned in the comments from the New Business Team’s staff. Still propping his chin on his hand, Kang Jaeha opened the profile of the director who had written Gyeollo. Twenty-five years old, from a provincial university, with no notable filmography to speak of.
A profile as ordinary as they came, or as unimpressive as you liked.
The directors of the first-, second-, and third-place works were the exact opposite. Their ages varied, but—
They all went to prestigious universities, studied abroad, and their families look pretty loaded.
Their profiles were flashy. Like money had been dumped into them. Sure, having a strong background wasn’t a problem in itself. But the fact that the works they’d written were all trash—and that those trash scripts had taken first through third place—was irritating.
Kang Jaeha quickly grasped the system behind the New Business Team’s contest. The final decision had been made by the working staff and a director. Well, in the end, the director probably made the call.
Jaeha checked the director’s name.
-Director Kim Cheoljung.
Kim Cheoljung from the New Business Team? Had he seen him before? The face was hazy. Either way, Kang Jaeha leaned back in his chair and let out a low hum.
“Smells fishy.”
The smell of rot. Soon, Kang Jaeha silently recited the answer he’d already reached.
Looks like backroom money changed hands.
He let out a faint snort. Well, he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. Right now there were only circumstantial clues. Still, the scale of the internal contest, the speed of the announcement, the trash-tier winning works—
Jaeha’s eyes were already nearly certain.
But Kang Jaeha didn’t show much reaction. It wasn’t a big deal. Bribes in the entertainment industry? They existed in every industry, and entertainment companies were no different.
If anything, companies that dealt with trainees were even dirtier.
Backroom money was just part of the daily grind.
There was a reason people said the entertainment world ran on blood ties, regional ties, school ties, and even grudges.
At present, this was probably something only Kang Jaeha—who had seen it through Déjà vu—had noticed. No one else paid it much mind. If you don’t make a problem into a problem, then it isn’t one.
That was when Kang Jaeha smiled.
There’s the obvious use for Gyeollo, sure. But I can think of another angle too.
Back in the other world, what Kang Jaeha excelled at wasn’t just carving up monsters. He was good at handling people too. Whether they were subordinates in his mercenary company or people from rival organizations.
If I do this right, I might be able to turn one of Leon’s directors into a long-term piece.
His trademark was grabbing hold of someone’s weakness and twisting it.
By this point, Kang Jaeha had gathered the printed Gyeollo script and the director profiles separately, then picked up his phone. He had two people to contact.
The first was An Jihee.
Come to the company the day after tomorrow.
After sending the text, Jaeha called the second person. It was Lee Chanhoo, his first subordinate from that morning.
Maybe because he was unemployed and had nothing better to do, Lee Chanhoo picked up quickly.
“Commander? What is it? You already itching for a drink?”
“Forget the booze.”
Kang Jaeha made the arrangement.
“Let’s grab coffee for lunch tomorrow.”
The next day. The nineteenth.
Yawning, Kang Jaeha went to work at Leon Entertainment, but he didn’t stick close to that crazy bastard Yoon Dayeon. Her schedule was open. Thanks to that, Jaeha had to endure the boredom of Team 4’s office, a place where even liveliness went to die.
“Ah—Jaeha-ssi.”
Team Leader Jang Hyeongsu, who still looked like he couldn’t be bothered with the world, spoke to him again today.
“Manager Kim Daeyong told me. There was a little noise on Yoon Dayeon-ssi’s set.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Really? Then that’s fine. How is Yoon Dayeon-ssi, by the way?”
“Not bad.”
“That’s unexpected.”
Team Leader Jang looked like he had more to say, but seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it and went back into his office. The man walked like a zombie. About two hours later, when lunchtime arrived, Kang Jaeha stepped into a large café near Leon Entertainment.
The second he went in, he looked around.
A man with narrow eyes was waving at him from a slightly tucked-away table. It was Lee Chanhoo. No one was seated around him. It looked like he’d deliberately chosen a corner. When Jaeha spotted him, he took the seat across from Lee Chanhoo.
“What’s with the cake?”
“Cheesecake. Back when we were there, I kept wanting to eat this.”
“There” meant the other world.
“Tastes good?”
“Not as good as I expected. Too sweet.”
Kang Jaeha gave a small laugh and set the transparent folders he’d brought beside him. Lee Chanhoo pointed at them with the fork still in his mouth.
“Smells like an order. Been a while.”
“That’s right. I need you to work with me.”
It might have been worth thinking over, but Lee Chanhoo grinned with that slick, streetwise look of his and answered immediately.
“What’s with the weird hesitation? Just give the order like always.”
“We’re in a different world, you bastard.”
“All the better. Work. I was about ready to die of boredom anyway. So what are you plotting?”
“Plotting?”
“I know that look on your face, Commander.”
“Quit talking shit.”
Kang Jaeha laid the folders on the table. Gyeollo and “Director Kim Cheoljung” were visible at a glance.
“For now, I’ve got some circumstances, so I need to keep working at the company.”
The “circumstances” he meant were the 25 billion won “pension program” and “adaptation project” that had been spat out by a woman’s voice. Lee Chanhoo had no way of knowing that, so he asked back.
“You’re not gonna tell me what the circumstances are, are you? So what? You have to keep working there.”
“I’m planning to start a company.”
“Oh—what kind?”
“Anything. The name can be whatever I want. Starting as an investment firm would be the safest bet. Once it grows, we’ll branch into other things.”
“Other things? Like the kind of entertainment agencies or production companies you’re at now?”
“Maybe.”
It was possible. He could bring over the things he’d seen through Déjà vu. But he couldn’t have everything at once just yet. So for now, he’d make use of Leon Entertainment, since he was going to be there anyway. Whether it was a washed-up company or not, rehabilitation costs money. And not a little of it, either.
There’s no need for me to spend that money right now.
Seven million won was being deposited every month, but if he wanted to scale up the board, he still needed more capital than he had now. Jaeha was already thinking about using Déjà vu to grow that money faster.
When the rotten fruit ripens again, I can always pick it then.
That was when Lee Chanhoo cut in.
“An investment firm. But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking—”
Narrowing his already small eyes even further, Lee Chanhoo voiced his guess.
“You’re planning to gather the mercenary company subordinates who came over with me, and put them in that company?”
As expected, he was quick on the uptake.
“That’s one of the things I’m considering. For now, it’s just a plan.”
“That could be fun.”
“Either way, if it gets out that I started a company for personal reasons, it’ll be a pain in the ass.”
His image inside Leon was already shit thanks to the Rayoon incident. If word got out that he’d started his own company on top of that, Kang Jaeha would get kicked out for sure. And then the 25 billion won pension would vanish with it.
Jaeha pointed at Lee Chanhoo with his index finger.
“So you’re the representative. I’ll pay you a salary.”
Lee Chanhoo nodded slowly.
“A salaried front man who takes orders. And the real power behind the scenes is the commander.”
He smiled, thin and sharp.
“I like it. Feels nostalgic.”
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