We Received 1 Billion Won
Park Sung-min saw Sora and her mother off to the front door before quietly closing it behind them. Click. As the door shut, the house fell silent once more. The child's bright voice and her mother's polite tone, which had filled the air just moments ago, vanished like some kind of illusion. Park Sung-min stood there motionless for a while, still gripping the doorknob.
"Hoo..."
He let out a long sigh. There had been only one reason he'd called them over today: to inform them about the profit distribution from Parasitic Creature. That was all. So he'd deliberately avoided bringing up the money itself. He planned to deliver it in person next time. Dragging out a long talk about cash with that kid just... didn't sit right with him somehow.
Park Sung-min slowly made his way through the living room to his study. Pushing open the door revealed the familiar scent of books and a quiet space. One wall was lined floor-to-ceiling with densely packed shelves. On the desk sat stacks of memo papers and a calculator.
Parasitic Creature had hit 10 million viewers. Now it was barreling toward 11 million. The upward trend made it seem entirely possible. Production costs had come in at just shy of 60 billion won—a hefty sum. In 2000s terms, that was like 300 or 400 billion in 2020s money. Hollywood might shrug it off, but this was Korea.
Movie tickets cost 9,000 won these days. And there were endless ways to discount them—early bird showings, telecom deals, you name it. Folks could catch a flick for less than half price. Dirt cheap. With morning discounts or carrier promos, it was practically 4,000 won. No wonder popcorn and cola cost more.
Which was why breaking 10 million viewers didn't mean raining cash. What percentage of people actually paid full price, skipping discounts? Maybe 50% at best? Some folks were just too lazy or hated the hassle. Flip side: a ton of people hunted bargains. Figure 5,000 or 6,000 won profit per ticket, and that made the math easier.
Now it was time to split those earnings. First up: the theaters. Fifty-fifty split. Generously peg it at 6,000 won per ticket, and the film's take dropped to 3,000 won. No money deluge from a 10-mil hit. And it wasn't just production costs—promo budgets and miscellaneous expenses piled up too. Even at 10 million, no one's pocketing hundreds of billions.
From talks with industry contacts, Parasitic Creature's current gross sat around 60 billion won. Theaters take 30 billion, leaving 30 billion to divvy up. Subtract production costs and other expenses from there. Chip away, chip away, and not much remains. Then taxes on top!
Of course, if Park Sung-min hadn't invested in Parasitic Creature, even this profit would have slipped away. Just the screenplay fee—100 million won—plus 100 or 200 million in bonuses for the hit. That's it. Writing a script for a 60-billion grosser and walking away with 200 million? Taxes whittle it down further.
But Parasitic Creature had won Best Screenplay at Cannes, so overseas sales were coming. That'd boost profits a bit. Still, no OTT or streaming back then—just pure ticket sales for the studio.
"Hmm..."
Park Sung-min finished roughing out the numbers. After taxes, 3 to 4 billion would land in his pocket. Factor in his investment, and it shrank more. Gotta recoup that first, right? Wouldn't want the wife nagging.
To win over that genius kid Sora, he'd handed over plenty. And every bit of this scenario had come straight from her head. Park Sung-min admitted it honestly: he'd just plated the dish, trimmed it up, added the final garnish. The kid was the real chef.
"Genius..."
He murmured it. Then chuckled softly.
"A real genius."
Park Sung-min had achieved his life's goal of 10 million viewers—but with someone else's help. Admitting that didn't sting. Instead, something deep in his chest reignited. Creative hunger. A feeling he'd forgotten amid the rut, complacency, familiarity. It was alive again.
This time, I'll hit 10 million on my own power. That was his resolve.
Glancing around the study, his eyes snagged on one spot. A display case in the corner. Inside the glass, a single trophy gleamed quietly. The Cannes Best Screenplay award.
Its gold surface shimmered softly in the light. Park Sung-min walked over slowly and carefully opened the glass door. Click.
He lifted the trophy. It was heavy. Heavier than expected. He stared at it in silence for a moment.
Cannes was the world's top film festival, no contest. Sure, others existed, but Cannes reigned supreme by unspoken consensus. A Best Screenplay win there—even top writers might snag it once in a lifetime, if ever. Countless scribes chased it their whole lives and came up empty.
But.
Park Sung-min shook his head.
"This isn't mine..."
The true owner wasn't him. It was Sora. Her imagination. Her story. Her world. He'd just brought it to the screen.
Gazing down at the trophy, he murmured.
"Next time I visit..."
He smiled faintly.
"This is yours, Sora."
He picked it up carefully once more. Next trip to her place, he'd hand it over with the money. Because from the start, it hadn't been his. It was that kid Sora's.
He couldn't fathom why she never claimed it as hers... but even if the world stayed blind, he wanted to be the one who recognized her.
Grandpa Sung-min didn't forget his promise. The next time he visited our home, he handed something over. Mom and I had no idea what it was. He gave a gentle smile and said,
"Since Sora created the work, Sora should take the money."
With that, Grandpa Sung-min left. Mom and I stared at what he'd given us in shock.
"How much is this...!"
We could only gape. Numbers with this many digits were a first. Hard to even count the zeros.
Grandpa Sung-min had left behind 1 billion won. After taxes. An astronomical sum. In today's terms, enough for a few Seoul apartments. Sure, by the 2020s, it wouldn't buy a full unit—maybe half—but right now? Different story!
Mom looked at me with trembling hands.
"Sora! Our girl is too cool!"
"Eek!"
Earning money was fine, but getting trapped in Mom's embrace like this? Not so much.
Dad came home from work and heard everything. Mom and Dad hugged and burst into tears.
"Honey...! The debt life is finally over...!"
"You suffered so much, honey! So much..."
Since I was born, my parents had carried nearly 1 billion in debt for about eight years. No normal mind could endure it.
Average monthly salary these days? Under 1 million won. 1 million a month, 12 million a year. A century of work to pay it off. And that's excluding living expenses, taxes, sundries. Salaries wouldn't stay flat forever, but neither would the debt—it ballooned with interest.
But now it was done. Our family had endured eight long years and seen the light.
I watched Mom and Dad embrace. Couldn't help but smile.
Me? I knew future knowledge meant I could make money, so less mental burden. But not them. It must've felt like trudging an endless, pitch-black tunnel with no end in sight. Crushing pressure.
"Sora!"
"Our daughter!"
But I'd forgotten to flee to my room.
"Our girl is the best!"
I ended up squished between Mom and Dad.