The Short-Form Swamp

The short-form swamp: once you fall in, you have to swim a long, long way before you ever climb back out.

Ha Ji-hyun, an ordinary office worker, was once again half-willingly paddling through that swamp.

Ugh. I'm so tired.

The reason it was only half voluntary had nothing to do with accidentally tapping the Shorts tab. Watching short-form content was, in fact, part of the job. Catching whatever was trending and folding it into her work with a bit of flair was what she did — she was a PR staffer at a talent agency.

……So cute.

Of course, her eyes still drifted toward videos of adorable animals more readily than toward the trendy clips she was supposed to be studying. She grinned dopily at a kitten mid-yawn, then went back to swiping upward in a soulless trance.

Then she dozed for half a second, and the phone she dropped landed squarely on her nose.

"Ack!"

Work had already chewed her out plenty today, and now even her nose was lining up to get smashed. Nothing was going her way. Ha Ji-hyun writhed in pain, then bellowed at the ceiling.

"I want to quit!"

Ever since the actor she'd been managing left the agency, her work life had gotten even more miserable. Every scrap of promotional material she'd prepared for his projects was now useless, and he'd taken staff with him on the way out. The agency president had gone berserk about professional courtesy, and she'd had to physically stop him from calling up reporters.

Not that she really needed to stop him — he would have backed down on his own. During that "one last handshake," the actor had closed his hand around the president's and held on until the man poured with cold sweat. The Korean entertainment industry was a small world. Nobody knew how it would come back around if you ran your mouth to reporters, inventing things that weren't even true.

I'm glad I didn't get in the way of him starting something new, but… professional courtesy or not, I would have asked him to take me with him. No — wait. A startup agency is too risky!

Missing the gentlest actor she had ever managed, Ha Ji-hyun picked her phone back up. She had worked diligently enough lying in bed after clocking out. Now it was actually time to rest.

She opened her Liked playlist and tapped the video at the very top.

A short, of course.

The child's clear singing voice spilling from her latest-model phone speaker did not get old, even on the hundred-and-twenty-second listen.

"Haaa, please, the full version…"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Ha Ji-hyun thrashed against the mattress. In the space of a heartbeat she had become a tragic, suffering fan. A child actress had appeared on a variety show — by phone, no less! — and sung for a few seconds, and Ha Ji-hyun had fallen in so hard that at this very moment she was the most pitiful stan in the world.

The original was a masterpiece, of course, and she had looked it up and listened. Somehow, though, she had gotten hopelessly stuck on Lee Su-a's version of You Wouldn't Know.

They say your bias hits you like an accident…

There was a reason people talked about a deoktong-sago. Your bias was what heaven assigned you, and fandom was the thing that could start anywhere, anytime, in any way you never saw coming.

Ha Ji-hyun, however, intended to defy that particular law of nature.

……Not my bias. My bias track. I only got hooked on the song.

It was closer to a fan's self-preservation — the kind that recognizes barren land at a glance.

Lee Su-a was a child actress, barely ten years old. How many more projects would she shoot? Would she even keep acting? From now until she grew up, became a great actress, and retired — would she stay free of scandal?

Nothing was guaranteed.

And the agency is shaky, too.

Ha Ji-hyun knew Gwon Du-il was a good person. But a good person was not the same thing as a good CEO, and being a good person was no guarantee of success. Fans had suffered plenty over the years because of agencies that couldn't do their jobs.

He had taken a few capable staff with him, sure — but a former athlete with only a handful of years in the industry? She could not picture Gwon Du-il pulling it off.

Were there just not many good offers? Or was it only because they were close?

If it was the latter, that would be truly infuriating.

The mere thought sent her blood pressure climbing. Ha Ji-hyun took a slow breath, then tapped the Etchu hot clip that was still sitting high on the Trending list — telling herself she was only watching it again because it was funny.

"Oh, come on."

Ha Ji-hyun's fist trembled. This time her blood pressure was rising for an entirely different reason.

Etchu's production team had been wicked about it — they'd even attached Lee Su-a's recently taken profile photos as they introduced her. Not just the standard forward-facing shot, either. Photos from all kinds of angles and expressions, cut in to match Su-a's reactions on the call. The editing had a real eye for it.

Seducing me with pictures! How wicked!

The production team had only used the material they had, but to a fan it was a wicked thing to do all the same. Even shrunk down beside the captions, every feature of that face came through with startling clarity. Ha Ji-hyun caught herself pinching to zoom, then put on a stern expression.

I like the song she sang. That's all!

Fine, she was genuinely cute and pretty and good at her actual job! And yes, the photos were sourced from her official Inbreeze, so following it would mean even more pictures, and yes, she wanted to see them so, so badly!

She was absolutely, definitely not a fan of the child actress named Lee Su-a…

A faint wave of self-awareness washed over her. She was about to close the video when a recommended short appeared below it.

The thumbnail was Lee Su-a.

"Huh?!"

And in an expression and an outfit she had never seen before. Ha Ji-hyun tapped it on instinct.

"Hahhhk!"

Chopped fragments of Lee Su-a, laid over that familiar melody, stitched themselves together until they sounded like a single song. Ha Ji-hyun's mouth fell open.

It wasn't a full version, and you couldn't even really call it a cover — but it was Lee Su-a's You Wouldn't Know all the same. It ran longer than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Etchu short and even included the highlight, which went some way toward making up for the fact that it wasn't an official release.

And in the instrumental break, they'd cut in footage of Su-a smiling adorably and going nom nom on a plate of kimchi fried rice!

Ha Ji-hyun was so overdosed on cuteness she could barely think straight. Even through the haze, though, the editing style and the polish of the footage told her this was no amateur's work.

So a professional had made it? Wait. Was it that?

The guess landed dead-on.

At the end of the roughly one-minute video, a brightly smiling Lee Su-a appeared, and a title card came with her.

"Finally!"

The drama she had been waiting and waiting for. The promotional campaign she'd poured herself into had been slashed on orders from above, but personally, her expectations were sky-high. Most of all, an actor she loved was in it — no, wait, now there were two — so she was watching it live, no question.

And so Ha Ji-hyun, who had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been insisting this was not her bias, grinned goofily and hit like. As expected, it wasn't a fan account. It was a short posted by KBC's official Wetube.

And the title was…

Huh.

What's going on with that title?

The video she had watched right before had been titled like this:

Looking at the titles that chained together so neatly, the corner of Ha Ji-hyun's mouth twitched.

"There's no way this wasn't on purpose."

KBC had very clearly taken aim at ENV.