The Midas Instinct
The CEO of Union, Yeon Tae-eun.
She had graduated from the Korea Credit Rating Agency and completed her MBA at KAIST, then took the helm as Union’s CEO five years ago.
In her early fifties, she possessed an unusual resume: an undergraduate degree in film directing.
Perhaps because of that, her passion for the cultural content industry ran deeper than most.
The moment she assumed the position, she secured 45 billion won in funding and began aggressively investing in numerous films.
There was only one reason she had left the director’s chair despite studying filmmaking.
Her standards were simply too high.
She could tell at a glance which scripts would become blockbusters and which would flop.
The problem was that she herself lacked the ability to translate those scripts into moving images as a director.
The gap between her ideals and reality had been too wide, so she had boldly changed course.
That decision had given her the chance to reach the peak of her career.
She was known as “Midas Yeon.”
Every film she touched turned into a massive hit.
In the Korean content investment world, there was hardly anyone who didn’t know her name and reputation.
“CEO, we’ve arrived.”
Her secretary opened the rear door.
Yeon Tae-eun stepped out of the black sedan in a navy pantsuit, short cropped hair, and five-centimeter enamel heels.
“Here are the documents you requested.”
“You got the stamp?”
“Yes. The legal team confirmed there are no issues with the investment withdrawal clauses.”
“There was already a clause allowing termination without penalty if the lead actor wasn’t Yoon Si-on.”
“However…”
The executive secretary trailed off with a puzzled expression.
She didn’t need to voice the rest—why come all the way here?—for Yeon Tae-eun to understand.
“Even if we’re pulling out, we should at least see what replaced the original product.”
The only thing the CEO of Production Company M had said when he came to see her was this:
‘The director is confident about the new lead. Please give us one more chance.’
Yeon Tae-eun had been the first to recognize Director Mo Yeon-hee’s previous film Love in the Rain.
Back then, right before its release, Korean romance films were being declared dead. No one was willing to invest in the genre.
She had boldly poured money into it and given Love in the Rain its chance to shine.
Even after reading Director Mo Yeon-hee’s new script, she had felt a strong conviction.
‘This film is guaranteed to succeed.’
And then S-list actor Yoon Si-on had joined? Honestly, it had seemed like an automatic hit.
Yet she had still attached the clause “it must be Yoon Si-on” because of her ironclad investment principle.
When she found a promising investment target, she always pushed that target to its absolute limit.
She bet on the maximum potential that emerged only under extreme pressure.
Both sides took on risk, but they also broke free from old patterns and achieved results beyond expectations.
It was an extremely aggressive approach, yet it also served as proof of her strong trust in her partners.
It instilled in them the determination to deliver results no matter what.
So in truth, she would have invested even without an actor of Yoon Si-on’s caliber.
But since she had already secured him, she had simply increased the investment amount to aim for even higher returns.
“Chief Choi, I don’t trust Director Mo Yeon-hee.”
Ironically, her distrust stemmed from having seen too many frauds in this industry.
She had witnessed countless films teeter on the brink of collapse.
She had seen with her own eyes the various tricks people pulled when facing investment withdrawal.
No matter how many successes you rack up—two, three—the fourth project could still flop spectacularly and leave you with massive losses. That was the content market.
Once emotion entered an investment, it almost always failed.
Even with cold data and rational judgment, success was never guaranteed.
Trusting Director Mo Yeon-hee just because they had succeeded together once would be relying on gut feeling and inviting disaster.
No matter how perfect the script or how skilled the director, if the lead actor caused trouble and fled, a huge hole would remain.
No matter how talented the replacement, that gap could never be fully closed.
The product was already damaged.
Of course the production CEO and director would act confident in front of investors—hundreds of millions, even billions, were on the line.
“Let’s go.”
Yeon Tae-eun made up her mind.
No ordinary replacement could hold back a bursting dam.
Unless it was something that proved its 2.5 billion won value by surpassing all limits, it wouldn’t be worth the risk.
***
At the same time, in the same space.
Kang Tae-san was watching Eun Chae-won act from outside the camera’s frame.
The character Jang Yi-hyeon, played by Eun Chae-won, sensed that her feelings toward the male lead and childhood friend Won Do-jin were far from ordinary.
She couldn’t confess, yet she didn’t want to give him up either—a complicated, delicate emotion.
In the end, she defined those feelings as friendship and treated Won Do-jin the same as always, yet with a subtly different tension.
Right before facing him, Jang Yi-hyeon hypnotized herself.
‘I don’t like Won Do-jin. I’m just crazy. I got bitten by a mad dog and caught rabies. That’s why my heart is racing like this.’
“Cut. Okay.”
The scene passed in a single take.
The next scene was Jang Yi-hyeon arriving at Won Do-jin’s house to make her declaration.
Kang Tae-san stepped in front of the camera to film it.
The moment he focused all his nerves on the present situation, he could clearly feel every gaze directed at him, as if a panorama had unfolded.
Third Eye.
After directly experiencing the ability Yoon Si-on possessed, he had grown accustomed to using this sense naturally.
At first he had felt slight nausea and found it overwhelming to sense so many people’s gazes at once, but once he understood that all those eyes were on him, he learned to center himself and selectively focus on the views he needed.
Because this ability to observe himself had become objective, his acting skills had naturally improved as well.
Kang Tae-san stood before Eun Chae-won wearing a tracksuit and baseball cap.
Since she was about half a head shorter than him, he spread his legs wide and lowered his body so they could both fit in one shot.
Before long, Kang Tae-san had become Won Do-jin, and Eun Chae-won had become Jang Yi-hyeon.
“I got a boyfriend.”
“Again?”
“This time it’s real.”
“Sure. Of course it is. I bet in two months you’ll be crying and begging me to buy you drinks. I’ll put yesterday’s leftover ramen broth on it.”
“Seriously! I’m in a full-on love right now!”
“Who is it?”
“I told you last time. We bumped into each other on the stairs and met again in our liberal arts class.”
“Ah, that guy?”
“Not ‘that guy’—he’s a nerd! You know how famous our school’s engineering department is, right? He’s the top student in computer science.”
“Why would someone like that like you?”
“I’m popular, okay?!”
When Jang Yi-hyeon turned away as if to say she had nothing more to discuss, Won Do-jin’s eyes changed for a split second as he watched her.
It was an emotion the audience didn’t know, but she did.
Instead of honestly expressing his feelings to his first love who now had a boyfriend, Won Do-jin—who was deceiving himself just as much as she was—spat out words he didn’t mean at all.
“Good luck. You two seem perfect for each other.”
The reason he couldn’t stop Jang Yi-hyeon from sticking out her tongue and walking away was because she meant more to him than a simple romantic feeling.
Could he really tie this person he had grown up with like a sibling to the word “romance”?
Love could fade at any time.
But friendship could stay by your side until death.
“Jang Yi-hyeon.”
“……”
At Do-jin’s call, Yi-hyeon turned around.
Her flowing hair, jet-black eyes, slightly flushed cheeks.
When his gaze landed on her sparkling lips beneath her small nose, Do-jin instinctively looked away.
“Sleep well.”
Once again, their emotions missed each other.
Their eyes met, yet somehow didn’t quite connect.
“Good. Cut.”
Director Mo Yeon-hee’s voice spread through the set, and the atmosphere—still charged with the pair’s heightened emotions—gradually settled.
“Wow, what’s this? You two look so fresh and sweet together.”
“There wasn’t even that much dialogue, so why does it feel so fluttery? Tae-san’s voice was strangely languid.”
“Right? I thought it was ordinary at first, but when he lowered his tone it became really charming.”
Starting with the makeup team whispering among themselves, positive feedback poured out from every direction—how well they matched, how good their faces looked together, how they were better than Yoon Si-on.
“Tae-san.”
Kang Tae-san, who had been heading off to change, turned at Eun Chae-won’s call.
Despite his shabby outfit, Eun Chae-won felt she understood Jang Yi-hyeon’s heart far better now than when she had only read the script or acted opposite Yoon Si-on.
Yi-hyeon’s love for Do-jin wasn’t simply because of his appearance or the story that had built up over the years.
It was the person standing right in front of her—his very existence—that gave her a sense of stability beyond any line or action.
“Is the acting doable?”
“Mm. It’s difficult, but fun.”
“Romance acting is harder than I expected. There are so many different emotions.”
“Yeah. Senior, you were Jang Yi-hyeon herself. While acting as Do-jin, I found myself looking at Yi-hyeon so gently without even realizing it.”
Kang Tae-san understood why Eun Chae-won was asking.
She usually came across as a bit of a know-it-all, but this time she wasn’t trying to teach or scold.
She simply wanted to confirm whether what she was feeling was correct.
Something like:
‘You were completely immersed just now, right? Me too. Our chemistry was really good.’
A kind of telepathy.
Kang Tae-san recalled something his acting teacher, Koo Yang-man, had once said.
When acting—especially romance—there came a point where you could understand your partner’s thoughts without them saying a word.
Only then could the two of them match their rhythm through eye contact, breath, and presence alone.
Kang Tae-san gazed quietly at Eun Chae-won.
If Won Do-jin truly existed, the only woman he would ever love would be Eun Chae-won.
The thought made him flinch.
At the same time, a chill ran down his spine.
‘What is this? This gaze?’
Because he had unconsciously immersed himself, the Third Eye had activated and he had sensed an unexpected emotion.
And in the distance, a woman in a suit who looked completely out of place on this set caught his eye.
The middle-aged woman in the navy suit was staring at him with an unreadable expression.
“Those two aren’t dating?”
“No. He’s the actor who replaced Yoon Si-on—Kang Tae-san.”
“I thought Eun Chae-won had lost her mind and brought her boyfriend to the set.”
Even though she knew that couldn’t be the case, the sight of their tender interaction had made her momentarily wonder.
The way that male actor looked at Eun Chae-won—it was never the gaze of one actor toward another.
It was filled with such affection that it could easily be mistaken for at least unrequited love, if not an actual couple.
In romance, what mattered wasn’t actors pretending to love each other.
It was the sincerity that made viewers believe they had truly fallen in love without realizing it.
A well-made romance was the only genre where fans would later speculate whether the leads were actually dating or even married.
“……”
Yeon Tae-eun turned away as if she had seen enough.
“CEO, aren’t you going to meet Director Mo?”
“No. There’s nothing left to say.”
“Then the contract…”
Yeon Tae-eun looked at the document envelope her secretary was holding.
“Shred it when we get back to the office. Make sure it’s handled securely so nothing leaks.”
“Does that mean you’re continuing the investment?”
“After seeing that? Of course. That kid’s the real deal.”
When Yeon Tae-eun glanced back, Kang Tae-san—who seemed to have noticed her gaze—met her eyes.
“He’s going to blow up bigger than I imagined.”
Her twenty years of honed rationality in the industry had been overtaken by pure instinct.
And she knew it.
In investing, what mattered most wasn’t cold logic or accumulated data—it was that terrifyingly accurate instinct that surpassed both by a single inch.