But I Wasn't Quite Like That

Candy does more than you'd think.

Sucrose — the main component of candy — is absorbed fast. That rapidly absorbed sugar spikes the blood glucose and supplies energy on the spot.

That was the first reason he'd given Ha Eun-yul when he offered her one.

The second reason?

As he'd told Ghost, when people suck on something in a moment of anxiety, they feel a sense of emotional calm. A stick of hard candy was an awkward size to bite through, which made it a decent substitute.

There were more reasons still. Sweet food promotes the release of serotonin, the happiness hormone. It even lowers cortisol, the stress hormone.

And when you keep supplying that sense of stability under a specific set of conditions, people start to feel secure the moment those conditions are simply present.

That was the decisive reason he had kept handing candy to Ha Eun-yul — a woman who always hid what she felt, and was therefore always, quietly, unstable.

A continuous supply of stability.

That had been the plan. Definitely.

"Would you like a candy?"

"No."

Cold. Far colder than usual.

Why was she like this?

"I'll leave it here. Eat it if you feel like it."

"No. Take it with you."

Ha Eun-yul refused a second time, but he set the candy on the waiting-room table anyway. Then, glancing at Lee Yujeong — another person who still kept her guard up around him — he left one more.

He had a rough idea why. The walls were just higher than expected.

"I'm leaving two. In case you fight over one."

"……."

"……."

Neither of them answered. And here he'd thought they were starting to get along.

The moment he stepped out of the waiting room, he asked Ghost.

"Why is she like that? She's definitely angry."

"Are you saying I'm the problem?"

Ghost looked at him with something like pity. It was the first time Ghost had ever given him that look — and even without Ghost, it was a look he had almost never received from anyone.

His pride took a faint nick. Not because Ghost had looked at him like he was hopeless. Because that look meant Ghost had figured something out.

And he hadn't?

No. Maybe it was this. He pulled forward an idea he'd set aside because the odds had seemed too low.

"Is it that Actress Ha Eun-yul has started to trust me? That she thinks I might switch teams, or start managing someone else, because Team Leader 1 contacted me?"

"I didn't think so. I've been thorough about taking care of her, trying to put her at ease — but there wasn't anything special enough to tear down her walls all at once, was there?"

Ghost laughed, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Well, through continuous repetition, just seeing the candy would provide a sense of stabi—"

Wait.

The "specific condition" hadn't been the candy. It had been him?

No. If a month or two of handing out candy was enough for her to feel secure around him, what did psychiatrists even do for a living?

Unless…

"Perhaps Actress Ha has found someone she can rely—"

The thought cut off. Habit outran thinking.

"This is Lee Jaewook, manager for Actress Ha Eun-yul."

He left Ghost at the door to watch over Ha Eun-yul and stepped out of the studio building.

A sharp, intense face. Clothes that weren't fully formal, but put together neatly enough. He kept checking the watch on his wrist, kept glancing at his phone.

Impatient, by the look of it. Proud of his work, though… the basics were there.

Could be wrong.

This was, at best, the equivalent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of starting a synopsis — sketching a rough outline of a person. Until you fully grasped a character, you put information in, then took it back out when a second look told you it didn't fit.

He didn't even know Jaewook's face, apparently. He was still looking around even though he'd already gotten close.

"Hello, Team Leader Park Munsu. I'm Assistant Manager Lee Jaewook."

He approached first and offered the greeting. Park Munsu looked at him with a small, surprised oh.

"How'd you know it was me? My profile pic isn't even my face."

"There's a photo on the internal contact list. I saw that."

The impatient streak was confirmed the next second — Team Leader Park Munsu went straight to the point.

"You a creative writing major?"

"No."

So he hadn't looked at the personnel file. There could be any number of reasons for that. It might mean the company at least had the basics down — not leaking employee records at a whim. Or this man had been in such a hurry he'd run over without even requesting them.

What was certain: the internal network wasn't functioning. The rumor that Jaewook was a former gaming addict should have spread to every corner of the building by now. Park Munsu didn't know it.

"Then before this job — you ever write screenplays? Personally?"

"I did not."

Team Leader Park Munsu opened the passenger door of his car and pulled out a booklet. He pointed at the Post-it stuck to the cover.

"Then what's this? You write this? If not, just say so. I'm busy."

Jaewook considered for a moment, then answered.

"If you were busy, couldn't you have simply asked when you called?"

"Huh…?"

"I would have answered you over the phone. I imagine there's a reason you came all this way to ask in person."

"Uh, well… so you did write this, then?"

"No."

"What?"

"If you don't have anything further to ask, Actress Ha Eun-yul is about to go on set. I'll be heading back in."

He gave a light nod and turned around. A brief silence followed, and then Team Leader Park Munsu's voice came from behind him.

"Hey — just one more question! Was this already stuck on there when you looked at it?!"

Jaewook glanced back. One hand on his hip, the other clutching the rolled-up treatment, waving it around.

"No. It wasn't attached."

"Then what the hell is this?!"

"I wouldn't know."

He answered with a face emptied of all expression and headed back into the studio. On the chance anything had happened, he made for Ha Eun-yul's waiting room, where Ghost — who had been pacing in front of the door — asked him at once.

"No. Nothing like that. I scattered a little bait, and he took it out of nowhere — flopping around on the hook."

"The project materials I looked at. I'd left a few of the memos I wrote without taking them off."

I have ability. So I quietly do my job, and the people around me recognize it?

That was fantasy talk.

If you had ability, you showed it as soon as possible. That was called opportunity — and if there was no opportunity, creating one was the real ability. Charging in just because you were impatient, before you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were at the right level, was not a good judgment. A person's words carried as much weight as the position they held.

Which was why he had needed to create a situation in which people would actually listen to what came out of his mouth.

Scattering bait was a habit from those days — from when he had first joined Representative Choi Giseok. Back then, to everyone else, he had been nothing but a kid.

Anyway. It had been just one of the various things he habitually let slip. He hadn't expected the bait he'd thrown that morning to be brought back before the morning was even over.

After hearing the explanation, Ghost asked with a puzzled face.

"I don't like people talking down to me."

He didn't like being spoken to that way. So when he conversed, he steered things accordingly. Mix enough conversation together and mutual respect tended to settle in on its own. Even if the other person's position sat above his, at least they wouldn't talk down to him. Close people were an exception, of course. Once you were close, speaking a little more casually was fine.

But if you talked down to him from the first ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meeting, you wouldn't get a thing out of him.

As expected. Ghost was a good person.

But he was not. Being a purely good person had a meaning uncomfortably close to being easy.

"If you hand someone water when they're thirsty, they'll be satisfied. And after that? 'Ah, that guy knows how to read a project' — is that what they'll think?"

"They might. Or they might not. All it creates is an open possibility. The choice stays in their hands."

"I'll handle the difficult parts. You just do what ghosts do well. If the other person is truly, desperately thirsty, they'll come back to the well. And then they'll also know what they did wrong."

Talking down to someone was a tell. People who wanted something with that kind of attitude were, as a rule, stingy when it came time to give credit. It might not be the case — but that, too, was a matter of who held the choice.

"He'll come again. His head's a bit lacking, but he seems to have the drive."

That was why he'd made it confusing. Even if something seemed off — of course it would.

In the car heading back to Seoul.

"…Then who wrote this memo?"

Park Munsu glanced at the treatment he'd tossed onto the passenger seat, at a loss. He'd thought he'd found a clue that might actually help.

And it wasn't?

That answer hadn't even occurred to him. In the first place, he was the only person at the current Nine Entertainment who rummaged through the cabinet of project materials. General Manager Kim Misook, maybe? Even she just filed them. She didn't actually read them. So when a new manager arrived — excluding the existing staff — and a memo turned up, of course he'd figured it was that guy.

Park Munsu sat in the driver's seat and called his wife. When he was frustrated, talking to her at least let some of it out. She still worked in the same industry, which helped even more.

"Yeah. That's how it turned out."

Starting there, he poured out the grievances he'd been carrying, and then what he was supposed to do about any of it.

"Do I have to go to the office and check everyone's handwriting one by one?"

The reason he was this desperate:

Synopses. Treatments. Even bound copies — and he still couldn't tell. Which projects would succeed. With songs, the moment he heard them — ah, this is it, this'll work — the feeling hit him instantly. That was why a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠considerable number of the tracks Park Munsu had recommended had actually become hits.

"I came here looking up to Director Kim Taewoo, and now I don't even know what I'm doing… I'm not learning a single thing. Just suffering for nothing."

"Yeah. I came to learn, and instead of learning I'm the one teaching. The company's a mess."

Park Munsu smiled bitterly at that.

"What's the point of going back. If I lock in a new song — is that my credit? In the singer division… there's nothing for a manager to do. You just work yourself to death."

It wasn't simply a matter of who got the credit. It was about hitting a ceiling. An actor's dedicated manager could someday dream of their own company. In today's system, a manager in the singer division was a manager forever — an individual who could neither produce nor cover the enormous cost of training anyone.

"Nah, that guy's not at that level. He just showed up because I was desperate. There's nobody at the company who can screen projects right now anyway. And like I said — he said with his own mouth it wasn't——"

A flash.

Park Munsu's eyes went wide.

"No. I'll call you back. It's nothing. Don't worry."

He hung up. The corner of Park Munsu's mouth twitched upward.

"Wow… this bastard… no, wait. Assistant Manager Lee isn't an easy man, is he?"

The string of old stories with his wife had brought it back. He'd been like that too, back then. He'd hated it — talentless people talking down to him just because they had seniority. "Hey." "You." "Kid." "Brat." All of it. Especially that.

"But I wasn't quite that bad, you little… Assis…tant Manager. Huh!"