You Didn't Forget About Me, Right?

After the shoot wrapped, I dropped Ha Eun-yul off and came back to the Nine Entertainment office.

The clock on the wall pointed to seven — and it was not the morning kind. That was why the place sat so quiet. Everyone had already gone home.

And yet two people were waiting for me.

Team Leader Park Munsu. And Director Choi Yoona. Both of them slumped in their chairs, looking like death warmed over.

"I told you not to wait."

"How am I supposed to not wait? I can't even go home."

When I headed for the break room, they trotted after me at my heels. With Park Munsu at my back, I drew a coffee from the machine.

A mechanical whir, and a stream of Americano stretched downward. Only after the stream had fully stopped did I lift the cup and turn to face him.

"Are you still in contact with Bong Tae-soo?"

"Yeah. We're still exchanging messages, but... it's rough. Like he's shut the door on us?"

I answered with a faint smile.

"If he'd shut the door all the way, he wouldn't still be exchanging messages."

"No, I'm telling you, I can't get a word in. I ask him why, if we fell short somewhere, if another offer came in just say so — we'll match whatever we can, fill in whatever's missing. No matter what I tell him, all I get is I'm sorry, I apologize. That's it."

Listening to Park Munsu's appeal, I sat down in a break-room chair. It wasn't as spacious as a conference room, but the table could hold a laptop or a book. I set my coffee down.

A beat later, Director Choi Yoona came in and took a seat as well.

The first person I needed to talk to wasn't Park Munsu. It was Choi Yoona. I met her eyes.

"Director. Does Bong Tae-soo's contract have a penalty clause for unilateral termination?"

I already knew this company's contract structure from Ghost. But in the three years Ghost had been gone, a renewed contract might look different, so I asked. It made for a slightly odd picture — a Management Team Leader posing the question, the acting head of the company answering it — but at least Choi Yoona didn't seem to harbor any hollow sense of authority.

She answered with a stiff face.

"Breach of confidentiality. Breach of the morality clause for causing a public scandal — drinking, gambling, drugs, that sort of thing. Breach of the duty to cooperate. Breach of the revenue-sharing obligation. Yes, we have those. Why wouldn't we?"

She paused there, then opened her mouth again, choosing her words with care.

"There's a penalty clause for unilateral termination ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as well. But it's not enough to hold an actor's feet to the fire."

"Would it be all right if I asked exactly how the contracts work?"

"One-year terms. Automatic renewal if neither party expresses intent to terminate. But if either side expresses that intent mid-term, it simply doesn't renew."

"Hmm..."

"The renewal date is the same for every actor. January 1st."

I took another sip of coffee. About five months left on the contract. Even if he requested termination, there would be almost no risk on the actor's side.

"The actors who've already left. You didn't file for damages based on breach, either, did you?"

Choi Yoona sat down in a break-room chair as she answered.

"That's right. That's Nine Entertainment. We don't hold actors hostage. If you boarded the Nine Entertainment ship together, you're free to get off — that was my father's policy..."

I'd heard as much from Ghost. Nothing had changed at all. Choi Yoona seemed determined to hold that line as well.

To put it coldly... there was nothing modern about the system.

Old-school among old-school. And even then, a remarkably humane version of it.

"Are you planning to keep this system going?"

"Yes."

"To put it in extreme terms, it's a contract structure that allows cherry-picking."

"...I have no intention of changing the system."

Choi Yoona answered with considerable stubbornness. Just as I'd expected.

Director Choi Yoona was an idealist. Still unripe.

I understood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠perfectly well why I'd asked about the contract terms, and she had said she had no intention of changing them. There was no need to dismiss that as mere ignorance, or a lack of crisis awareness.

It was an undeniable fact that this approach had left behind the remarkably tight-knit group that Nine Entertainment was today. There had been glory days, even if they belonged to the past. And these clauses also embodied Nine Entertainment's actor-first direction.

Even if we change the contract terms later, now is not the time to push for it.

I changed the subject and looked at Park Munsu. His turn to answer.

"If Bong Tae-soo purely wanted out, a one-sided notice would have been enough. In the extreme, he could have even sent a certified letter. Nine Entertainment is the kind of company that would allow that."

Park Munsu's eyes flew wide. He flicked a glance at Director Choi Yoona — but it didn't matter.

Choi Yoona had no intention of changing company policy overnight, and this wasn't the moment for me to persuade her, so I had set that aside. I had no intention of patting anyone on the head.

Choi Yoona's face flushed. I continued without concern.

"Still, the fact that there's at least a formal penalty clause for contract termination is fortunate."

"Why is that?"

"Because it means Bong Tae-soo hasn't signed with the other company yet — wherever that is, we don't know exactly. There's no reason for either of them to risk a dual-contract controversy. Not Bong Tae-soo, and not the other company."

Just because Nine Entertainment was an easy mark didn't mean they would throw even the proper sequence out the window. Neither the place trying to take him, nor Bong Tae-soo himself. This wasn't about who was good or bad. It was simply the obvious thing. As long as they followed the order, there was no reason to get tangled in a pointless dispute.

Should I call it fortunate that Nine Entertainment was such an easy company? Because they never held anyone's feet when a termination was requested, the other side was actually playing it by the book.

"You said you had a good relationship with Bong Tae-soo, right?"

"Ah... yeah. He's been at Nine Entertainment since before I got here. Tae-soo's personality is just so good. He's a bit quiet and shy around strangers, but that's not a flaw at all — the man's earnest."

"The actors still left are probably mostly people like that. Whether they feel an emotional debt to the company, whether they shared in the glory — people with loyalty."

Park Munsu glanced at Choi Yoona again as he answered.

"That's right. I shouldn't badmouth my old company, but... it's just us, right? Our actors, every last one of them, their loyalty is the real deal. A company with only actors like this? Almost doesn't exist."

"Then find out what project he's going into. You, Team Leader Park. Even better if you can get the script."

At my words, Park Munsu's brow twitched. Not because I had spoken in the imperative from a position of equals. Once this man had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠acknowledged me, he didn't care about that kind of thing. The content was the problem.

"The project?"

"Yes. An actor who stayed out of loyalty... crossed over. As Team Leader Park, who knows this industry's ins and outs better than I do, already pointed out — someone dangled something. And it's obvious what they used to tempt him."

Even if the actor wasn't lead-role caliber. Under Nine Entertainment's current contract structure, its actors were easy prey. Low penalty fees. Ones they didn't even collect. Or simply declaring they wouldn't renew was enough.

Which meant Bong Tae-soo, like Ki Seongchan, had stayed at Nine Entertainment for something better than money.

And if there was a condition that could shake an actor beyond that, for Bong Tae-soo right now there was only one.

"They would have offered him a lead role as the transfer condition. Not some vague proposal — something they could lock in clearly. So the company that made the offer is probably large, right? Somewhere that has its own production company... that would be my guess."

A few companies flickered through my mind.

KSH Entertainment.

Or... Management Loop, where Gyeon Seongcheol worked.

It could be a third company, but I had a feeling it was one of those two.

Two days later.

The set of Melancholy Romance.

The coffee truck had come, as always. This time the lettering said it was cheering on Moon Najin in the name of a popular idol group member.

"Hey. How about a cup of coffee?"

Section Chief Gyeon Seongcheol put on an uncomfortable smile and played at being friendly. There were eyes around. No particular reason to scowl. So I smiled smoothly as well.

"Section Chief Gyeon, you could be a coffee ambassador."

"You... you little... never mind."

I didn't know what he was never-minding, but Gyeon Seongcheol — who had been about to scowl, then put on a smiling face again — continued.

"Got a stiffer neck now that you're a team leader?"

"I've always had a fairly stiff neck. I try to look after my cervical health."

"Right. Then again, small companies do promote fast."

Having said that, he was suddenly standing right beside me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sucking away on a straw.

"Ahh, that's the stuff. Nothing beats an Americano on a hot day, right?"

"The coffee at Daisy was better."

"...You little shit, for real. Try that one more time."

I didn't know what to tell him. I wasn't the type to mouth off. I had just stated a fact. As Gyeon Seongcheol himself had mentioned before, the coffee at Daisy had been better, and the latte had been tastier than expected. That was all I'd meant.

Seeing each other's faces coming and going for months now, maybe he thought we'd gotten somewhat close. Gyeon Seongcheol bumped my shoulder lightly and dropped his voice.

"This industry is small. You need to stay humble."

Then he jerked his chin toward the coffee truck.

"Look over there. Still, the actor's a bit better than the manager. She's humble."

"..."

Ha Eun-yul was standing in line, waiting for coffee. Moon Najin was grinning as she photographed the scene on her phone, pretending to take a selfie.

It was a sight I was all too familiar with.

Kids, when they want to put someone beneath them, always start by showing off. Ha Eun-yul might have been playing the ice princess, but even that had its limits. She couldn't refuse even the gift-wrapped kindness of someone smiling and holding out a hand.

Not in a "back in my day" kind of way. Nine Entertainment in Ghost's working days had been a company without peer. I took it as literally that.

Then Ghost suddenly stepped in front of Gyeon Seongcheol. Invisible to everyone but me, of course.

...

...Ah, please...

...Stop.

"...You laughing?"

"Ah, just, um. Something funny came to mind..."

I avoided Gyeon Seongcheol's darting glare. He seemed to think I had been intimidated, and put on a satisfied expression.

I hadn't looked away because I was scared of Gyeon Seongcheol.

It was because Ghost's fists were punching straight through Gyeon Seongcheol's entire body, back and forth, and it was just too...

Ah, really... it was hard to endure.

The situation itself was honestly funny, but looking at the face of Ghost throwing punches, the laughter drained right out of me.

Ghost. No — this man. Tears had even gathered faintly in his eyes from the frustration of being able to do nothing himself. That was why this kind, round-faced ghost was throwing punches. Even if... in reality, they weren't landing a single blow.

"Huh... what's that?"

The one who spotted the large trucks approaching the set was Hyeon Jongdeok, the director of photography.

Two 2.5-ton box trucks pulled up side by side a short distance from the set, and the photo and lettering on one face of the containers came into view.

The gazes of the staff standing in front of the coffee truck, and of Ha Eun-yul. And mine, Gyeon Seongcheol's, Ghost's.

Every single person on set locked onto the name written beneath the message.

Ghost's voice grew thick. He glanced at me as if to ask what on earth was going on, so I just smiled lightly.

If you measured it by name value, was there anyone in South Korea who could match Shin Chaeyoon?

And it didn't seem like she had only sent the trucks...

Behind the second truck, a red sports car pulled into place.