Teach a Guy to Study Once and He Holds It Over You Forever

"Bring me the writer who wrote this synopsis."

"...So I just need to bring them in?"

I knew it might come off as a somewhat dim-witted reply. But it was closer to a rebuke — a way of pointing out that Director Choi Yoona's instructions weren't exactly clear. Fortunately, she seemed to take my meaning, because she pressed on without missing a beat.

"It's TVK's Friday-Saturday drama slot. One slot just opened up. In near real time, actually."

I looked at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Choi Yoona.

I'd already grasped the general flow. It was a small piece of information, but it contained the essential core. There was a prior incident I already knew about, too. Not because I was special — most people in South Korea would know.

Articles had been dropping all day, after all.

"A slot opening in real time means it's a filler, then. And if it's the Friday-Saturday slot, that means Running Today as Well is getting cancelled early."

"That's right. Choi Cheolju got caught in a drunk hit-and-run at dawn."

The male lead of TVK's Friday-Saturday drama Running Today as Well. Just as Choi Yoona said, the star of a currently airing drama had been caught in a drunk hit-and-run. It wasn't an incident that had anything to do with us, per se, but articles had been flooding in in real time, so I had a rough picture. Still, I wanted to confirm it once more.

I unlocked my phone and quickly checked the entertainment news section first.

Just as Choi Yoona had said, the latest articles were rolling in one after another. The early-cancellation news hadn't even existed when I'd checked that morning. I flicked my fingers across the screen and checked the reactions on social media and the community boards as well.

The Ghost, peeking over my shoulder at my phone, whispered.

"...Honestly, even though we're in the same industry, that drama was too much. If the writer or the director had ended up on the perp walk, I would've understood."

"......"

A disaster so thorough even the Ghost was tearing into it. Choi Cheolju's drunk hit-and-run had merely put a period on the sentence; I agreed that the drama itself had already gone off the rails. Even I, who'd watched it to study the industry, had found myself tilting my head wondering what on earth the thing was even about.

When I looked up again, Choi Yoona began dumping every remaining scrap of information she had.

"The drama slotted in behind it actually needs a little more time for post-production, so they're using this as an excuse to push it back a bit, and the current one gets cancelled early. What that frees up is a minimum of one month, a maximum of a month and a half."

"So eight to twelve episodes become possible... Strictly speaking, it's not so much freed up as a stretch of airtime that's been left hanging. They can't just leave it empty."

"Exactly. The next drama in the slot is TVK's biggest anticipated title of the year. They can't afford to kill the Friday-Saturday drama block."

The Ghost supplemented Choi Yoona's explanation.

"There's such a thing as inertia in ratings, too. These days the younger crowd watches on streaming, sure, but there are still viewers who watch on actual television. And you can't ignore the ad slots that bookend a drama. If it's TVK's biggest anticipated title of the year... I agree with their call that it's better to keep the slot going, even if they have to force it."

"I'll keep listening."

At that, Choi Yoona dumped another heap of information.

"TVK's Head of Drama laid down conditions."

"......"

"Production budget fully covered by TVK. Product placement can be plastered all over it. Production staff also fully provided by TVK — or if you want to bring your own production company, that's fine too, they'll accommodate whatever you want. In exchange: from picking the project, to casting the leads, to filming two episodes' worth — all of it solved within three weeks. The quality has to be at least baseline. If you can meet those conditions, bring it all in. That's the offer."

"Absurdly tight, but it's attractive, I'll give it that. The casting is less a condition than a merit, honestly."

"Right... Especially for a company like ours."

It was a fairly self-deprecating remark, but Choi Yoona's eyes were shining.

Full production budget and a full production team provided by the network, plus a secured programming slot — those were, without question, extraordinary terms. Drama production costs had skyrocketed because of streaming platforms, and from a producer's standpoint it was a classic case of the rich getting richer. Ambiguous projects didn't attract investment at all. The biggest share of that cost explosion was the soaring price of actors.

I didn't need to ask why Choi Yoona wasn't bothering to hide her expectations.

This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was it. If you brought in the project, the side that brought it got to mold the casting however they pleased. The justification that time was desperately short was airtight. And getting a co-production credit on the company name without spending a single won was a merit you couldn't ignore either.

"You're thinking of pushing Bong Tae-soo with this."

"If it's possible."

"Contemporary setting. Genre locked to romantic comedy."

My answer seemed to satisfy her quite a bit; Choi Yoona bit down lightly on her lower lip.

"That's right. They say they'll cover everything, but at the end of the day it's a filler. Three to five billion won? That's the range everyone's predicting. They didn't specify a genre, but who'd be stupid enough to bring in anything else?"

Time was too tight. Building a new set from scratch wasn't a luxury they could afford, money aside. So the setting had to be contemporary. A project you could shoot here, then pick up and shoot somewhere else entirely without being tied to a location.

And if you needed at least a baseline result, that left romantic comedy and nothing else. A genre that lived or died on the chemistry between the actors.

On top of that, casting an A-list actor — never mind an S-list — was a pipe dream. The guarantees simply didn't match. And there wasn't enough merit in the project itself to make anyone come aboard on the strength of the material alone. The whole thing was essentially "just bring us any dish that works," and nobody was going to take on that kind of risk for no reason.

I finished the thought and pointed at the synopsis Choi Yoona was still holding.

"And that synopsis? From the context so far, it doesn't seem particularly important."

"This is TVK's Head of Drama's personal pick. He saw it a few years ago, thought it was decent, and held onto it, but it wasn't in line with current trends so he'd been sitting on it. Looking at it, I remembered the synopsis Director Kim Taewoo had given me. I checked at home, and as you can see — it's the same one."

"And?"

"A special condition. If you can bring in this project's writer within a week and get them in a position to start writing the script, he said he won't look at anything else. He'll go with that company."

That's when the question hit me.

Then shouldn't they have been moving instead of talking? If the condition was that simple, the first one to move was the winner, wasn't it? The vast majority of writers who scattered synopses around weren't even thinking about success or failure — they just wanted something shot and aired, period. The moment that thought landed, a more fundamental question surfaced.

"Couldn't the Head of Drama just make a phone call and be done with it?"

At my perfectly reasonable question, Choi Yoona glanced at my face and laughed awkwardly.

And then.

"He can't call."

"......"

"He doesn't know who it is."

A snort of laughter escaped me before I could stop it.

Of course. With a condition this thorny attached, no wonder Director Choi Yoona wasn't in a rush. Hurrying was meaningless here. The other companies had probably given up already. All the more reason the urgency had evaporated.

"The writer's name is Na Malchul. Probably a pen name, and beyond that there's nothing — not even an age. They left this one piece four years ago and vanished."

"That's an unreasonable ask."

At my answer, Choi Yoona's face visibly stiffened. The fact that she'd asked even knowing it was unreasonable meant she rated my abilities that highly. It was also evidence of how badly she wanted this.

Probably both.

"...Yeah. I thought maybe Team Leader Lee could pull it off, but it's too absurd, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is absurd."

That's what I said.

But I'd already found the lead.

"I received that directly from the writer Na Malchul."

The Ghost was looking at me with absolute certainty in his eyes.

I answered Director Choi Yoona.

"I'll give it a shot anyway."

I got in the car first. There was more than one thing to do. Three weeks was an absurdly tight window, so I moved.

Just like Team Leader Park Munsu would have.

As we pulled out of the company parking lot, the Ghost spoke as the thoughts came to him.

"Yeonseo University Hospital."

I pointed the car in that direction.

"That's where you met them?"

"If I say I 'met' them, it sounds... off. It was back when Chaeyoon noona was shooting a medical drama. This person was a doctor there, and they were incredibly young... Twenty-two, twenty-three? Being generous, late twenties at most? And it wasn't just that they looked young — they were young, definitely. They asked if I was Shin Chaeyoon's manager, said they were a fan, and then just handed it to me out of nowhere — said they'd written it, would I take a look?"

"And then?"

"I was too busy to read it at the time. I looked at it later. My assessment was the same as TVK's Head of Drama. It was fun, had a snappy, distinctive flavor — but it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tasted a bit old-fashioned? That was right in the middle of the genre-piece boom."

A faint worry crossed my mind about whether a doctor could actually be made to sit down and write a script. But that was a problem to think about after we met, so I pushed it aside.

"If they're inside their late twenties, they're likely either a med student or a resident. Do you know the name?"

At that, the Ghost squeezed his eyes shut and sank into thought for a long while. After we'd passed several traffic lights, his eyes snapped open.

"Uh... the name tag on the gown. Na Unchae? Na Unchaek? Na Munchae? Or maybe Na Munchaek? It'll be one of those four. No — I'm certain. It's one of those."

"Man or woman?"

"A man."

The field had narrowed in an instant. For a second I considered picking up the phone and asking Chief Aide Lee Moon-joo for help, but I held back. I couldn't go bothering her over every little thing like this.

Detective Park Daesu had just recently fetched information for me, too. I didn't have the face to ask him for something this simple.

I knew the name. I knew the age. I knew the affiliation.

None of it was sharp or exact on its own. But having the overall frame made it far easier to find someone than knowing just one thing precisely.

This was a level I could track down myself, so I moved in person. I knew someone there, too.

On the way to Yeonseo University Hospital, I made a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠call. To one of my very few friends.

"Among the doctors at your hospital. Ah, including residents and med students."

"Na Unchae, Na Unchaek, Na Munchae, Na Munchaek. Check if any of those names are there."

"I'm on my way. Have it figured out by the time I get there. I'll see you in the parking lot."

Beep.

I hit the end-call button, and my friend's squawking voice vanished.

"That's three calls in a row you've hung up on people like that. At this point... tsk... maybe the problem is on your end too, Jaewook?"

"I tutored him into medical school. I'm allowed."

"Ah...? You personally tutored a friend into med school...?"

"Yeah. I taught him because it was less hassle. He kept clinging to me, begging me to help him study."

We drove another twenty minutes or so after that. Yeonseo University Hospital came into view.

I pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. My friend, who'd been craning his neck around at the entrance, came running out in stocking feet — which is to say, slippers — to meet me.

"This fucking guy taught me a little studying and he holds it over me for life."

"Did you check?"

"Nothing. No such names."

I spoke again to my friend, who was kicking at the parking lot floor with his slippers.

"All four?"

"Yeah. Nothing. I've been here fifteen years and there's no name like that in that window, at least. I even searched the database. Doesn't come up."

"What about the nurses?"

"Checked there too. Nobody. You think I'm an idiot?"

For a moment, without meaning to, I looked at the Ghost and demanded an explanation with my eyes. Maybe it was because I was a little less on guard in front of a friend.

"Have you been working so much your brain's fried? What are you looking at?"

I was just starting to wonder if tutoring him had been a mistake when, as if to prove he really was one of my very few friends, he continued in a tone still dripping with irritation.

"There is a Na Yuntaek, though. And a Na Yuntae."

In that instant, something sharp and electric lanced through my head.

I'd seen that name somewhere. The world was full of similar names, plenty of them.

But Yeonseo University, paired with Na Yuntae.

I had definitely seen that name somewhere.