Action 13. The Project
This was my workplace, but the video content industry was rife with injustices.
To become a drama writer, you had to slave away as an assistant writer for pennies over several grueling years. To rise to main director, you started as a lowly FD and dedicated at least a decade.
And amid all that, misfortunes piled up relentlessly—if you couldn't endure, you were replaced in an instant.
This culture had taken root because producing video content required astronomical sums of money.
Without cash, you couldn't even start, so those who held the purse strings seized hegemony over culture itself.
In defiance, independent films and web dramas were born.
But pouring over ten billion won into a web drama to chase broadcast-level visuals?
Gathering veteran stars and rising talents for a lavish cast?
This was a corrupt practice that undermined and polluted the very essence of web dramas.
"Got it? This is the corruption I'm talking about."
"No, you're insane. What the hell are you on about? You're the one who said to shoot it!"
"And you're the one dragging it into reality, hyung."
"Cut the nonsense!"
I smirked at Kim Seong-tae, the corrupt bastard ranting away, and surveyed the bustling set deep in shooting prep.
It sure didn't feel like a web drama set.
Which made sense—scaling our drama to 16 episodes put the budget over 70 billion won.
Not a blockbuster, but far from scraping by either.
At Your Fingertips had come in under 120 billion, after all.
As those thoughts crossed my mind, Sung Tae-chang—now head of D.P Studio—approached and spoke up.
"Look at this. I'm gonna make this a massive hit and cash in those stock options."
"What? You jumped ship for stock options, hyung?"
"Obviously. I'm ex-Tvic exec."
"What percentage?"
"Five percent."
"Whoa, for real?"
I was stunned at first, but it made perfect sense on reflection.
No matter how much Sung Tae-hyung adored Yoon CEO, business was business—he needed that kind of incentive to move from Tvic to D.P Studio.
"But why bring up stock options out of nowhere?"
"……."
"Still jealous of my incentives?"
"Shut up……."
What Sung Tae-hyung didn't know was that I'd invested my own money in this drama too.
If it blew up, I'd earn even more.
I'll tell him later.
"How are the D.P Studio folks fitting in?"
"They're solid. Yoon CEO picks 'em well. Once they sync up, they'll deliver whatever Director Lee Eun-soo wants."
"Check if anyone's clashing with the production team the director brought in. Disharmony starts there."
"Oh? Acting like a senior already?"
"You think my hits were flukes?"
"What's with the attitude?"
We were bantering when Sung Tae-hyung suddenly bellowed at one corner of the set.
"That's not over there! What are you doing!"
Then he bolted off like a shot.
He calls me senior-like, but he's already full studio head mode.
Still, being on set with Sung Tae-hyung after so long felt great.
Back when I was the actor and he my manager, it was always like this.
We'd kill downtime with all sorts of dumb antics.
Like betting on who could chuck a stick farther—then going into takes with it stuck in our clothes.
Lost in those memories, I glanced at the actors huddled together off to the side.
Oh Ha-eun caught my eye first.
For the set's biggest name, she looked ridiculously tense—no worries there, though.
She was the type who acted best under pressure, oddly enough.
Next to her was Kim Tae-seong.
The actor who'd hooked me instantly from his profile and YouTube clips.
Nothing dramatic about casting him, really.
I video-called to shake off scammer suspicions, and calming him down after he insisted on rushing over the second he saw my face was the hard part.
He signed the contract in a daze at landing sub-male lead, but burned with motivation too.
Acting-wise…… jury was out.
He nailed it in rehearsals, showed exactly what I wanted.
But recalling how Criminal Community actors froze at table reads after months of prep, I'd need to keep an eye.
The fixed supporting roles were all sneaking peeks at the gear, wide-eyed.
Bigger scale than they'd imagined, probably.
But objectively, Oh Ha-eun, Kim Tae-seong, and the supports wouldn't drive the drama's success.
They could amplify how big a hit it became, but not whether it crossed the threshold.
That depended on the original leads.
Ko Eun-ah. Ji Seok-woo.
People assumed I'd cast them around the same time as Oh Ha-eun—not even close.
I locked in Ko Eun-ah and Ji Seok-woo days after meeting Hong Hee-young.
From project kickoff, they were secured.
Wasn't hard, really.
They desperately needed roles.
Ko Eun-ah hadn't worked in over two years; Ji Seok-woo was stuck in awkward supporting gigs.
Simple reason.
After Tug of War's success, hubris set in.
Ignoring scripts unless lead roles, then bombing 2-3 in a row and plummeting in status.
Refusing to accept they were one-hit wonders, they wasted prime years stubbornly.
Honestly, going into our meetings, I wasn't set on casting them.
If they still reeked of "I'm the star!", I'd pivot to other actors matching Inyeon and Uyeon's vibes for "Inevitability" and "Coincidence."
But separately, in different spots, their reactions were eerily identical.
"Looking back, it's hilarious. 'One-hit wonder' isn't even that shameful, so why did I hate it so much back then?"
"Obsessing over it tensed up my acting, then bombing a few shows and hearing the whispers just made me desperate to prove them wrong……."
"At that young, promising age, full of nothing but pride and stubbornness."
"So many great roles and projects I could've nailed."
Their sincerity shone through words and eyes, so I greenlit them.
"Just like that?"
"No need to fret over their resumes. We can do camera auditions."
They were the flustered ones, seeing me decide on the spot.
But I didn't need to test their basics—they were rock-solid.
Acting wasn't the issue.
My conditions? Two simple ones.
No alcohol until shooting starts—not a drop.
Daily cardio, at least an hour.
That was it.
Slapped those into the contract with 500 million per episode.
20-minute web episode at 500 mil? For a 60-min drama, that's 1.5 billion per ep—absurd.
Generously, maybe 1 bil max?
Nah, probably not.
Ji Seok-woo around 800 mil, Ko Eun-ah 500-ish.
SBX's department head pegging their web rates at 500-600 mil? He had no clue.
After, the agency-less duo sent me workout logs daily.
Booze? Who knows.
They claimed zero sips, but a sneaky few? Possible.
Didn't matter, though.
Wait—where are they?
Shooting starts in under an hour?
Right on cue, Ko Eun-ah and Ji Seok-woo entered the set.
No idea how they synced up, but their eyes mirrored anxious doubt.
Can I pull this off?
As expected.
Years of baggage wouldn't vanish overnight.
So our drama's fate hinged on shifting those eyes today.
My job.
The storyline for Tug of War Season 2 was utterly ordinary.
-
Nine years after Inyeon and Uyeon—whose love burned like a summer night's dream—parted ways.
They thought of each other often, but never imagined fate reconnecting them.
If anything, it confused them.
Was our love really that scorching?
Was I capable of such fire?
Or…….
Just nostalgia's gloss?
Time flowed ordinarily on.
They landed stable jobs, casual dates, aged gracefully.
Then one day.
At a new client meeting, they cross paths—like inevitability, or coincidence.
Representing rival firms, no dodging it.
A mild surprise, nothing more—no panic.
They weren't kids crying over love anymore.
"Let's just work."
"Yeah."
But prolonged proximity reignites that summer dream pull.
This time, circumstances differ.
Uyeon pulls Inyeon close; Inyeon must push back.
Enter Seonwoo and Ha-yeon—mirrors of their past selves—shaking hearts anew…….
-
Nothing special about the plot.
But Hong Hee-young's pen game? Elite.
Unexpected comedy from clichés; thrills amid laughs.
Sub-leads Seonwoo and Ha-yeon charging straight at Uyeon and Inyeon? Intriguing.
Her character showcase exploding in 20-min format? Perfection.
The problem?
"Okay. Good, it's good……."
The all-important chemistry between Uyeon and Inyeon? Nonexistent.