The Time Loop Pitch
As I rode the bus to the meeting spot with the writers, I sank deep into thought.
What the hell had happened to me in that conference room?
It sure as hell wasn't a dream.
Not just because of the overwhelming realism that made it impossible to dismiss as one.
No, what really mattered was that the dream had been qualitatively superior to anything I could come up with.
The idea that popped into my head when I heard the word "do-dol-i-pyo."
I'd gotten a preview of the finished product once that idea fully bloomed.
Complete with details I'd never even considered.
After seeing something like that, there was no way I could write it off as a mere dream.
Superpower. Script possession. Schizophrenia. Delusions...
I ran through a bunch of terms before landing on one thought.
What if I saw the right answer?
Like, the perfect version that could actually air as a drama?
But why?
Why would I get to see something like that?
"...To find the answer."
That had to be it.
Thinking back, it made sense.
The first time I'd felt that strange sensation was when I got the Gongbeomche pitch document.
I'd smelled grass and heard crickets then, too.
But the ability hadn't fully activated.
Because I didn't know the answer.
The superpower kicked in the moment I grasped the right direction for the script.
I never had anything like this when I was an actor...
Maybe because back then, I never thought about rewriting the script itself?
As I racked my brain alone, it suddenly hit me—this might not be such a big deal after all.
Whenever I prepped for auditions, it was always like this anyway.
Read the script, visualize it in my head.
The only differences were that I was a CE now, not an actor, and the visualizations were unrealistically vivid.
It sounded a bit crazy, but I decided to go with that explanation for now.
No point getting bogged down in inexplicable supernatural crap—it wouldn't do my mental health any favors.
Still...
"It was the right answer."
Didn't feel half bad.
I'd gotten a sneak peek at how amazing my idea would look once implemented in the script.
All that was left was convincing the writers...
I could pull it off, right?
Ko Young-tae and Gil Sang-hoon.
Weirdos who'd gotten into one of Korea's top three engineering schools but dreamed of writing dramas instead.
It started when the two dorm roommates discovered they were both hardcore fans of foreign dramas.
From The Big Bang Theory onward, they chatted about every show under the sun until the thought hit them:
I could write a drama with this guy.
What began as a casual whim turned into something real.
Their first script won gold in a college contest, and the second placed in Tvic's open call.
They couldn't help but get their hopes up.
But the last two years had filled those hopes with frustration and rage.
"The script's amazing. Really, it's too good..."
If the feedback had been that the script sucked, they'd have humbly accepted it. But no—it was good.
Too good, in fact. That was the problem.
Four handlers had come and gone, and the revisions were countless.
By the time the fifth one called, their patience had run dry. No surprise there.
"Nah. We're done."
"Yeah. No more revisions. If it's not the original, we're out."
"I checked the precedents—no need to return the advance."
"Tvic won't want the noise from a contest entry. We'll just get our script back and call it quits."
Dressed in checkered shirts screaming "pissed off," the two sat in the cafe, steeling themselves.
They'd been tossed around by adult bullshit long enough. This time was for real.
No more revisions!
That's when it happened.
"Ko Young-tae and Gil Sang-hoon, right?"
A guy who looked like he lived in a different dimension approached them.
"Uh, yeah..."
"Hey. Do Hyun-woo, the new CE assigned to you from Tvic."
"Y-you're the one who called...?"
"Yep. You got here fast. I rushed to arrive early myself."
The two swallowed hard as Do Hyun-woo set down his bag with a laugh.
They'd planned to stand their ground no matter who showed up, but they hadn't expected an entirely different species.
At least he was male, so they snapped out of it quick.
From there, it was the usual script.
Great script.
Thrilled to handle it.
Let's make something awesome together.
All predictable, so Gil Sang-hoon drew his blade.
"We've heard 'shooting prep starts this year' how many times? What's the real deal?"
"Company policy hasn't changed. We'll wrap setup this year, shooting next."
"And the script...?"
"I'd like some revisions. Not changing the human stories, but shifting how the narrator tells them."
They'd sworn to reject even the "s" in "revision," but Do Hyun-woo's vibe made them hesitate.
Unlike the other CEs, he brimmed with conviction.
Plus, the idea piqued their curiosity.
"Just the narrator's style?"
"Yeah. Our drama tells the essence of humanity through the time eight characters have built from past to present. And it's intricately done."
"Right."
"I'd rather not touch that. Honestly, what is there to add or cut?"
"So what do you mean by changing the style?"
"Can you guys immerse yourselves in what I'm about to say? Like you're watching the drama."
"Sure, whatever."
Do Hyun-woo locked eyes with them and slowly began.
Sounded like something profound, but it was all stuff they knew.
Eight close friends head to a cabin in Gangwon-do.
A fun drinking party reliving memories away from society.
Hyun-tae wakes up thirsty.
Discovers the murder scene.
Evidence points to an acquaintance, suspicion blooms among friends.
Stranded by blocked roads, second night at the cabin.
They'd read the script a million times, so they wondered why bother.
Nothing had changed up to here.
But Do Hyun-woo's earnest delivery and smooth narration pulled Ko Young-tae and Gil Sang-hoon in despite themselves.
"Hyun-tae, unable to sleep, circles the cabin just in case. Spots a suspicious rope—looks like the murder weapon. 'Huh, what's that?'"
It felt like a real script read-through with actors.
"As he approaches the rope—thwack! Someone clubs the back of his head. Even losing consciousness, he's terrified. 'Am I the second victim? Dying like this?'"
"Yeah."
"But Hyun-tae opens his eyes. Looks around—no cabin."
"Huh? He's in bed?"
Gil Sang-hoon piped up, and Do Hyun-woo smiled like he'd been waiting.
"Crickets chirping—not a city sound. Grass scent thick in the air. Confused, he looks around—friends with bright faces."
One, two, three, four...
Counting: seven.
Jeong-hoon clearly died yesterday, yet seven.
No—Jeong-hoon was there?
Shocked, Hyun-tae rushes to him, but the friends say:
What's with you?
Everyone's casual.
Like nothing happened.
What? Did I dream it?
Only then does Hyun-tae clock reality.
They're on the highway, arriving at the cabin.
"...Are you talking about a time loop?"
"Yes. Hyun-tae loops back to day one every time he dies."
This was the idea I'd come up with hearing "do-dol-i-pyo."
Truth be told, Gongbeomche was a damn fun drama.
If viewers could just immerse, the characters' pasts and tangled relationships were intriguing.
And their experiences weren't fantasy—they were real.
Most people had them in school.
Even in the "friends" frame, subtle hierarchies and power plays.
So our drama dealt in relatable stuff.
Yet it wasn't clicking because...
"Viewers have no hook to actively take in and interpret the info."
"...Hook."
"Mystery dramas get away with complex crime scenes via curiosity about whodunit. Even if not fully grasped, no rejection."
Our drama lacked that.
Or worse, in a way.
Murder hits, viewers expect mystery, but we dive into inner psyches.
"That story's plenty fun. If they immerse."
"So give Hyun-tae a time loop to force immersion?"
"Exactly."
"But..."
"If the drama has just one contrived bit, where do you think it'd be?"
Gil Sang-hoon and Ko Young-tae bit their lips in unison.
They knew.
Hyun-tae surviving the attack was contrived.
Coldly, no reason he shouldn't die then.
Killer cares about order, but not enough to spare the cop Hyun-tae.
To justify it, writers added devices that dragged the pace.
"Hyun-tae dies from the bat. Only death loops him back."
"So if he doesn't die on day two..."
"Another victim, on to day three. Like the original script. Just adds loop motif—core progression unchanged."