The Script That Races Forward
Chae Seo-hee shrugged and continued.
"It's pretty amazing, though. How did things turn out like this?"
"Is it really that surprising?"
After working like this since my first day, I wasn't even sure anymore if it was weird.
"Think about it. Even if we keep the budget tight, eight episodes would cost at least two billion—hell, probably twenty-five. And the one in charge is an assistant CE."
"The real responsibility will fall on Kim Seong-tae, the total director."
"Exactly. That's the political mess that led to this ridiculous situation."
I hadn't thought about it too deeply until now, but she was right.
Something was off here.
"That's why Joo is the problem. He doesn't do the work—he just plays politics. You need to do the work and the politics, but he treats the work as just another political move."
But looking at the results alone, this situation was letting us make something far better.
And the rewards would be split between Sung Tae-hyung and me.
"Just remember this: it's the first project since OTT launched where assistant CEs have full authority."
I started to nod absentmindedly, then stopped.
"CEs—plural?"
"A classy way of saying we'll help out."
"What about the bombs?"
"You think I don't know you come asking me every time you don't get something? That's what a mentor's for."
It sounded like saying it didn't matter if the bomb exploded ten meters away or a hundred.
"You sure you're okay with this?"
"We're already committed, so what's not to be okay with? If you're asking about peace of mind... give me your answer after seeing the revised script."
"Then wait a week."
"A week?"
Chae Seo-hee narrowed her eyes.
"My trust in you just dropped."
"You'll be shocked, I bet."
The writers' eager expressions had been genuine.
"What's with that confidence?"
"You've been getting casual with me lately. How old are you, CE Chae Seo-hee?"
"Since it's your project, you'll pick the top two casting choices yourself, right?"
"Changing the subject?"
"Perfect timing. I need about ten days to wrap up Capital Bakery anyway."
"From dodging to straight-up ignoring me?"
A week flew by in a flash.
In that time, I'd wandered through the script searching for Hyun-tae, but no luck.
Even Team Leader Ko, who'd rolled up his sleeves to help, had given up.
"Come on, we need to know where you saw him to narrow the search!"
"I don't know. It was just someone I passed by."
"Argh!"
"Now that I'm not your guy anymore, you're treating me this rough? If only I'd acted a bit better..."
"Ugh, that's not how you use those crocodile tears we taught you!"
I'd pored over profiles of rookie actors—not even from our agency—endless stacks of them. Worried some might just look young, I'd even dug into mid-career theater newbies.
I'd even checked musicals, just in case.
Nothing.
Not even anyone who vaguely resembled him.
Maybe an idol?
A famous idol could land a drama lead—it wasn't impossible.
Rare for a total newcomer to jump straight to protagonist, but Gongbeomche was a small-scale piece.
If they had the popularity to sell overseas rights in one go, it was feasible.
No, that would mean capitalist logic crept into my superpower's casting.
A twinge of confusion hit me as I scanned profiles of most active boy groups in Korea. Still nothing.
Even shifting to second-tier groups yielded zilch.
At this point, anxiety crept in that he might be a total civilian.
You can't pinpoint a random civilian.
It's not like I could sketch a composite and put out a nationwide manhunt.
As I drifted through third-tier boy group algorithms in frustration, word came from the writers.
The writers I met after a week looked like they'd been kidnapped and just released.
But their eyes burned bright.
"Exactly a week?"
"Precisely, today's the eighth day."
"Minus the meeting day, it's a week."
Gil Sang-hoon and Ko Young-tae grinned at my words.
"We actually finished at dawn. Thought about emailing it, but... wanted to see your raw reaction."
Gil Sang-hoon writer handed over eight neatly bound scripts, like from a bindery.
"Take your time. No rush."
"Then you two relax with your phones. Don't mind me."
The script I started reading exceeded expectations.
No script captures the set 100%, no matter the details.
That's why directors exist.
To bring the script's world to the screen.
But I'd experienced it firsthand—not just on screen.
I'd braced myself: no greed for details. Leave that to the director.
But...
The writers' revisions delivered a thrilling twist.
Not an explosion of details.
It was the story's propulsion.
The protagonist's events charged forward with such force, the cabin itself faded.
Instead, Hyun-tae's expressions pulled you in.
A script like this holds strong even with a messy mise-en-scène.
Dress it up, and it shines brighter.
Three hours to blaze through all eight. I set them down, rolling my stiff neck.
"...What do you think?"
So immersed, I hadn't noticed the two writers staring.
"Hard to put into words... I'm moved."
"Which parts?"
"All of it. How fun the script is now, how my feedback's woven in, how perfectly you fixed it, even anticipating reactions ahead. All of it moves me."
"Style change okay?"
"Yes. Love it. The story has real momentum now."
Their original was detail's pinnacle.
Furniture layouts in the cabin, friends' standing order, unconscious pairings avoided, awkward one-on-ones forcing small talk.
Now? Different.
Seemed shallower at first, but that's the swift current illusion.
Peel it back: depth intact, plus forward thrust.
"Give the director the original as a character reference, direct with this version."
Then it hit me.
Ask if they were satisfied first.
"What do you two think of it?"
"Sad."
"Pardon?"
"Feels like our debut's our peak. Can't write better than..."
Ko Young-tae trailed off, shooting me a glance.
"If we work with Tvic again, can we team up with CE Do Hyun-woo?"
"Of course."
I'd beg for it.
Their talent was real.
"With your help, CE, we could do even better. Don't ditch us."
"Haha, too modest. With scripts like this, I should be begging you."
The stereotype of antisocial writers? Pure bias here.
No need to butter me up, yet their words were so gracious.
After mutual praise, the topic shifted.
"Director's locked in?"
"Yes. Jung Hee-soo, who directed our college contest piece."
I knew him.
Top young director, unique resume.
Acclaimed depth in indies and commercial films—critic praise plus box office.
Dramas? Total flops.
Only two, but still.
Should be fine, though.
Gongbeomche leaned more film than typical drama.
"CE, casting underway?"
"No actor contacts yet, just top list. I'll send when I'm at the office."
"You got our note? We don't care who, as long as they act well and aren't too famous."
I'd heard.
No fixed-image celebs from variety or long CFs. Anyone else fine.
Among CEs, Gongbeomche's one plus: easygoing writers on casting.
"Thanks, makes it smooth."
"So the lead is..."
That was the moment.
Something utterly absurd happened.
"Huh?"
"What's up?"
"H-Hold on."
I shot up and approached the guy ordering coffee.
Hyun-tae from the script stood there.