From Dissonance to Harmony
The incident had a simple origin.
It started a few days ago when Director Im Un-jae began shooting the game play scenes for the supporting actors—scenes that B Team had been handling.
The problem was that the acting required from the performers was downright bizarre.
"You can do whatever feels right."
"If you know how to play, go ahead. If not, no need."
"No pretending required."
"Just express your emotions freely."
This was Director Im Un-jae's demand: upright pianos, several of them, hauled in instead of computers.
At first, the actors didn't think much of it.
They figured the director was going for a metaphor scene, projecting the situation onto these objects.
With complete freedom in acting guaranteed, some even enjoyed it.
Those who could play would tickle the keys, while others asked for tips beside them.
But that novelty lasted only a day or two.
"Good. Now you're getting the feel."
On the third day of the same shots, Director Im's directions intensified.
He sat the actors at the pianos and had them vent their anger.
Frustrated and confused, they pounded the keys with thuds, but he wouldn't cut.
"More. More anger."
Humans get restless after ten minutes of pointless repetition, but this dragged on for a full four hours.
Breaks were given now and then, but once rolling, not a single second could be wasted.
The actors, who couldn't bring themselves to complain to the director, finally spoke up the next day.
This time, drums, keyboards, guitars, basses—every instrument imaginable was set up.
"Alright, let's smile this time. Play while smiling."
The directions grew ever more detailed.
"Why are we doing this? What's the point?"
"Do Hyun-woo's a genius, but... maybe he just picked someone easy to control?"
"Yeah. Has Im ever pulled off anything solo?"
"Even Do Hyun-woo's just standing there with his arms crossed, like he has no clue."
The spark for these grumblings was that Min Jae-yul and Ruan only had to shoot brief takes before leaving.
Twenty minutes at most.
The next day, when Director Im set up the upright pianos again and called for a water truck,
"Director, sir. Could we talk?"
"We're having some concerns about the scenes the actors have been shooting lately."
"Since they're all young performers, interpreting the scenes is proving tricky..."
The managers of each actor approached me, as if by prior agreement.
Their words were polite, but the intent was clear.
They wanted me to step in and sort it out.
Whether by explaining the scenes to the actors and directing them myself, or reining in the rampaging Director Im.
Honestly, I felt conflicted.
I understood the actors' frustration.
It had to be exhausting, clinging to a scene with no clear intent for nearly a week.
But would they complain if Im Un-jae weren't in his thirties, fresh from music videos?
Weren't they piling on because he'd stayed silent amid the recent bickering?
Plus, some fault lay with me.
"It feels worse because you're letting the scene slide, Director."
"If you joined the shoot with Min Jae-yul sunbaenim and took the reins, the complaints would vanish."
From what Min Jae-yul and Ruan hinted, everyone saw Director Im as my subordinate.
Objectively, midway through shooting, he'd stopped relying on my directions.
He only sought my input for crucial scenes or fine actor adjustments.
Just like Director Jung Hee-soo had.
But if I intervened to tidy things up?
The shoot would smooth out.
Embarrassing to say, but the on-set actors trusted me implicitly.
It started when Jeon So-ra began bringing her script for acting advice.
However...
Who would that serve?
The complaining actors?
The inexperienced director stirring trouble?
Me, shoring up my authority?
None of them.
It'd just be for the end product.
I didn't want to be that kind of CE.
I wanted a world where even this clash became part of the drama.
And I believed Director Im craved the same view.
I had no clue what the scenes meant either...
But as I'd declared to Ko Hak-su, I trusted his talent.
In the end, I chose to observe.
"The director calls the shots on set."
"Even so..."
"If you have issues, take them straight to him."
Director Im didn't back down.
He pushed through the shoot in a battle of wills with the actors, even handling insert shots B Team could've taken.
I was confused if he was just stubborn, so imagine the set's vibe.
But that dawn,
The next day, morning shoots felt a bit off-kilter.
Everyone was curious what Director Im Un-jae would say.
Noon arrived.
Surprisingly, his opening words were an apology.
"Sorry, everyone. You've been through hell these past days, haven't you?"
The set's tension melted instantly.
Directors who don't dominate actors? Sets don't run.
Age and experience aside, that's the mindset.
"If I'd had a clear plan, I'd have explained it. But as a rookie director, putting it into words was tough. So I prepared the result instead."
Director Im signaled his assistant director, and the massive on-set beam projector lit up with footage.
That result? It blew my mind.
—Lee Young-han! Lee Young-han!—
The footage opened with Lee Young-han basking in cheers after the Asian Games semifinals win.
But this Lee Young-han was on the verge of flight.
With the finals looming, he'd chosen to vanish.
As he wound his signature keyboard cable amid the adulation, his torment flashed in inserts.
Then, music swelled.
Dong... dong... dong... dong—
To be precise, not music—drums, primal and pounding.
Even I, no music expert, felt the textbook drum loop.
Synced to Lee Young-han's agony, clips of Singhwa Empire players' failures cascaded.
A mouse-slipping hand struck a high-hat.
Feet stomping in tension became cymbal kicks.
Fingers hammering keys turned to piano slams.
A chair-kicking rise morphed into guitar flings.
Dissonance piled up.
Ear-assaulting noise synced to screen, breeding instant unease.
But then—
A faint melody pierced through.
With that barely-there tune, Han Guk-yeong smiled, Park Seong-hwa grimaced, Yoo A-yeon wept.
Saturation bloomed; expressions shifted.
Not rage, but effort.
Not blame, but self-reproach.
Not surrender, but grit.
Dissonance refined, exploding into melody with Pi Do-seon's entry.
The timid player, once under mom's thumb, embraced hated courage.
The occasional sixth man gripped bass; the longest-tenured shadow plucked electric guitar.
All symbolized Singhwa Empire's advance.
No more discord.
Players charged toward victory.
First win: Piano smashed in triumphant ecstasy.
Second: Bass hurled, a roar to the world.
Third: Drum-pounding fury screamed unyielding resolve.
They likely never acted with such intent.
Director Im captured split-second magic from endless takes.
Direction's power.
Park Seong-hwa's yells, Han Guk-yeong's howls layered in.
Promo chief flung papers; reporters snapped; crowds clapped.
All culminated in blackout.
Thud! Thud... thud...
[Even if it brushes your fingertips.]
[There are moments of successful blocks, and failures.]
[But whatever the outcome...]
[Your fingertips must reach.]
A volleyball bounced on court in close-up—Park Seong-hwa, freshly ousted from the team.
Narration overlaid.
Park Seong-hwa stepped from the gym into blinding skies.
The drama title faded in.
"Insane..."
Someone muttered as the footage ended.
I agreed.
What to call it?
Like hearing our drama's perfect theme song.
Watching the music video that brought it alive best.
Never dreamed those actor shots would weave this way, nor the drama's noise and discord birth music.
Of course, I'd chatted similar ideas with Director Im.
E-sports matches needed high tempo; keyboards as pianos, mice as percussion.
That rhythm would hook non-gamers.
But this perfection? Unimaginable.
Even this rough cut balanced flawlessly.
In-game screens peppered like licorice—perfect measure.
Not overkill, sparking curiosity; not sparse, killing immersion.
A director crafting this...
"Can't do this every match. But the finale deserved full force. Vision clear, but direction fuzzy—sorry for the hardship, everyone."
He scratched his head sheepishly.
Actors erupted in cheers.
"Whoa, Director!"
"So sleek!"
"Like, what is this? I saw something!"
"We were using game stuff like that?"
"Doesn't matter if you don't game!"
The veteran supports beamed brightest.
E-sports as culture? Still alien to them.
"Director, sorry."
"We didn't get it..."
The rebels apologized to Director Im.
Some genuine, some swept by mood.
Didn't matter.
No lone grumbler could topple his hard-won authority now.
As actors clustered in delight, I approached quietly.
"When'd you prep this?"
"Conceived from day one, but direction unclear, so shelved. Thoughts?"
"Loved it. Tempted to use for teaser and episode one opener."
"Teaser maybe, but ep one..."
I grinned.
"No lyrics?"
"Not yet. Buddy composer rushed it."
"Main OST material?"
"Hell yeah. He'll love it. Singer?"
Why look elsewhere?
My gaze flicked to Ruan; Director Im went, "Ah!"
Thirteen days later.
At Your Fingertips wrapped shooting.