The Director (1)
It was the night I got the acceptance call.
“So you entered the contest and made the final cut? For Sword-Bound Gentleman?”
“How many times are you going to ask me the same thing? Do you really still not beli—”
“You did it!!!”
Seonghun practically shot to his feet and yelled.
He looked ready to throw himself at me, so I flung a wet wipe at his face.
Slap.
“Take it easy. What are you, some kind of creep?”
“No, but—! You’re finally debuting as a writer, and you expect your brother to sit there quietly?!”
“Then sit quietly. Debuting isn’t the finish line anyway. It’s where everything starts, so don’t make such a fuss.”
“Still!!!”
“More importantly, did you show my script to your father?”
“...Huh?”
“I’m not sure whether you told him on purpose or got caught, but it seems like my script made its way over there.”
Just looking at him told me I was right.
His eyes drifted away, and that was answer enough.
“Th-that is, actually...”
“It’s fine. I’m not trying to blame you. I just thought I should know, so I asked.”
“Ah! But this definitely isn’t some kind of nepotism thing, okay? Seriously!”
“I know. When they called to set up the meeting, they said it was unanimous internally.”
Thinking back on it, the conversation had been pretty memorable.
— You’re a rookie? Really?
— Yes, sir. This is my debut work.
— That’s a lie...
A gruff man’s voice going flat as a punctured balloon was not something you heard every day.
Either way, I didn’t suspect nepotism for a second.
Choosing a historical drama at this point had been strategic, and I had no fear that my writing was inferior to anyone else’s.
More than that, Seonghun’s father wasn’t the kind of man who worked based on personal feelings.
If it was Director Park Taejin, then he was the sort of person notorious for ruthless meritocracy right up until the day he retired.
The kind of man who would cut even his own wife, actress Ju Yeongwol, if her image didn’t fit the role.
He wasn’t going to make an exception just because I was his son’s friend.
And anyway, that wasn’t why they’d called me in.
“You’re going to get busy soon, so I just wanted to see your face one last time before that. Relax.”
“I really am sorry. I meant to go home after drinking, but somehow I ended up at my parents’ place...”
“I know. You’re not the type to do something like that.”
It was strangely awkward, seeing him laugh nervously like that.
He looked much younger than I remembered.
I’d been betrayed by people a great many times in my life.
Through all those long years, the only one who had kept faith with me was this brother.
It had been a stubborn, enduring bond.
A bond that had lasted from our college days all the way into our forties.
A promise from our student days, one that used to come out whenever we were bored.
— We’re going to rewrite the history of Korean media, just the two of us. So overwhelmingly that no one can ever surpass us!
What began as a joke had, at some point, become a dream.
The reason it had become harder and harder to look at him was that I couldn’t bear how far I’d drifted from that dream.
This time, things will be different.
I was going to make my name in drama, then try my hand at film too.
This was the first step toward that.
“If I make it, I’ll buy you a proper meal.”
“Huh? I thought you were buying tonight too?”
“Not like that. Something real. Beef, sashimi, stuff like that.”
“Ah, please. I’m not asking for anything like that. Besides, I’m not helping you for free either.”
Right. This was the kind of person he was.
“Let’s make something that’ll go down in Korean history. I’m getting a hard callus on my ears from hearing that line.”
“Heh, you know it!”
We clinked our glasses.
The alcohol sliding down my throat felt strangely familiar, and strangely distant.
Back when I’d been lying in a hospital bed, and even after my regression, I’d been too consumed by what needed to be done to have moments like this.
“Now then, to the success of Sword-Bound Gentleman!”
“Don’t be embarrassing. Stop that.”
“Tsk.”
And so the drinking became a brief pause between sentences, a small breathing space in the middle of everything else.
A few days later, I headed to WBS for the meeting.
* * *
Go Yeongchan, the veteran Chief Producer of WBS Drama, had been out of his mind for the past few days.
A rookie? And a real, brand-new rookie at that?
The writing was nowhere near rookie level.
It wasn’t just a matter of skill. The formal craftsmanship in the script suggested a level of experience in visual storytelling that simply shouldn’t have been there.
If I had to describe it, it felt like he’d been possessed by a ghost.
And on top of that, a problem I’d never worried about even once had suddenly reared its head, giving me a headache.
An untested rookie...
Maybe it was needless worry.
But there was a reason the industry preferred established writers who had already scored hits.
Would performance fall apart later on?
Would he fail to keep up with the schedule and start making demands?
Or, in rare cases, would he suddenly vanish without a trace?
All kinds of negative possibilities crossed my mind.
But the bigger problem was something else entirely.
He’s got trouble with Jo Duho of all people.
A weakness of the blind selection process, I suppose.
The moment we finalized the pick and revealed the name, it turned out to be Han Jaekyung—the very name PD Jo Duho had been snarling about every chance he got lately.
These days, ratings mattered.
There was no point debating how powerful Jo Duho’s words could be.
Normally, I wouldn’t have chosen someone while swallowing an external risk like that, but...
...Tsk. I don’t have time. More importantly, the script is too good to toss aside just because of a hunch.
Results forgive everything.
That was one of WBS’s absolute rules.
And a Chief Producer’s job was not to worry about things that hadn’t happened yet.
It was to control what did happen and turn it into success.
“Senior! The writer’s here!”
“Yeah, I’m coming!”
He wasn’t likely to be an easygoing type.
The fact that he’d stood up to Jo Duho proved that much.
Writers were usually like that, and if they were rookies, they were usually young too.
He had experience, so he was probably arrogant in the classic way—one of those guys whose performance had gone to his head, the sort who acted all high and mighty.
Yeongchan hardened his expression.
I’m not making the same mistake twice.
With the previous writer who’d caused trouble, he’d gone too easy on him.
The last disaster was recent enough that I’m still recovering from the damage, so this time I need to hammer some social sense into the rookie before he gets ideas.
With that resolve, he entered the meeting room.
His first impression was simple: sharp.
Not “sharp” as in keen—“sharp” as in pointed.
He had a nervous look, with fatigue stamped all over it, the kind of face that seemed like it would jab at you like an awl if you so much as brushed against it.
But his manner was nothing like that impression.
That, more than anything, threw Yeongchan off balance.
“Hello. Chief Producer-nim, I’m writer Han Jaekyung.”
“G-good to meet you. I’m honored to meet you like this.”
“The honor is mine. I’m only here because you thought so highly of my work.”
“Oh, o-oh...?”
This guy.
“I know a few of the shows you directed back when you were on set—The Dream of the Pocket Watch, Wildflower Field of Yusulri, and finally Spy After the Kiss, the last one you ever took the megaphone for. I enjoyed all three very much when I was younger.”
“Y-you do?”
Pretty much.
“I’d appreciate your guidance. I’ve done a lot of studying on my own, but I’m not familiar with the field side of things.”
“Guidance is a bit much...”
Very much...
“Please speak casually if you’d like. You’re a senior not just in life experience, but in drama production as well.”
“R-really...?”
...No, a great deal.
“Ah, I’m rambling too much. I’m sorry. You must be busy.”
“No, no, we’ve only just met, so we should get to know each other! Of course!”
“You can be comfortable with me.”
“E-heh-heh! I like that! Then I’ll speak comfortably!”
He had social skills.
He really does have social skills.
Waaah!
Go Yeongchan, 46 years old, a weathered producer in the broadcasting world.
For the first time in a very long while, he felt genuinely moved by another person and nearly cried.
And why wouldn’t he?
How long has it been?
When was the last time he’d felt at ease talking to a writer?
If he searched his memory, he had to go back a very long way.
Before he’d given up on expecting anything from writers.
Back when he was still on set.
No—back when he’d first entered the field.
...There wasn’t even one back then.
Instead, old nightmares started surfacing one after another.
— Ugh, do I really have to work with some half-baked loser at my level?
— W-writer Go! This friend of ours is still...
— Don’t care, just replace him! I said replace him!!!
— I told you we needed more kissing scenes!!!
— No, writer-nim. The pacing just doesn’t—
— What does some idiot holding a camera know about anything? Don’t lecture me!!!
It gave him PTSD.
Remembering the humiliating, agonizing truths of his days on set only made him appreciate how exceptional Jaekyung was.
His heart stirred.
Yeongchan pressed hard at the bridge of his nose and held back his tears.
“...Chief, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine... I’m just in a good mood today.”
“Ah, well, if you’re all right, that’s a relief.”
To be honest, Jaekyung’s attitude was just basic social politeness.
But could the judgment of someone who’d climbed out of a sewer and onto the surface really be the same as that of someone who’d lived on the surface their whole life?
Could Jo Duho have actually done something wrong?
Now that he thought about it, that bastard had never been a particularly decent human being.
Yes, that must be it. Jo Duho had definitely done something wrong.
And just like that, he arrived at a conclusion that should have been impossible.
“C-chheh! Ah, my nose is running. All right, let’s get this meeting started. No, let’s start. Sorry. I was too worked up.”
“Yes...”
It didn’t matter if it was all fake.
The fact that such a fake could be pulled off at all put Jaekyung in the top 0.1 percent of writers.
By then, Yeongchan was already looking at him with nothing but goodwill.
* * *
Being polite is just basic decency in society.
But society, nine times out of ten, doesn’t run on common sense.
What do I mean by that?
At the bottom of this industry, a writer only had to behave like a human being to score ten points with a broadcaster or production company, because writers’ tyranny had long since sailed far beyond the bounds of anything sane.
Still, I didn’t expect this much.
Chief Producer Go Yeongchan.
With his gorilla-like build, he was often someone people tried to push around, but in terms of ability, he was one of WBS’s heavyweights—an executive second to none.
It would have made sense if he were the one to inherit the director’s seat once the current director retired and eventually take over as the next director.
He hadn’t generated much controversy, and his results during his tenure had been solid enough that he would’ve continued leading the network with distinction right up until the day I died.
I’d focused so hard on being respectful, thinking that was how you build a good relationship, and this was the result.
In a way, I could understand it.
Well, having a lot of experience means you’ve met a lot of writers.
There are countless human landmines in broadcasting, but if you had to name the occupation with the highest landmine density, you could confidently say writer.
If your luck with assignments was a little off, you could spend your entire career stepping on landmines and end up with your faith in humanity scraped down to the bone.
Go Yeongchan was almost certainly one of those types.
Which was good for me.
The atmosphere of the negotiation was this bright, and I’d barely had to lift a finger.
Except for the way he keeps staring at me like I’m a specimen.
With that gorilla face of his, he was gazing at me with such grave concentration that it was hard not to look away.
“So, Writer Han. I gave you some advance notice already, but the writing schedule is going to be tight.”
“Yes, I got a rough sense of that from the announcement. The script is currently up to episode six, and I think the first draft will be done through episode sixteen sometime in the third quarter this year.”
“That fast?”
“I’ve been preparing for quite a while, so now it’s just a matter of writing.”
“Wow...”
Yeongchan’s eyes grew even more affectionate.
This was the moment I needed to stay alert.
Because there was something I had to get from this goodwill before it passed.
“As you know, this drama is being produced in-house. We’re not bringing in a separate production company, so the contract is directly with us, and... now the issue is assigning a director.”
That was the main point.
“Producer-nim.”
“Hmm?”
“On that matter, would it be possible for me to name a director myself?”
Yeongchan blinked.
Yes, I knew it sounded ridiculous.
What rookie gets to pick the director?
But whether short term or long term, this was something that had to be settled first.
It was the kind of thing that made my mouth tired just thinking about it, but let me emphasize it once more:
This industry was full of landmines, and those landmines laughed and chatted among the flowers like they were part of the scenery. I’d come this far by stepping on landmines already—did I really have to repeat the same thing again?
Absolutely not.
It’s necessary in the long run too.
This world has what you could call factions.
People who spent years and a great many productions together, from the days when nobody knew their names, built a bond through hardship, and that hardship became an asset.
Memories turned into trust, trust turned into cliques, and cliques turned into power that could sway the entire industry.
I needed something like that.
What I’d never had was exactly that kind of thing.
Not someone who might betray me.
...No. I wasn’t going to rely on some flimsy hope in human weakness ever again.
Someone with a low risk of betrayal. Someone controllable. Someone with a high ceiling.
If I kept sifting through the options like that, a few top-tier names that were sleeping in the present would come to mind.
“Hmm. Well, Writer Han, this is rather...”
His voice cooled instantly, like someone who’d just discovered a fatal flaw in a blind date.
If I let him sit on that expression, I’d lose control of the conversation.
“Yes, it’s a broadcaster’s prerogative. I have no intention of infringing on that in the slightest. Whatever decision you make, I’m sure the choices of experienced seniors won’t be inferior to mine.”
“W-well, that’s true...!”
Relief crept into his voice.
Now.
“I just mean this as an opinion on preferred style.”
“If it’s just that...? But who do you want, exactly? We’ve got our own schedules too, so we can’t exactly hand anybody over on demand.”
“Director Min Byeongki. I want him.”
“Byeongki? You know him?”
“Yes. Director Min Byeongki of See You on the Weekend.”
Yeongchan’s expression went strange.
Well, that made sense. At this point I was still a nobody with no real career to speak of.
No—more accurately, I was a nobody whose one attempt at a career had crashed and burned spectacularly.
When you thought about it, this was an issue of fit.
You don’t ask an action master to direct melodrama and expect it to go well.
Min Byeongki, who was now called a useless director.
But the name people would call him by in the future was very different from the one he carried now.
— And the winner of this year’s Director Award is... Yes! Director Min Byeongki for Strong 17! Congratulations!
Six years from now, a monster would appear in the Korean drama scene like a shooting star and turn the whole field upside down.
A man who would come to be called a new standard in drama.
The magician of tempo, Min Byeongki.
A monster among monsters, a man whose results in the action genre would remain unmatched by anyone right up until the moment I died.
“If there’s any way at all, I’d really like to work with him.”
And right now, that man was crawling around on the bottom.
It was the perfect time to buy at the low point.