Chapter 43: The Maknae Son of the Sai-bi Church
The scenario for Sai-bi Church Maknae Son had first come to Tae-gyu right before his Hoshi-jeol camera test.
In other words, it was the audition he'd truly wanted to do—after DK Entertainment crammed through all his Hoshi-jeol shoots, along with any CFs, variety shows, or whatever else they could squeeze in before his contract renewal period hit.
"Is there a particular reason you want to appear in my short film?"
"The script was good."
"Hmm."
"Especially the character the director shaped—it was just so captivating."
"You mean that... sincerely?"
"Yes. I really want to play the elder."
What had caught Tae-gyu's eye was the cult elder in this short film's script. A man who was the youngest son inheriting his family's "business" of running a cult religion, while also serving as an elder in the church.
To play that elder, Tae-gyu had interviewed "that guy."
[MingMyeongBaekBaek Church]
The man known in Cheongsong Prison simply as "that guy" was the last remaining elder of MingMyeongBaekBaek Church, a cult religion that had vanished from Korea. In short, he was a cult elder with a position of his own, much like the role in Sai-bi Church Maknae Son.
He'd been locked up for some pretty heavy crimes, but the one with the harshest sentence sought by prosecutors was the arson case. No one died in the end, but it had made big headlines on the 9 o'clock news. The motive behind that fire was the incident that best showcased his fanatical danger.
BAM!
You could tell just from the way his eyes glittered strangely as he slammed both palms against the visiting room window the moment he saw Tae-gyu.
"· · · · · · · · · · · · Welcome, brother! You who shall journey with us to the truth! The truth unfolds ever clear and plain before us, and we must ceaselessly enact your will until our eyes of glory open to behold it!"
And so it began.
"· · · · · · · · · · · · Ughhh! Begone, you Satan spawn!"
Compared to the start, it ended on a somewhat rougher note.
Tae-gyu steadily copied the guy's dokkaebi flames all the way through. It was a pretty stimulating experience—somewhat unpleasant, somewhat fascinating. For Tae-gyu, who wanted to put those flames to use...
"Hold on a second, Tae-gyu."
"Yes."
"As far as I know, the role DK Entertainment proposed for the audition wasn't the elder... was it?"
"Correct."
The role he wanted in this film was a bit different from what he'd done in Monster City or Hoshi-jeol.
"I've prepared for that too, but if it's all right, I'd like to request a chance to audition for the elder role as well."
What Tae-gyu was saying now was that he wanted to go for the lead in Sai-bi Church Maknae Son.
An audition for the lead, huh.
"Can I take a moment to think it over?"
"Of course. If I'm being a bother, I'm sorry."
"No, it's not that."
O Director waved his hands quickly and sank into thought.
In a normal feature film, it'd be absurd. But the situation was different now. No actors were lining up, lead or supporting.
Even so, for his "retirement piece," he didn't want to just grab film school kids with no credits like day laborers.
But...
O Director had a reputation so poor that anyone with ears in the industry wouldn't take the risk. Yeah, O Director was a third-rate filmmaker.
Like any young film student at a Korean academy, when he first picked up a camera, he'd dreamed of being Korea's Spielberg or Quentin Tarantino.
You've got no talent.
By the time he graduated and shot his debut, those dreams had devolved into something closer to scraping by.
Are you kidding me?
Gu Jeong-hwan's scathing critique back then—when O Director had scraped together his last scraps of personality into a script and shown it to the hotshot director—still echoed in his ears.
A director's career high is 80% determined by the debut. If a guy like you wants people calling you 'director,' you gotta write something that looks the part, no exceptions.
O Director had thin ears for advice, and he took it to heart—ditching his personality for a mishmash of trendy topics and discourses to make his debut.
That debut got decent reviews.
But after that, it was all downhill, like a lie—botching two investor-backed features, tanking indie films one after another, even the art films funded by grants and shorts shoehorned into omnibuses via director connections.
Now even investors were hard to come by, but he didn't regret it.
Not until Gu Jeong-hwan—the guy who'd advised "make it look the part"—hit ten million viewers with a cheap crime melodrama full of schmaltz.
Hey, shoot it properly. It's because you can't make movies that the ratings suck.
Betrayal hit like a truck.
He realized it then. Ah, movies hate me.
Someone once said directors are chosen by "movies" themselves.
The moment he saw Gu Jeong-hwan—that guy with no real skill—strutting as a ten-million director, O Director made up his mind.
Fine, I'll say whatever the hell I want and get out of this industry.
It was a kind of rage. The petty, somewhat unjust fury of someone who'd loved movies so much he'd come to hate them—unilaterally dumped, thinking, I wasn't that into you anyway!
With that mindset, he planned this short.
Budget: 50 million won. Runtime: 30 minutes. He'd thrown every resource he could scrape together into this petty rage against the movies that had screwed him over.
Fancy visuals? Fancy plot? Even a fancy title?
Screw all that now. I'm gonna hurl a film that reeks of pure, unfiltered me and bail. That's the level you're at, got it?
It wasn't a mindset easily explained.
This material was something he'd originally planned for his debut, if not for Gu Jeong-hwan's critique.
Love-hate.
That was why he insisted on pro actors over amateurs despite wanting to just throw it out there—why he went through the hassle of making this "retirement piece" to leave one last word for the industry.
At the same time, that voice couldn't be too loud. O Director was timid by nature, and he'd been carpet-bombed by critics every time he'd put out something "serious" before.
Still... I have to say my piece at the end.
So he'd settled on a short film. With over 500 features releasing in Korea yearly now, shorts usually got buried anyway.
He wanted to shout his truth unheard and part ways with movies.
Hmm.
So the stage couldn't get too big.
No way it'll work.
This had to be a final stage with no echoes.
In that sense...
This guy was dangerous.
"Tae-gyu."
"Yes."
Lee Tae-gyu, carrying way too much buzz. O Director, mostly set on refusing, slowly opened his mouth.
"Well, let's decide after seeing your acting."
"Thank you."
"Then."
He'd need a decent excuse to turn him down anyway.
"Let's start the audition right now."
Around that time.
Jang Team Leader, emerging from heavy squats with Kim Kwang-woo, gripped the stair railing—his legs wobbling.
He recalled his conversation with Kim Kwang-woo just moments ago.
That kid Tae-gyu could be something if raised right. Re-sign him, and he might get his own dedicated team like me.
Is that so?
Why talk like it's someone else's business? You'd be heading that team.
······!
It had shocked him.
The leader of a dedicated team for DK's special-care actors got bonuses tied to the actor's success.
In short, they grew together.
Judging by your surprise, the boss hasn't told you? Get Tae-gyu on track this time, and he's yours.
Those words brought Jang Team Leader's dream to mind: someday starting his own management company, like the bond between Kim Kwang-woo and Do Yoon-seop.
Do CEO was his role model.
In that light, Do's skill at three-cushion shots—using journalists, broadcasters, police, every connection to get what he wanted—was something Jang envied.
And the attention to detail.
Always tracking star actors' SNS, never missing even minor industry updates, with that passion.
[Daeil] Entertainment—we might actually snag them at this rate.
Jang Team Leader nodded.
In this top-dog DK Entertainment, with a potential dedicated team centered on Tae-gyu if re-signed...
······Alright.
He decided to try something.
Not quite Do CEO's three-cushion mastery, but boosting his actor's buzz? He could handle that much now.
Tap, tap, tap...
Jang Team Leader tapped his trembling leg with his index finger—mimicking Do CEO's habit when pondering.
He pulled out his phone.
······.
Scrolling slowly through someone's SNS and scrapped news articles, he nodded.
Then he called someone.
"·······Hey. Hyung."
The other was also a manager-level exec.
Most managers quit within three years, but those who gritted it out to manager got connections everywhere—from nods to numbers exchanged.
And in the entertainment warzone's front lines, acquaintances didn't aim guns at each other; a camaraderie formed.
"Hyung's company's Cheon Yoo-seong—SNS blowing up lately, but things loosened up? Ah, shooting schedule eased a bit. No CFs dried up either? Okay."
Business from the jump felt natural.
"Remember you owe me? Yeah, last time I killed two scandal articles for your kids. Let's call one in now."
They traded debts freely—insider knowledge only field vets shared.
The guy on the line was a manager at Cheon Yoo-seong's agency—not his direct handler, but someone he bumped into in smoke breaks, part of the dedicated team.
"Drop a word to Cheon Yoo-seong's side. Vaguely, like 'heard this rumor floating around.' You know?"
Perfect position for leaks.
Jang knew Cheon Yoo-seong's habits—puppy-like chasing those he pegged as next big stars. He valued movie connections too.
So he spoke slowly.
"Truth is."
Like that.
"Our agency's Lee Tae-gyu actor's about to blitz through a ton of short film auditions."
The final play to blast Tae-gyu's influence sky-high, starting with the soon-to-air Monster City.
"First up, Sai-bi Church Maknae Son or something······"
That final play was growing bigger, against someone's wishes······