Director Yoon Chang-ho Fumes in His Study
Even back in his own study, Director Yoon Chang-ho was still fuming.
"Ugh, seriously!"
Books on literature tumbled off the mahogany desk in a heap, but he couldn't hold back his anger. It was the director's award he hadn't won. Director Jeon Yong-il's words, poking at his weak spot, still echoed in his ears.
"·········Taste? That punk dares lecture me on film appreciation?"
Yoon Chang-ho recalled the spark that had ignited their verbal spat. O Director. The guy who'd only ever made third-rate films until now had submitted a short to this year's Arena Short Film Festival. Honestly, Yoon had zero expectations.
"Birds of a feather flock together, huh? Looks like all the low-quality filmmakers recognize each other."
That trashy title, of all things.
"Sai-bi Church Maknae Son? Ha! Pfft!"
The dude was totally off his rocker. Back in the day, if someone slapped a title like that on their film, you could've tied them up in front of Chungmuro Station and pelted them with rocks—no one would've batted an eye.
Yoon Chang-ho grumbled that Jeon Yong-il's taste was obviously on par with that garbage. "Why the hell did Han Joo-hyuk even sign on for something like that?"
He was disappointed. Han Joo-hyuk. Among today's actors, the guy put on a pretty solid performance, but the fact that he'd starred in a film with O Director and that title? Unbelievable.
And then it hit him.
"And why's that guy's name popping up here···"
A name that cinematographer Choi Seong-cheol had strongly recommended just a few days ago.
[ Lee Tae-gyu ]
Yoon Chang-ho still hadn't watched Monster City, but at this point, he couldn't just brush it off. Even for a short film, some no-name rookie beating out Han Joo-hyuk for the lead? There had to be something to it.
"Hoo."
Even so, Yoon Chang-ho was one of the heavyweights in the industry. As he tried to calm himself and assess the situation—
Ding!
A few days later. In a marble-finished bathroom bathed in warm lighting. Han Joo-hyuk, wrapped in a shower robe as always, began his morning routine by massaging his face with both hands.
In front of the mirror. He started expressionless. Staring blankly at his reflection, the right corner of his mouth twisted upward.
Smirk.
With one sleazy grin, his face transformed into that of a villain in an instant. The line that slipped from his lips:
"Well, well, Detective Seo Woong-tae. What brings you here?"
A brief silence followed. And then···
·······Slap!
Han Joo-hyuk smacked his own cheek hard. His mind sharpened, a black flash flickering before his eyes—but that didn't matter right now.
"Not quite."
The delivery just now felt a tad off. The ambiguous rhythm at the starting point. The lacking cadence right before the question mark. Overall, that subtle urgency didn't sit right with him. Han Joo-hyuk dove into fine-tuning the line.
"Well, well, Detective Seo Woong-tae! What brings you here!"
"Se-o, Woong-tae, Detective? What're you doin' here."
"What brings you here, Detective Seo Woong-tae."
"Detective Seo Woong-tae, what brings you to a place like this."
"Seo Woong-tae, Detective, sir? No?"
His line practice bordered on desperate. There was one reason he was pushing himself harder than usual.
············Lee Tae-gyu.
His performance in that shared scene from Exemplary Detective 3 kept nagging at him.
'Can't settle for average acting.'
It had to be worthy of sharing the screen—no, it had to make audiences gulp dryly and break into cold sweats.
Hoo··· Hoo···
After practicing until his breath reeked of blood, he looked in the mirror and saw his face lit up with relief and joy. Deep down, he knew it.
Lee Tae-gyu. If he hadn't met the guy, he probably wouldn't be drilling his limits like this every day.
Shhh——
After finishing practice and showering, Han Joo-hyuk emerged into the living room, towel-drying his hair while still in his robe.
Swish.
Grabbing his phone out of habit, he saw messages piling up from early dawn to this morning. The usual suspects.
Messages from actresses, announcers, idols, and various connections he'd made over the years, all for one reason or another.
"Hoo."
Han Joo-hyuk just sighed. Now wasn't the time to give in to those temptations.
'No time to waste.'
Thirty-two years old as an actor. A critical juncture. In this industry, where your mid-thirties career defined your life, who knew when he'd get another stretch like this to focus solely on the acting he craved? His agency was starting to drop subtle pressure too. Even for Han Joo-hyuk, going two years without a single CF and not directly boosting company revenue was getting awkward.
Bzzz.
His phone vibrated. Expecting more booze-and-girls invites, he sighed—but luckily,
The country's largest short film festival. Arena Short Film Festival.
As the name "Arena"—evoking a gladiatorial pit—suggested, this was a coliseum where short films wielded direction and story like swords and shields in brutal combat.
The coliseum was at Yongsan CGV, where Korea's biggest, most luxurious theaters were packed. Securing the entire complex was possible only because a constellation of sponsors backed Arena thick and fast.
"·········How'd it go?"
The executive committee chair had a duty to meet the expectations of those sponsors pouring in cash.
"Ah, checking now."
"We said no phones on the table during meetings, right? So we can share casting updates instantly with everyone."
"Sorry."
"And hurry up—"
"Whoa."
"What?"
In that regard.
"Actor Han Joo-hyuk has given final approval!"
"·········Yes!"
The chair and the rest of the Arena executive committee could flash satisfied grins. They'd secured top star Han Joo-hyuk for the promo narration.
It wasn't just promo—this would trigger a chain of publicity effects.
"Now the Hanji-cheon trio's all set."
"Exactly."
They'd locked in Ji Kyung-ho, Joo Min-hee, and Cheon Yoo-seong as opening ceremony guests.
And on top of that.
Seol A-yoon, the undisputed top actress in their age group, was joining as honorary judge.
"Fellow film school grads and peers under one roof—headline it like that, and the festival'll be buzzing the whole run."
The public loved stories. The Hanji-cheon trio, top actress Seol A-yoon, and Joo Min-hee—who some said outshone Seol visually—all converging in different roles. Just that would spark curiosity about their "chemistry."
And that wasn't all.
"············How about Director Sumsai and Director Matsumoto?"
"They've agreed to judge."
"Perfect."
Masters from China, Hong Kong, Thailand, Japan, and beyond—not just Korea, but Asia's heavyweights—had signed on to judge the entries.
"Which category for Director Sumsai?"
"Horror/mystery, like we said."
"Ah, sorry."
"Thais dominate horror. It's his specialty, and on short-form like ads, we've got stuff to learn from them. He's solid."
"Got it."
The chair's heart raced as he wrapped up instructions. It was all coming together. For someone aiming to make this Asia's premier short film fest, this scaled-up edition was already the talk of the town before opening.
"Finalized the judging panel list?"
"Yes."
"Send it to every judge."
"Will do."
Running a fest this size meant two committees: executive and judging.
The former handled the event overall, from hosting to casting.
The latter decided winners among the five days' "screened works."
Ultimately, Arena's core was the shorts themselves. So the judges were arguably closer to the fest's essence···
"·········Sent the final screened works list?"
"Yes."
"Oh, right—not just judges, but directors of selected films too."
"Done, all of them."
"Good work."
The executive committee's role was indispensable too. Selecting the final 50 screened works. In other words, picking 50 shorts from over 1,500 entries to battle it out in the Yongsan CGV coliseum. No small feat.
"Alright, meeting adjourned."
"Great work, everyone."
The committee members, eyes bloodshot, bowed to each other.
"Great work!"
"You all too!"
"Hoo, good job!"
Even these "film otakus" couldn't laugh off the past month's marathon.
Selecting those 50 screened works? Exhausting.
But as the meeting ended and they eyed each other, sly smiles crept under those red-rimmed eyes.
"············Shall we watch?"
"Yeah."
Because for the past few days, they'd been gathering post-meeting to watch one film.
Unofficial schedule, but no one skipped.
For folks who loved movies more than food, they'd unearthed a surefire audience favorite for this fest.
"Heh heh heh."
"Hee hee."
"Huhuhuhu."
Off the record from here. A private joy for the organizers.
Truth was, the committee had already crowned this fest's grand prize winner.
"······It's over."
"······Yeah."
Of course, the official result would come post-fest from the judges···
But they were convinced: if this didn't win, the industry's future was bleak.
"Play the film?"
"Mm."
Thirteenth viewing today. Under the chair's tacit nod, they suppressed their swelling anticipation for the film they'd rewatched obsessively.
Flash!
Clad neatly, postures straightened, hands clasped reverently before them.
Sai-bi Church Maknae Son
On the screen, a short destined to be scripture for future filmmakers materialized···