The Loach in the Pond
Humans are weak.
Even in the 21st century, where science invades the realm of the divine and AI threatens to surpass human intellect, people still cling to superstition.
When the economy falters, the thresholds of fortune-tellers wear thin; when society becomes unstable, religion experiences a revival.
The fear of an uncertain future.
This is why the occult genre periodically occupies the broadcasting industry like a zombie.
And capital senses human fear faster than anyone else.
In the basement conference room of the DCN building in Sangam-dong, Seoul, silence hung heavy in the air as the giant screen on the wall went dark.
“...Hey.”
The first to break the silence was the head of the entertainment division, sitting at the head of the table. He took his eyes off the screen and spoke.
“Producer Choi.”
“Yes, Director.”
“Are you playing games with me right now?”
THUD!
The Director slammed his fist onto the table and glared at Producer Choi.
“Seven billion won. Seven billion! It’s the largest scale since DCN’s founding. We burned two billion just on the set. But what is this pathetic excuse for a rough cut of episode one?”
He pointed at the screen, trembling with rage.
“The production value? It’s fine. It should be, since we spent N-flix’s money. The shamans? They’re flashy. I don’t know how you scouted them, but they’re all riding spirit blades and shaking bells, making a huge racket. But...”
He trailed off, so angry he couldn't finish his sentence, then suddenly stood up and shouted.
“It’s not fun! It’s not fun at all!”
What they had just watched on the screen was the footage for the first episode. As the Director said, the cast consisted of the top star shamans in Korea, known to anyone familiar with the scene.
But the problem was that they were too tied up in formality and saving face.
“They’re just exchanging pleasantries, calling each other ‘Master’ this and ‘Master’ that. Are we filming a documentary about human lives? Huh?”
The Director’s voice grew louder.
“Why do you think those N-flix guys gave us money? For the artistry of K-Shamanism? Don’t make me laugh. They want something like Squid Game. A shaman-style battle royale! They want a dogfight where they curse each other, grab each other by the collars, and reveal their true, ugly selves!”
He was right. N-flix didn’t want artistry. They wanted commercial appeal.
They invested boldly in DCN’s project because they wanted to see the primal human desires of the iconic shamans of K-Shamanism clashing. But once they actually filmed it, the shamans they’d scouted were people with too much to lose.
You could feel through the screen that they were holding back to manage their images.
“If this airs as is, we’re all dead. Everyone in this conference room is finished!”
“B-but, Director.”
Main PD Choi Seong-hun wiped cold sweat from his brow as he tried to make excuses.
“The first episode is already finished, and reshooting is realistically impossible. And even if we gave those prideful people a script telling them to fight, they’d obviously refuse, claiming the spirits would be offended.”
“So what? We just scrap it? You have to find a way, no matter what!”
At the Director’s reprimand, Choi Seong-hun bowed his head. Then, he glanced at the youngest PD sitting in the corner.
The Director’s gaze followed.
“Isn’t that the rookie? Do you have any good ideas?”
At that, Lee Ayeong, a third-year rookie PD who had been quietly taking minutes in the corner, raised her hand cautiously.
“Um, Director. It might be overstepping my bounds, but...”
“Don’t beat around the bush. Is this a time to be picky?”
“How about this? For now, let’s air the first episode as is, without reshooting.”
“Did you not hear what I just said? I told you it’ll fail!”
“Instead, we change the editing direction. Rather than showing the cast’s noble side like we are now, we emphasize the tension of them keeping each other in check. What if we package it as the calm before the storm, where it looks peaceful but feels like blood will be shed at any moment?”
The Director’s expression shifted subtly, as if the idea was better than expected.
“Then what about episode two? Do you think just editing will make those stubborn people suddenly start a dogfight as we intend?”
“That’s why... we shake up the board itself.”
As the Director showed interest, Lee Ayeong’s voice grew more confident.
“They say one loach muddies the whole pond.”
“A loach?”
“Yes. During the opening of episode two, we urgently inject a hidden participant. A character who is shameless, rude, and has nothing to lose.”
The so-called 'loach effect.' Lee Ayeong was proposing a strategy of releasing a predator into a peaceful tank to force the fish to move aggressively.
“A loach, huh...”
The Director stroked his chin, his eyes narrowing.
“Not bad. Did you come up with this?”
“No. Actually, it’s something the Senior has been worrying about for a while.”
Lee Ayeong humbly shook her head and glanced at Choi Seong-hun, who had been sitting there like a mute.
“He always said that every time we edited, it felt too flat and that we needed a variable to create tension. I was just slow to realize it. The idea came from the Senior’s head.”
It was a brilliant toss. It was a way of saving her direct superior’s face in a crisis—a survival instinct for the corporate world. Of course, Choi Seong-hun’s pupils were shaking violently.
The confusion of ‘When did I?’ lasted only a moment before he grabbed the lifeline the rookie had thrown him.
“Ahem, yes. That’s right. It was obvious it would fail like this, so I’ve been searching for a joker to flip the board.”
“Ho-ho.”
The Director could clearly see what was happening, but he curled up the corners of his mouth, pretending to be fooled. It didn’t matter whose idea it was. What he needed right now was a solution to break through the situation.
“Producer Choi, you’ve raised your subordinates well.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Good. Then who will this loach be? Do you have someone in mind?”
Just as Choi Seong-hun was about to go mute again at the Director’s question, Lee Ayeong naturally slid her laptop toward the Director.
“Director, how about this person?”
[Name: Kang Jinwoo]
[Age: 26]
[Occupation: Internet Streamer (BJ)]
[Special Notes: Elementary School Graduate]
Compared to the existing cast members who boasted flashy resumes, the profile was so humble it was almost embarrassing. Perhaps that was why the Director’s brow furrowed deeply as he checked the laptop.
“Are you kidding me? An elementary school grad? We have the idol Siwoo sitting as a panelist. Do you think they’re in the same league?”
“Because they aren’t in the same league, he’s even more perfect.”
Lee Ayeong didn’t back down despite the Director’s shouting and, as if waiting for this moment, played a prepared video. In the video, Kang Jinwoo was humming in an abandoned hospital, forcing people to play Bunshinsaba.
“I don’t know if it’s a persona or if he’s genuinely crazy, but wouldn’t he play the role of the loach perfectly?”
“...Huh, this guy is something else.”
As the Director’s eyes changed while watching the video, Lee Ayeong quickly drove the point home.
“The boundary between public broadcasting and internet streaming has long since collapsed, so there’s no problem with him appearing. If a baseless, elementary-educated streamer appears shamelessly among those noble people who care about their lineage and face during the next recording, what do you think the reaction on set will be?”
At her explanation, a picture began to form in the Director’s mind.
The furrowed brows of the high-nosed shamans. The looks of contempt they would openly send. And in the middle of it all, Kang Jinwoo, who didn’t have a clue.
“They’ll feel insulted. Thinking, ‘How dare a baseless guy be treated as my equal?’”
“That’s exactly it!”
Lee Ayeong didn’t miss the chance to chime in as the Director described what would happen.
“Ignoring him, trampling on him, and tearing him apart. Viewers will frown, but they’re also obsessed with such provocative scenes.”
“Heh, right. Watching while cursing is what makes a soap opera.”
“And if it ends with Kang Jinwoo stubbornly talking back without knowing his place, only to be miserably crushed by the skills of the real deal...”
Lee Ayeong paused for a moment before delivering her conclusion.
“The show gets the buzz, and Kang Jinwoo becomes a combat power gauge and kindling.”
It was a perfect scenario. An ugly duckling thrown among noble swans. The process of that duckling being miserably torn apart was bound to be a provocative spectacle.
“Besides, his appearance fee is cheap. He’d probably be happy with just a million won per episode. And if the reaction is bad, we can just cut him immediately, so there’s zero risk.”
On top of that, Kang Jinwoo was a very cost-effective consumable for them.
“Rookie, you’re quite something.”
“I learned it all from the Senior.”
Lee Ayeong humbly bowed her head, not forgetting to praise Choi Seong-hun sitting next to her. He coughed awkwardly, but his expression had softened significantly.
Soon, the Director waved his hand as if he’d made a decision.
“Good. We don’t have time. Scout him immediately. We’ll inject him right into the second episode recording next week. Keep it strictly secret from the existing cast.”
“Understood!”
As Choi Seong-hun answered vigorously, the Director tapped his fingers on the desk and added.
“But make the contract tight. So they can’t complain about ‘evil editing’ or ‘defamation of character’ after it airs. Put in a heavy penalty clause. It’s not hard to cook a civilian who doesn’t know the ways of this industry, right? Producer Choi, you go and get the stamp for sure.”
At that moment, Lee Ayeong raised her hand high.
“I’ll handle the contract!”
“Oh, you?”
“Yes. The scouting is already somewhat in progress. Director, you know the science YouTuber Lee Jun-hyeok who’s appearing as a panelist this time, right?”
“I know him. He’s been on public TV a few times.”
“I gave him a heads-up while communicating with him. He’s waiting in the meeting room, so I’ll take responsibility and get the stamp!”
“Ho-ho, you’re thorough.”
The Director nodded as if impressed by her seamless preparation.
“Alright, then you take care of it. You know you can’t make any mistakes, right?”
“Yes!”
“Let’s end the meeting here for today.”
As the Director stood up and left the conference room, the others left one by one.
“Good work.”
“Yeah, Ayeong. You worked hard. Clean up and come out.”
The youngest PD, Lee Ayeong, didn’t move until everyone had left the room, bowing at a 90-degree angle. Once they were all gone, she lifted her head.
“...Nice! I scouted the Gallery Owner!”
Lee Ayeong clenched her fists and barely managed to stop herself from jumping up and down. The face of the sweet, servile rookie PD who had been catering to her superiors until a moment ago was nowhere to be found.
What remained in the conference room was just a pervert who liked Kang Jinwoo suspiciously much.
“Ahem, if it’s our Gallery Owner, entering public broadcasting is a given. Since such a precious person is coming to this humble place, I should at least set the stage properly.”
Lee Ayeong took out a hand mirror to fix her makeup. It was to switch back into business mode.
‘I am a competent third-year PD at DCN Entertainment. I am not a Ghost Gallery user.’
Having finished her self-hypnosis, she grabbed the document envelope and headed to the meeting room.
After catching her breath in front of the door.
Creak.
As she opened the door, she saw Kang Jinwoo already waiting.
‘Gallery Owner!’
That indifferent back view, standing in a tracksuit with his weight on one leg, looking out the window. She immediately thought, As expected of the Gallery Owner, but Lee Ayeong approached with a professional smile.
“Hello, Kang Jinwoo-ssi. I’m PD Lee Ayeong, who called you.”
“Hello.”
His eyes were dry, showing no tension despite it being his first time seeing a broadcast PD.
“Did you have a hard time getting here? We’re busy, so let’s get straight to the point.”
Lee Ayeong felt another surge of internal excitement at that gaze and placed the prepared contract on the table.
“Would you like to read it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
But before Kang Jinwoo could even turn the first page of the contract he’d received,
“You want me to read all this?”
As Kang Jinwoo showed annoyance, as if he’d seen an undecipherable ancient text, Lee Ayeong didn’t panic and pulled out a new contract.
“There’s a lot of content, right? I’ll summarize the key points for you.”
She took out a red pen and explained in a rapid-fire manner, pointing only to the important parts.
“Responsibility for unexpected situations during the broadcast will be discussed with the production team, editing rights belong to the broadcaster, penalty for violating the confidentiality agreement... these are just typical terms.”
“Yeah.”
“And the most important part, the appearance fee. It’s been set at 1 million won per episode.”
In fact, 1 million won per episode for a civilian, especially an unverified one, was exceptional treatment. Usually, it would be settled around 300,000 to 500,000 won, which is just enough for travel expenses.
“1 million won?”
However, Kang Jinwoo narrowed his brows at the mention of the fee. He looked dissatisfied.
Lee Ayeong hurriedly added,
“The fee might seem a bit small, but the prize money is huge! It’s a whopping 300 million won.”
Watching her try to make it look like the most attractive offer possible, Kang Jinwoo spoke.
“No, not the prize money.”
“Pardon?”
He picked up the red pen from the table and drew an X next to the 1 million won appearance fee on the contract.
“The calculation here is a bit wrong.”
“That, actually, we have regulations for civilian participants. This is the amount I tried my best to get after talking to the Director.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
Kang Jinwoo shook his head as if frustrated and said,
“There are two