The Night Before the Storm
Division 1 Director's office.
Ju Gyeongseok had been sitting in the same position for thirty minutes.
'He said tonight.'
The face that had answered him while checking his wristwatch kept flickering before his eyes.
— Director Jeong Dusik, the scandal is about to break.
— Tonight.
As a divination, the timeframe was far too specific.
Even a weather forecast showed more humility than that.
'Stay calm. Think it through, and the answer will come.'
The safety play that fifteen years of experience had built was this: for one single day, make no phone calls to anyone. If the scandal broke overnight, the shaman was right, and if the morning stayed quiet, he'd sign the contract as planned. A two-legged strategy with nothing to lose.
That was when his phone rang.
When he checked the caller ID, a crease dug itself into Ju Gyeongseok's brow.
"······Hello."
It was the drama production company.
— Director Ju, this is so-and-so from the production team.
"······"
— We need an answer from you by end of day today.
His breath caught in his throat.
— I'll be honest with you. We have a meeting with another actor's side this evening. If we get a firm yes there, we go with them. The platform says they can't wait any longer, either.
"······This evening, you say."
— Yes. So if you could decide right now, on this call—
Ju Gyeongseok squeezed his eyes shut.
The two-legged strategy had collapsed on the spot.
If he simply said no here, sticking to the original plan, it would end cleanly. Tomorrow morning, he'd be putting his stamp next to a grandmaster of Chungmuro.
In other words, if the shaman's words were nonsense.
'It's nonsense. It has to be nonsense — that's the sane assumption.'
But.
'······What if it really does break tonight, like he said?'
He'd be burning the most expensive body in the company aboard a ship already run aground. The drama would belong to someone else by this evening. The flagship actor's next year would disintegrate into thin air.
'······And conversely, if the shaman is wrong?'
The director who kicked a grandmaster's film to the curb over a single line of fortune-telling. He'd be chewed over for years as an industry drinking-party anecdote, and his resignation letter would be drafted upstairs before he could even write it himself.
— Director Ju?
The urging came flying through the receiver.
'······This is genuinely insane.'
The scale had already tipped.
He simply hadn't wanted to admit it. When the cards split fifty-fifty, you fold the hand with the larger loss.
"······We'll go with the drama."
— Haha, an excellent decision. We'll have the contract ready within the week. I'll contact the platform right now as well.
The call ended.
The palm holding his lowered phone was clammy.
'What have I just done.'
He'd listened to a shaman.
Worse — he, the man who had originally led the faction opposing Lee Mishin, had listened to a shaman.
At this point, only the heaviest task remained.
······Notifying the actor.
With a heart trembling harder than before, Ju Gyeongseok dialed the number.
An actor who'd begun as a child performer and now stood among the very top stars. Ju Gyeongseok had once been this actor's road manager.
Which meant he knew his temperament down to the bone.
Insufferably so.
Each time the ringtone pulsed, he swallowed with an audible gulp — and then.
— Yo. What is it.
"Your next project······ we're going with a drama."
— ······.
A long silence stretched out.
Only after it did the flagship star speak.
— Then let me ask why.
Ju Gyeongseok exhaled a long breath and brought out the name.
"Lee Mishin. The new hire in Management Division 2."
— ······.
An even longer silence followed.
10:43 p.m.
A long post went up on a certain social media account.
The attached sixteen-minute audio file was dropped onto the internet like a bomb.
A former assistant director joined the exposé under his real name. Two bit-part actors followed.
Testimony that it had been an openly known practice on set. Testimony that rookies had been summoned under the pretense of auditions.
And then, morning.
The community forums were a roaring furnace from the moment the sun came up.
At that same moment, every soul in O2 Entertainment's Division 1 was breaking out in goosebumps.
"Director······ if you hadn't made that call yesterday······."
"The other actor would've been confirmed at the evening meeting, and right now our hands would be holding nothing but a shipwrecked film······."
"Enough. My arm won't stop crawling."
Ju Gyeongseok wiped his face dry and headed up to the CEO's office.
The briefing was not long. How the drama had been finalized, how the film contract had collapsed, and······
"And your basis for that was what, exactly."
At Cha Eunseong's question, Ju Gyeongseok hesitated a beat before answering.
"······Lee Mishin."
"Him again?"
"He stopped me in the hallway yesterday and told me. That the Jeong Dusik scandal would break that very night."
"······"
"Honestly, I was skeptical of Lee Mishin at first."
"I know."
Ju Gyeongseok lowered his head.
"······The person who saved this company this time — it was him."
After Ju Gyeongseok left, Cha Eunseong let out a long breath through his nose.
'I assumed his eyes only sharpened around Park Songhwa.'
That was the very reason he'd assigned Lee Mishin as her road manager.
But this time, the target had been an actor. And not just any actor — the most expensive body in the company. The flagship of Division 1, with whom Lee Mishin shared not a single point of contact.
'So those eyes of his see clearly beyond Songhwa as well.'
A knock sounded, and Min Hyeran entered, setting a tablet down on the desk.
"Here's the Night Journey contract summary. Per-episode fees plus a guaranteed season option — the total comes to forty percent of Division 1's annual revenue."
"And if we'd missed it?"
"Missing it would've been the least of our problems. If we'd greeted this morning with our name still attached to the Jeong Dusik project, we'd have had to calculate the advertising penalty exposure as well. The two of them are known to be close, after all — the suspicion would have circulated regardless."
"······"
"The contact sheet we used for Park Songhwa······ I almost recycled it."
"You're feeling editorial today."
"Honestly? Yes. I found it rather moving."
Cha Eunseong pulled the roster of O2's signed artists from his drawer.
It was entirely possible that the man currently shuttling a van around an underground parking lot could see the future of every name on this list.
Needless to say, that would be a criminal waste of talent.
"Tell Lee Mishin to come up."
The air felt strange from the moment I walked into work.
Passing through the lobby, unfamiliar faces kept bowing to me. Judging by the color of the lanyards on their ID badges, most of them were from Division 1. One of them bent a full ninety degrees.
'······That angle is for clients, not coworkers.'
When I reached my desk, Team Leader Gu had already dragged a chair over and was waiting.
"As of today, you are no longer Lee Mishin."
"Then what am I?"
"A guardian deity."
"······"
Team Leader Gu lowered his voice and sidled closer.
"Hey, but seriously, just one question. Can you······ see my future too?"
"No."
"Whew, thank god······ wait, hold on. Actually, that's kind of hurtful in its own way? You're saying I have no future?"
"Your future is whatever you make of it, Team Leader."
"Oooh······ that actually moved me a little?"
Truthfully, those words applied to me as well.
'If my many-worlds hypothesis holds.'
I currently possessed one future in which I became CEO of a trillion-won company, and another in which I became the composer AG. Of course, judging purely by the information available right now, the former pulled at me overwhelmingly more.
All I knew was that AG had composed an all-in track — I'd never actually seen how well he was doing out there.
So I needed to combine the two futures appropriately and build my own.
Which was exactly why I'd said it to Team Leader Gu, too.
"Did you get your fortune-sharing fee? You know, the Lucky Money?"
"No."
If it had been some other company's business, I might have shrugged and pretended not to notice. But that man was the future flagship of my own company. As a future CEO, I couldn't just stand by and watch the company's single greatest asset ride the express train to the gutter.
"······Honestly, you're a master of people. No wait — is Division 1's director just ungrateful?"
"Oh, speaking of — the Division 1 director—"
"!"
Team Leader Gu whipped his head around.
"Hey, you jerk. You scared me. I really thought the director was standing there. And look at you······ pulling this kind of prank on me now."
Huh. Now that he mentioned it, I had.
"You shouldn't get so casual with your team leader. I apologize."
"Yes."
"Kidding."
"I know."
"······Huh. That too?"
"······"
"But Mishin, have you seen the Division 1 kids making their pilgrimage over here since this morning? The same ones going on about how this company was run until recently."
Team Leader Gu cleared his throat loudly toward the partition.
"Ahem — yes, you there. No queuing allowed. Our Mishin belongs to Division 2, people! Division 2!"
"I was just coming to get some water."
"Why is Division 1 drawing from the Division 2 water cooler! You have your own!"
"······They say the water over here is more spiritually potent."
That was the first I'd ever heard of a water cooler having spiritual power.
The filter had been replaced just last month, as far as I knew.
It was then that Noh Beomsu, the Division 2 director, approached.
"Mishin."
"Yes, Director."
"The CEO wants you upstairs. Now."
Last time it had been lunch first, outside the building — this time, it was a direct summons.
I could feel everyone behind me holding their breath.
Ding—
I organized my thoughts inside the elevator.
There are, generally speaking, two reasons a company calls in an employee who has produced results.
Either to give them more work, or to give them more work.
When the CEO's office door opened, Cha Eunseong gestured toward the sofa.
"Oh, you're here."
Cha Eunseong pushed a teacup toward me.
······It was ssanghwa tea. Traditional Korean medicinal tea.
One of these days, I really must lodge a correction. In favor of a sweet latte. Extra syrup included.
"I heard everything from Director Ju. You saved a man's life in five minutes in a hallway, I'm told."
"The one who saved him was Director Ju. The decision was ultimately his, after all."
"You're the one who handed him something worth deciding on."
"······"
"Good work."
"It was nothing."
"Nothing, he says. You protected the most expensive asset this company has."
······Of course I protected it.
It's going to be my asset in the future, after all.
"I'll be honest with you. I've never believed in superstition. But lately, I have a real problem on my hands."
"······"
"I don't believe in superstition, but it seems I'm starting to believe in Lee Mishin."
I wondered for a moment if that was a dad joke — but the CEO's face was utterly serious.
So I simply stayed quiet.
"Which brings me to this. That variety show Songhwa appeared in."
"Yes."
"After the first episode airs, I'd like to know how public opinion around Songhwa turns out."
Unfortunately, I hadn't seen anything this time.
'Still, I can't exactly stand here and declare that I don't know. Not while billing myself as a shaman.'
To be even more honest, I would have confessed outright to anyone else — but Team Leader Gu's words kept ringing in my ears.
— Your name's been making the rounds upstairs lately. Promotion talk.
I'd dismissed it as rumor, but I'm only human; the appetite wouldn't leave me alone.
So this time, I ran the analysis myself.
'Once the first shoot is over······'
Speaking as someone who watched that filming from beginning to end: Park Songhwa had thrown herself into it the entire time. The earthworms were only the most famous example — there was plenty else. What's more, the PD had promised to frame her footage favorably.
The reservoir scene······ well, no telling how that would cut together, but.
Put it all together, and only one sensible conclusion existed.
"······It'll be better than before."
Cha Eunseong's eyes narrowed.
"Better. Than before."
He tapped the table twice with his index finger.
"Which means······ this becomes the inflection point for Songhwa's public image. The moment the positive crosses over the negative."
"······"
"You said fifty-fifty last time."
No, wait. How did it turn into this?
Now that I'd said "inflection point," it felt like a weight.
'······Will it actually cross over?'
That part, even I didn't know.
But I understood very well what it meant for the positive to overtake the negative.
"Good. Then this time as well, we do the live monitoring in the auditorium."
"······?"
"After that broadcast ends, there's something I need to say to you — in front of the staff."
"······??"
"Why it has to be after that particular broadcast — think that through carefully."
Don't tell me······ could it really be?
The grand auditorium was already packed — but the atmosphere was night and day compared to before.
If Our Hospital had felt like walking on thin ice, today's Country Mouse screening felt like the premiere of a blockbuster.
"That's my seat."
"Prime spots are first come, first served. What are you on about?"
"What defines a prime spot, exactly?"
"What else? Right behind Mishin-nim."
True to form, three PR team monitors stood beside the screen: the live chat window, the community boards, and the public sentiment analytics dashboard.
[Park Songhwa — Real-Time Sentiment Index]
Positive: 46.3 | Negative: 53.7
It was the PR team's in-house analytics tool, with positive and negative sentiment displayed as gauges. The current reading: 46.3 positive, 53.7 negative.
In the front row, Ju Gyeongseok had claimed his seat early. When Lee Mishin entered the auditorium, he was the first to offer a nod.
A low murmur of awe rippled through the staff.
"······Did you see that, just now?"
"The Division 1 director bowing first — is this real life?"
"I could live a hundred years and never see that again······"
And then.
"Five minutes to air! Preparing to dim the lights!"
The buzz was just starting to settle at the PR team's shout when—
Creeeak—
The back door of the auditorium opened.
Heads that had turned carelessly, assuming it was just a latecomer, gradually stiffened.
"······!"
"······Wait, hold on."
"Han Heedae······?"
A towering figure in a black coat stood at the doorway, sweeping the auditorium with a slow, unhurried gaze.
Unlike the singers who used the practice rooms, actors almost never showed their faces at the company — and if that actor was a top star like Han Heedae, all the more so.
Step. Step.
While everyone watched with bated breath, Han Heedae crossed the floor without a flicker of hesitation.
Thump—
He settled into the seat right beside Lee Mishin.
"A pleasure to finally meet you."
"······"
"Han Heedae."
●_●