Fifty Point Two
There had once been a child actor who debuted at eight.
The little boy who sold his dimpled smiles in a milk commercial became known to the nation as the youngest son of a weekend drama, and at twenty-four he took home a Best New Actor award for a coming-of-age melodrama.
And now, he had become one of the most expensive actors in all of South Korea.
The Melodrama Craftsman.
A Guarantee of Romance.
-······.
His trophy shelf was lined with the Best New Actor Award, the Popularity Award, and the Best Couple Award — but the spot for the Grand Prize, the Daesang, had always been empty.
He still remembered what a drunk director once slurred at an awards after-party.
-Heedae, you should keep doing love stories for the rest of your career.
He had stood up from his seat on the spot, stone-faced.
Then he went home and searched for action schools until dawn.
Even after that, every time a genre script came in, the company's reaction never changed.
-Why take on that kind of risk?
-Do one more melodrama first, then we'll talk. Hm?
His next project had been no different.
The romantic male lead in a masterpiece from a legendary Chungmuro director.
After weighing it for months, he had finally made up his mind.
And so the script for Night Journey went into a drawer.
A thriller lead role.
His heart had pounded the entire time he read it — but stamping his seal on a pounding heart was a career choice he could no longer afford. Somewhere along the way, he'd accumulated far too much to lose.
······What's wrong with doing what I'm good at, anyway.
And then, that day, the phone call came.
A notification that his next project had been flipped from a film to a drama.
He was fully prepared to unleash a torrent of curses, but the reasoning he got back was strange.
Lee Mishin.
New hire, Management Division 2.
An agency where an actor's entire career hinges on a single word from a shaman.
He genuinely considered rereading his contract.
And that night.
It really happened.
-······.
Han Heedae had spent the night staring blankly at the ceiling until morning came.
What would things be like right now, if yesterday's phone call had never happened?
What remained was Night Journey.
The genre work he had turned away from time and time again out of fear had somehow, in a daze, landed in his lap.
And now.
The main auditorium of O2 Entertainment.
The top star Han Heedae was seated right beside the shaman.
On the screen, the broadcast of Country Mouse was beginning.
The first scene: Park Songhwa stepping off a van.
On the PR team's monitor, the live chat had started to scroll.
The public sentiment gauge read 46.8.
Exactly the same number as before the broadcast.
"Fair warning — this index is based on crawling portal comments and community posts, so there's a margin of error. Treat it as a reference only."
The PR team staffer had drawn his line in advance.
[I've got this!]
Park Songhwa rolled up her sleeves for the very first mission.
Facing the hearth head-on, she drank in the smoke and wept tears and snot in equal measure — and through it all, she never stopped fanning the flames.
At the end of it, the fire blazed to life.
Park Songhwa spun around, face smeared with ash, and shouted.
[Done! I've earned the right to eat now, right?!]
On the PR team's monitor beside the screen, the sentiment gauge twitched.
"It's climbing, it's climbing!"
"Shh! Quiet!"
When the full version of the earthworm scene aired, even the auditorium erupted in laughter.
They'd only been given a taste of it in the trailer, but the full version hit with entirely different force.
The positive gauge twitched once more.
"······."
Han Heedae glanced sideways.
Whether the chat flipped or the gauge lurched, the long-haired manager remained deadpan and expressionless.
As if he had foreseen all of it.
And then, the latter half of the broadcast.
The reservoir scene.
The air went taut.
Even though everyone present already knew the ending.
Park Songhwa slipped — and a hand darted in from off-screen and shoved her back with a solid thud.
Tap—!
Even the camera seemed flustered, trembling slightly.
SPLOOSH—!!
A column of water shot up.
The water's surface split — and in the moment a head of wet, long hair swept back against the glow of the sunset,
Meanwhile, Han Heedae was replaying that moment in his head.
The gap between the instant Park Songhwa's boot slipped and the instant the hand shot out.
Even on a scripted set, that timing was something you'd have to run through rehearsal after rehearsal just to nail.
That······ his body moved before his mind did.
An actor's eye caught it.
As the broadcast swept toward its ending, the sentiment gauge twitched one final time.
Positive: 50.2.
Negative: 49.8.
"······!"
"You— it crossed over."
WHOOOAAA!
······Even public opinion.
Han Heedae knew better than anyone how capricious public opinion could be.
And the man sitting beside him had predicted that very caprice — and it had played out exactly as promised, right before his eyes.
Park Songhwa's public sentiment had, for the first time, tipped positive over negative.
Only months ago, it would have been unimaginable.
"······."
Han Heedae leaned sideways.
A low murmur, buried beneath the cheers.
"I heard from Director Ju. You showed him your wristwatch that day, apparently."
"······."
Lee Mishin glanced down at his wrist.
A domestically made digital watch, 100,000 won at its lowest online price.
Its alarm function, admittedly, was nothing short of brilliant.
"Well, yes······."
"Give me that watch."
"······Pardon?"
"And in return."
Han Heedae undid the buckle on his own wrist.
Sriiip—
"Wear this instead."
······! That······.
He had seen it before.
It was the day of Park Songhwa's studio shoot — that very watch had been featured in a watch magazine wedged onto the shelf back then.
The kind of piece you couldn't buy even if you walked into a store with cash, one that required years of purchase history just to be considered, with a resale value starting at 300 million won.
Lee Mishin swallowed hard.
Even so, there were lines in this world one ought not to cross.
"I can't accept that. It's far too much."
"It's my side that's been given too little."
Han Heedae looked at him with complete seriousness.
"Your watch saw the future. Mine only ever saw time."
"······."
"And you never took a divination fee, did you."
"······."
"Then let's call this the fee."
Lee Mishin knew it too.
This was sophistry.
But perhaps this was simply how Han Heedae chose to repay a debt.
"Give me your hand. You can't just slap this on any old way — there's a proper order to it."
The watch settled onto the wrist he'd reluctantly extended.
Cold metal met skin, and a weighty presence followed.
And Han Heedae took the 100,000-won domestic digital watch and buckled it around his own wrist.
Somehow, it made for a perfect picture.
Apparently, whatever a top star wore became a photoshoot.
"I'll put it to good use, Mishin-ssi."
Han Heedae started to rise from his seat, then paused.
"And······."
"Yes?"
"······Never mind."
He left just one final remark.
"See you again sometime."
Every light in the auditorium came on.
Somewhere along the way, the screen had switched from the broadcast to display the sentiment gauge, huge and unmistakable.
POSITIVE: 50.2
With that number glowing at his back, Cha Eunseong stood on the stage.
The murmur of the crowd settled at the tap-tap of his finger against the microphone.
"Today, for the first time, positive crossed over negative. The PR team says it's a tool with a margin of error······."
Cha Eunseong cast a brief glance toward the PR team.
"But even padding the numbers for that margin of error, one fact doesn't change: in a matter of months, we went from rock bottom to here."
He waved off the applause before it could break out.
"So I'm issuing a personnel appointment here and now. As you all know, appointments are normally handled quietly. File the approval, post the notice, done. But this one is the kind of appointment that would breed whispers if it were handled quietly."
Then he looked toward one spot and spoke.
"Lee Mishin, Management Division 2."
The long-haired man whose name had been called lifted his head with a smooth motion.
"Effective today — appointment as Chief Manager."
"······!"
The auditorium buzzed.
"Do I really need to recite the reasons aloud?"
"······."
"Anyone with objections, say it here. Don't go whispering about it behind my back later. Like last time."
At the words last time, a few people shifted guiltily in their seats.
The figure at the head of that faction, Ju Gyeongseok, rose from his chair.
"Division 1 has no objections to this appointment."
Intakes of breath rippled here and there.
It hit harder coming from the man who, mere weeks ago, had been called the leader of the opposition.
As Ju Gyeongseok sat back down, Noh Beomsu thrust his hand into the air.
"Well, Division 2 hardly needs to speak up. He's our treasure, after all."
A mixture of laughter and applause erupted.
Cha Eunseong adjusted his grip on the microphone.
"Chief Mishin will oversee the Park Songhwa team overall. A new road manager will be hired for the road work. How many more artists he'll take on — we'll decide that down the line."
This time it was Lee Mishin who stood.
Applause filled the auditorium.
Under the weight of a dozen gazes, the new chief opened his mouth.
"······I'll do my best."
As the applause died down, Gu Wonho came shuffling over.
"Hey there, Chief. Congratulations."
"You promised to treat me exactly the same as before, sir."
Gu Wonho grinned and slung an arm around his shoulder.
"Right. Congratulations, Mishin."
In the line filing out of the auditorium, the employees' murmuring never stopped.
"Chief means his desk stays where it is, right?"
"Probably. Why?"
"Ah, nothing······ just glad to hear it, I guess."
"You're planning to go fetch water again, aren't you."
"······."
New business cards had come in.
"······."
He sat in the van's driver seat, staring at it, dumbfounded.
His salary had doubled.
Which meant······ from thirty million to sixty.
Is this really allowed?
He had only adopted the shaman persona in the first place to avoid getting sued, and yet things were going frighteningly well.
I should give them a call.
After all, his parents had been beside themselves with worry over their son.
As he pulled his phone from his pocket, he noticed it.
"······."
The expensive watch buckled around his wrist.
Before he knew it, a hollow laugh escaped him.
Come to think of it, what did he mean by "see you again sometime"?
Don't tell me Han Heedae was going to become another of his artists, on top of Park Songhwa?
That couldn't be it — Heedae was under Division 1, the actor division.
-Oh, son.
Right — he'd forgotten he was in the middle of dialing.
The moment he brought up the promotion, a beaming smile came through the speaker.
-Really? Didn't you only join the company five months ago?
"······That's true, but they said I was doing good work, so they fast-tracked me."
-Well done, well done. Good — it's about time you found something you're suited for.
"······."
So that's what you thought.
In three years of flailing about in that rooftop room, he had never once heard those words.
Well, that was a parent's heart for you.
-Congratulations, son.
His father's gruff voice.
"Thank you, Father."
-The higher you climb, the more responsibility you carry. No matter what your superiors say, just keep quiet and say "Yes, sir." That's what office life is.
No one actually says anything to me, though.
If anything, they keep looking after me.
After hanging up, he checked the time — it was just as Park Songhwa's radio schedule was wrapping up.
A short while later, he returned to the van with her in tow.
He was still her road manager, after all.
"I have something to tell you."
"······! Why do you have to say it so scary. Did you see something bad again? I've really got nothing left at this point!"
"This will apparently be the last month for me as your road manager."
"······."
Park Songhwa blinked at him, dazed.
"Ah······ right, of course. It'd be strange for a chief to manage a single celebrity and drive the van around himself."
Then she stretched, awkwardly, deliberately.
"Mm, I'm fine with it. I can manage on my own."
"You won't be on your own."
"······Sorry?"
"A new road manager will be assigned shortly. I'll handle the handover personally."
"······That's not what I meant!"
Then what did you mean?
"······Still. It's a little sad, I guess."
Park Songhwa smiled faintly.
Only then did the meaning of her words begin to dawn on him.
······She wants someone right there beside her, handing her Cheongsimhwan pills on schedule.
Well, that much he could keep doing.
He might no longer be the road manager glued to her every move, but managing Park Songhwa was managing Park Songhwa, either way.
And······.
"We do have that project we're running together, don't we? I look forward to working with you going forward."
"Haha, right. Oh — how's that coming along, by the way?"
"······Well, I think it'll need a bit more time."
From that day on, strange entries started appearing in Park Songhwa's schedule.
"That makeup session will take a while. Two hours? Three?"
"This photoshoot concept meeting is going to run long! Mishin, you wait in the van!"
Translated: go compose something.
Once, she rapped on the window of the waiting van, slipped a cup inside, and bolted.
He took a sip and nearly choked.
······It was coffee.
A sticky note was stuck to the cup holder.
You must be tired from composing — time for a caffeine recharge! Figured even a shaman needs coffee sometimes! -Songhwa
He poured every hour he secured that way into composing.
Frankly, at first he'd underestimated the task.
He'd heard the melody from the future, after all — all he had to do was transcribe it, and he'd be done.
It was a mistake, and a colossal one.
All he'd salvaged from the future was eight bars of a hook.
And even those he'd caught just once, on the stage of a vision, half-buried beneath the roar of the crowd, in passing.
Everything else was a blank page.
The pre-chorus, the bridge, the sound design······.
Even for a cheat exam, the test scope is way too broad.
And yet.
Three years of collecting 9,300 won per track from stock music sites — those years hadn't built up nothing.
How on earth did my future self fill in the rest of this?
Delete, record, delete, record.
The folder filled steadily with files.
[AllIn_v7]
[AllIn_v13_thisisitforreal]
[AllIn_v19_nope]
[AllIn_v24_mightjustquit]
The habit of leaking his true feelings into file names remained as strong as ever.
But one thing had changed: this time, he knew where the song was headed.
Onto a stage, under the lights, in Park Songhwa's voice.
Grind work with a known destination was bearable.
No — honestly speaking······ it was a little fun.
Today, too, like clockwork, he was holed up in his rooftop room after hours, deep in composition.
[AllIn_v63_building]
He leaned back against his chair and pressed play.
What number is this, even.
The intro passed, the pre-chorus swelled, and then — the instant the hook exploded—
"······!"
Goosebumps raced down his arms.
That stage in the vision.
The pouring lights, the roaring crowd — and Park Songhwa, standing at the very center of it all.
That scene was coming alive, exactly as it had been, inside his headphones.
······This is it.