All In, Take Two
Everyone in the grand auditorium was straining to read the chat window as it scrolled faster and faster.
"...Songhwa?"
"N-never mind that—how are people reacting?"
"At a glance, it looks about fifty-fifty!"
And then.
Park Songhwa waved her hands in denial, her face turning red.
At some point, the grand auditorium had turned into a live viewing gallery.
"PWAHAHAHA!"
"God, I think I'm losing it."
"Songhwa's variety instincts are insane, though?"
The chat window exploded at the exact same spot.
Then, all at once, the crowd realized a single fact.
Their gazes drifted, one by one, toward a corner of the auditorium.
"......"
The long-haired shaman sat utterly motionless, watching nothing but the screen.
"Look at that. Not even a flicker of surprise."
"That's the composure of someone who already knows the ending."
"More like the face of a guy who just got spoiled on a movie."
And Ju Gyeongseok remained frozen exactly as he was, arms crossed tight.
"......"
This was no time to be laughing. This was a grave, company-threatening matter...
"PFFTT—!"
And here, the dam finally burst. The grand auditorium flipped clean over.
"AHAHAHAHAHA!"
"The—the payout! He's asking about the payout!"
Gu Wonho grabbed Lee Mishin by the arm, unable to breathe.
"Hey, Mishin... *wheeze*... they're asking what the payout is... *gasp*..."
...Phew. Thank god it's flowing exactly the way I saw it.
Lee Mishin let out a breath of relief, then stole a sidelong glance at the CEO... who was laughing without a sound.
That's the first time I've ever seen the CEO laugh.
His leg, which had been jittering this whole time, had gone still at some point as well—when the junior staffer on the PR team, who'd been monitoring the communities, suddenly shouted.
"The male-dominated communities are already in full festival mode, and the female ones are split—but oh, posts about how the patient gown fits her are starting to come up!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means they've come around. Once people start talking about how someone looks, half of them have already crossed over."
It was an interpretation forged by years of PR-team experience. Then the junior pulled up the community feed on the monitor, and Lee Mishin flinched.
The community thread title was exactly the same as the one he'd seen. On top of that, comments he'd never read before were multiplying in real time.
When the broadcast ended and the lights came up over the auditorium, a strange stillness settled over the room.
Two currents were running through the company right now, each warily watching the other—and it was Gu Wonho who broke the staring contest.
"Alright, you've all seen it, folks!"
A proclamation aimed squarely at the people who'd spent the whole time whispering behind the scenes. And among the chief subjects of that proclamation...
"Don't start gawking already, Wonho."
...Ju Gyeongseok was included.
Cha Eunseong rose from his seat and left them with a single remark.
"You've all worked late into the night. Let's confirm the details properly tomorrow."
And then, the following morning.
The breaking news swept through every floor of the company building in a matter of minutes.
Morning executive meeting. Min Hyeran opened the report she'd stayed up all night compiling.
"Here is the sentiment sample analysis. Negative fifty-one, positive forty-nine—effectively even. As for the buzz index, it ranks first among every variety program aired this year."
"Fifty-fifty, hm..."
Cha Eunseong turned a page of the report, then added, almost to himself.
"...Not a single word off."
"Pardon?"
While the executives exchanged puzzled looks, only the director of strategy planning—who knew where those words had come from—quietly swallowed.
Everything that long-haired shaman said... was real.
He'd called the ratings and the public sentiment before the broadcast schedule had even been published. Though the decimal point on the ratings had been a touch rough.
"At last."
Cha Eunseong closed his approval folder and continued.
"Things around this company might finally quiet down."
O2 Entertainment's office building had gained a new landmark: the window-side seat of Management Division 2.
"There, look. That desk."
"Wow... first time seeing him in the flesh."
"Hey, don't just stare at him."
Employees from other departments kept drifting over to the Division 2 water purifier with no actual business there. Every morning, offerings piled up on the desk—jujube tea sticks, ssanghwa tea sets, cinnamon punch, honey yakgwa cookies.
"......"
Lee Mishin, who had only just clocked in, stared down at the tribute blankly.
...Fine. By all means, bring more of the cinnamon punch and yakgwa.
Those were delicious.
"Now, now, I told you people not to put things on Mishin's desk. Express your devotion verbally, folks. Verbally."
"You just offered him the coffee you were making yourself, Team Leader."
When the deputy beside him muttered this, Gu Wonho puffed out his chest with total confidence.
"That's a mentor's duty. If the boy only drinks herbal tea he'll get sluggish, so naturally he needs to accept coffee too."
Around the same time, in the administrative support office, Min Hyeran's phone had been ringing all morning.
The callers were the same advertisers as the day before, yet the temperature on the other end of the line was a different world entirely.
"You're... considering resuming?"
When the second call ended, Min Hyeran opened the penalty settlement sheet. The screen had been plastered in red numbers—on which two lines now read [Resumption Under Negotiation].
Two canceled sponsorships coming back. Tens of billions of won about to fall away from the confirmed penalty total.
Two whole ads came back overnight?
Letting out an admiring hum, Min Hyeran went straight to find Ju Gyeongseok.
"Shall I tell you something, Division Head?"
"...Go ahead."
"Two ad-resumption negotiations. Estimated penalty reduction: 3.1 billion won."
"......"
Ju Gyeongseok barely managed to steady himself. This would not do. Not for the head of the opposition faction.
"Twice. It's only been twice."
"Park Songhwa's downfall, the comeback's success, the ratings figure, even the sentiment ratio. Depending on how you count, that makes four."
"Hey, even you're on the bandwagon now... OW, hot!"
He'd gulped his coffee too fast and scalded his tongue.
The truth was, Ju Gyeongseok had a fire burning under his feet these days: the next project for Division 1's flagship actor. A major platform's seasonal drama and a Chungmuro master's film had landed on his desk at the same time, and he'd spent a month unable to choose between them.
So, therefore, truly having no other option—
"......"
Ju Gyeongseok was currently walking toward Division 2, carrying a box of organic jujube extract he'd bought in the department store basement.
The moment he stepped in, heads popped up over the partitions like a game of whack-a-mole, then dove back down beneath the monitors. The office was full of thunderous keyboard clatter, yet not a single pair of eyes was on a screen.
"Mi... Mister Mishin."
The long-haired shaman looked up.
"Well... it's nothing much, really."
The box of jujube extract slid discreetly onto the corner of the desk.
"If you ever happen to have time, that is. That, um... the divination thing. I was wondering whether you could read mine sometime."
The entire office held its breath. Even the keyboard clatter cut off dead.
"......"
The shaman gazed up at Ju Gyeongseok in silence. Not a trace of emotion could be read on that blank face.
And then—
"No."
"......"
A single, clean strike.
Somewhere, a snort of air escaped before being hastily disguised as an urgent coughing fit.
"Right... well, if you're busy, nothing to be done about it. Keep up the good work."
Ju Gyeongseok agonized over whether to retrieve the box of jujube extract, then simply left it and turned around. Somehow it felt like leaving it behind was the only way there would be a next time.
The moment he was out in the corridor, the office behind him began to buzz all over again.
"Did you just see that? A flat-out 'no' to the Division 1 head—taken down in one move..."
"Maybe it's because the offering was jujube extract? That stuff's organic, it's expensive."
"Hey, is that really the issue here?"
"Then what is?"
"You know exactly what."
As Ju Gyeongseok made his way down the hall, the past few weeks swept past his mind's eye like a panorama.
"What I can't understand is that hiring."
"Is this really how this company should be running?"
Every one of those words had come out of his own mouth. And they might well have reached the man's ears.
'......'
No—come to think of it, maybe even before that. A fellow who could see other people's futures clear as day would have had the break-room gossip figured out ages ago.
Ju Gyeongseok washed his face dry, right there in the middle of the corridor.
He'd made a bad impression. A very firm one, at that.
Ha... damn it all.
Saturday morning, I boarded a bus bound for Gimcheon. In my right hand was a red ginseng gift set—which, for the record, was a recycled tribute I'd received myself. And in my inner pocket, an envelope of cash.
Buying your parents long underwear with your first paycheck is a relic from back when tigers smoked pipes. These days, the national standard for filial devotion is cold, hard cash.
"Excuse me..."
The woman in the next seat, who had been alternating between her phone screen and my face for a while now, finally spoke up.
"Young man, you're... that gifted one, aren't you?"
"You have the wrong person, ma'am."
"Oh, it's you all right. My daughter showed me the video. The one who called Park Songhwa's downfall, that's you."
She promptly held out a pen and a flyer.
"Just give me one autograph, please."
"I don't have an autograph to give."
That much was the honest truth. An autograph, from a hikikomori? Please.
"Then how about this—my son is taking the Grade 9 civil service exam this time. Just write 'praying for a pass,' like so. Hmm? If it's the handwriting of a gifted one, it's bound to make a difference."
"......"
In the end, I wrote Praying for a Pass in large letters on the back of the flyer.
"Oh, bless you, thank you! How much for the offering—"
"That's not necessary."
"Then at least take this."
A vitamin drink was pressed into my hand. Still, having the payment for the first autograph of my life be a vitamin drink put me in a rather good mood.
The front door hadn't even finished opening before the voice came flying out.
"My word, has our Taoist master come home!"
"Hi, Mom."
"What? That's what the whole neighborhood calls you."
My father, on the living room sofa, merely turned his head.
"You made it, son."
"Yes, sir."
"Still seeing things well these days?"
"No. I think the power's all used up now."
"Pity."
And with that, our father-son reunion after ten months came to a close. That brief exchange was the entirety of my father's version of asking how I'd been—and I suppose I take after that temperament somewhat myself.
Steamed short ribs arrived at dinner. Apparently Mom had soaked them since yesterday, knowing her son was coming.
"Eat up. You can't get food like this in Seoul, can you?"
"If I bought it, it'd run me fifty thousand won."
"Good grief, prices have gone completely mad..."
After the meal, Mother peeled apples while Father brought a box out of the storage room.
"Take this back with you tomorrow. Packed it with the plumpest ones from this year's harvest."
"...How am I supposed to carry something this heavy? Just ship it by courier."
"Do you have any idea what courier rates cost these days? A grown man can't even carry—"
Mid-sentence, I held out the envelope of cash. Father flinched at the contents.
"...I'll ship it prepaid, then."
"Thank you."
Then, suddenly, I noticed a photograph hanging on the wall.
"......"
Grandmother.
Even in the picture from her sixtieth-birthday celebration, Grandmother wore the same blank expression as me.
"Once I'm gone, you'll come to know. When the time comes, the time'll come."
"If only your grandmother were still alive, she'd have been over the moon."
Mother set down the plate of fruit.
"She'd have bragged to every soul in the neighborhood that her grandchild had made it big in Seoul."
"...I suppose she would have."
We watched TV while eating the fruit. Channel surfing, when—huh? The Park Songhwa advertisement that had been pulled just weeks ago was airing again.
Father tipped his chin toward the screen.
"That her?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take good care of her and work her honestly. Anyone's allowed one slip-up in their life."
"Yes, sir."
Around ten o'clock, I went into my room. It was exactly as I'd left it three years ago: the battered master keyboard on the desk, the secondhand guitar I'd lived off of while skipping evening study sessions in high school.
Well... I never had any talent for music anyway.
With a full stomach, sleep came easily. I flopped onto the bed.
Full belly, warm back. This is what living's all about, really.
On the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark star stickers from elementary school were still faintly glowing—
Tiiing—
"I have something rather urgent to tell you, regarding a song."
The call had come in around ten the previous night, and for some reason the word urgent lodged itself in her ear and stayed there.
It wasn't a word she'd ever expected to hear from that man.
Park Songhwa lay sprawled on the sofa, turning the words over and over in her mind.
If it's about a song... it has to be that one, right?
The untitled song she'd heard in the car that day. A good song draws admiration from you. A truly great song draws jealousy—because it feels so unfair that it isn't yours.
And that song had been the latter.
And he means to give it to me. My, my... the man certainly does have an eye.
She opened the memo app on her phone. Since she'd been put in charge of naming the song that day in the car, she'd already come up with a few candidates.
[Title Candidates]
1. Dear
2. Moonstruck
3. When It Seeps In
4. Bloom (Too much like an idol song?)
Every song she'd sung up until now had carried that same sensibility, and she was sure the hook of the song she'd heard that day suited this exact temperature perfectly. She could already picture the music video in her head: a greenhouse wrapped in fog, a white dress, petals scattering, slow motion.
But what could the urgent thing be?
He was a man who saw the future. For someone like that to have something urgent to say meant he must have seen something, didn't it?
What if he saw me... singing! In my own future!
The moment the thought landed, every trace of sleep evaporated. Which was how, the next day, she found herself arriving at the company's basement practice room a full thirty minutes early.
...I look exactly like a trainee here for an audition right now.
A singer ten years into her debut, hands clasped, waiting for her manager. Anyone watching would laugh—but she couldn't help it.
And honestly? It was a little fun, too. It had been so long since she'd felt this tingle of anticipation for a next stage.
The door opened, and the long-haired manager walked in.
"You're here!"
Park Songhwa shot to her feet.
"What is it? I couldn't sleep a wink last night. You said it was about a song."
"First, I'll tell you the song's title."
"!"
Her heart hammered.
He had said it clearly, last time:
"Once a song gets its title, it settles. They're headed off to be sold anyway."
And yet he had settled on a title. Which meant he had resolved to send that song somewhere.
Park Songhwa looked at him, her face brimming with anticipation, and asked:
"So what's the title?"
And Lee Mishin's mouth opened.
"All In."
...No.
"And the genre is techno dance."
...Hey!