Chapter 48
“If the bridge scene seems unnecessary, we can discard it. Let’s review it now.”
Kim Doyun raised his voice so all the staff nearby could hear.
In this era, the system records video onto film reels.
When the recorded footage was inserted into the video player, Lee Beom-un’s voice echoed loudly.
“Again! Seo Dongjin, are you limping? Did you hurt something? And you, Eun Jihoon, can’t even run properly, huh?”
The footage of Lee Beom-un putting Seo Dongjin and Eun Jihoon through excessive takes played on the screen.
“This—this isn’t right!”
Lee Beom-un flailed his arms, searching for the remote to turn off the player.
“I must have accidentally grabbed the wrong tape. Let’s try another one.”
Doyun inserted another tape into the player.
“Run happily! Don’t pant like a dog! And Eun Jihoon! Can’t you even manage running?”
This footage also revealed Lee Beom-un’s abusive behavior.
“Oops! I must have mislabeled the reels. There’s just so much of this. Didn’t you run through 17 takes yesterday?”
Doyun turned to Lee Beom-un with a sharp gaze, as if to say, You made them run circles 17 times, didn’t you?
“Hey, Kim PD…”
“I’ve found the right one this time. Let’s watch this.”
Doyun pressed play, and Lee Beom-un’s face turned pale.
The screen showed an expansive view of the blue sea and white sand beach.
At first glance, it seemed like a proper bridge scene, but Lee Beom-un’s grumbling voice soon followed.
“Damn it. The competing drama has Jin Gunwoo in an action noir, and I’m stuck in some seaside backwater. I’m getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. Ugh, this is a disaster. I hope this whole thing fails! Or maybe a war breaks out or something!”
Doyun quickly paused the footage with the remote.
“Oh dear, my mistake.”
Of course, it wasn’t a mistake, but neither Oh Youngguk nor Jeong Woon-young seemed to care about that detail.
It felt as if steam were rising from Jeong Woon-young’s head.
“The director curses his own project on the first day of shooting? Really? He’s actually wishing for it to fail?”
“Oh, Beom-un.”
Even Oh Youngguk couldn’t defend him now.
“What is this nonsense?”
“It—it was just something I muttered to myself.”
But such an excuse wasn’t going to fly.
Jeong Woon-young couldn’t contain his anger any longer and roared.
“Is that your true intention? If you didn’t want to do this, you should have said so from the beginning! Who begged you to direct this? If you’re so eager to shoot an action noir, resign and join another network!”
“Jeong senior, you don’t have to go that far. Beom-un, apologize. Now.”
“This isn’t something an apology can fix! Damn it, I’m done with him. I’m calling the CEO right now. I’m not letting this slide.”
Jeong Woon-young, shaking with betrayal, pulled out his phone.
“Senior, the CEO changed.”
Oh Youngguk grabbed his hand and said quietly.
“What? When?”
“At the last board meeting. You wouldn’t know them.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll let this go! You get paid no matter what happens, but if this project tanks, I’m done!”
Oh Youngguk wiped the sweat from his forehead as he tried to pacify Jeong Woon-young.
“Nothing’s going to fail. Not with me here.”
“Oh Youngguk—are you seriously covering for him? Why are you always defending him instead of calling him out?”
“I’ll scold him. Hey, Lee Beom-un! Why are you just standing there?”
Beom-un’s bloodshot eyes were locked on Doyun.
Did you do this on purpose? His gaze screamed.
Yes, Doyun thought. I absolutely did.
But he hadn’t fabricated anything—he’d simply shown snippets of what Lee Beom-un had actually done.
Doyun shrugged nonchalantly.
“Director, you haven’t seen the actual footage of the bridge scene yet, have you? Let me show you.”
He played footage of the bridge scene shot at Daepo Port by Assistant Director Min Kyungho.
The screen was filled with a serene blue sky and deep navy waves shimmering under the light.
Oh Youngguk’s expression changed.
The golden ratio of the frame and the film’s color balance made the scene feel almost magical. The shimmering sea and sky, filmed to perfection, captivated even the most critical viewers.
Even Jeong Woon-young, who had been ready to grab Lee Beom-un by the collar, and Beom-un himself were mesmerized by the footage.
But this is just the beginning.
A small dark object appeared in the distance, slicing through the waves as it approached the camera. It was the fishing boat meant to depict Yeonwoo’s father, played by Woo Gukhwan.
This scene was designed to bridge night and morning in A Summer’s Cantabile—a visual that perfectly captured the drama’s tone.
Doyun crossed his arms and gave Beom-un a challenging stare, as if daring him to shoot a better bridge scene.
Perhaps reading Doyun’s mind, Oh Youngguk stood up.
“Kim PD, let’s talk.”
Doyun followed him outside, ready for this moment.
***
“Kim PD, is your goal to become a director?”
Standing before the ocean outside the accommodations, Oh Youngguk asked him.
“No.”
“You don’t have to lie. I’m asking because that bridge scene—it wasn’t just the assistant director, was it?”
Turning around, Oh Youngguk stared at Doyun.
“I’ve shot plenty of sea footage. What I just saw ranks among the best. Jeong senior mentioned you know your way around a camera.”
“……”
“Even if you’re talented, this isn’t the way to go about it. No matter how incompetent Beom-un is, undermining him doesn’t help the production.”
Why did Oh Youngguk seem so accustomed to compromise at this point?
In my previous life, he wasn’t like this, Doyun thought.
Maybe his recent divorce had shaken his confidence.
“Could you take a look over there?”
Kim Doyun pointed toward the adjacent lodging, where a group of college students was having a barbecue party.
The young men and women, likely on a trip right after their finals, were having a great time with loud music playing in the background.
“For a drama’s romance to succeed, it has to be more exciting than real-life relationships. Those students should be talking about Jeon Sera and Seo Dongjin.”
“……”
“Watching the drama must be more enjoyable than coming to the beach.”
You said it yourself.
For a drama to succeed, even those who seem disinterested must be hooked.
“So, do you think making Lee Beom-un look bad will result in a successful drama?”
“I believe a drama should be produced in a reasonable and professional environment. You’re a reasonable person, Director Oh.”
What had shattered Oh Youngguk, the most reasonable man, were the unreasonable events that had plagued his life.
A divorce due to his wife’s affair.
And that wasn’t all.
Oh Youngguk, trying to protect his daughter from further pain, had hidden the reason for the divorce. It had been a rational decision on his part, but the outcome was devastating.
His daughter misunderstood, thinking he was the one who cheated, and severed ties with him.
To make matters worse, his ex-wife remarried the man she had the affair with and moved into an apartment building directly across from his.
Even more shocking was that the man was not only his college senior but also a junior in the broadcasting company.
At work, the unreasonable occurrences continued.
His former senior betrayed him and took the director-general position, usurping everything Oh Youngguk had built.
The saying goes that creating a path is difficult, but running on one that’s already paved is easy and fast.
The man effortlessly took over everything Oh Youngguk had achieved—his wife, his daughter, and his professional standing.
Some mocked him, saying that someone who created dramas had become the protagonist of a third-rate soap opera.
Third-rate.
In the broadcasting world, the term “third-rate” was often referred to by the slang sam-mai.
It described actors who couldn’t land lead roles and took on any part to get noticed.
It also described directors who stubbornly clung to their cameras despite lacking proper training.
Editors, sound designers, musicians, prop masters, costume designers—many sam-mais held on despite the odds and eventually made their names known.
And when a sam-mai succeeded, they created works that even the best professionals couldn’t replicate.
Was that why?
Oh Youngguk had once referred to himself as a sam-mai in the drama industry.
Because he blended genres that weren’t strictly traditional or classical.
“I don’t want to live pretending to be elite.”
Perhaps, in saying so, Oh Youngguk was subtly mocking those third-rate talents who made dramas with their words rather than skill.
But he probably hadn’t expected his life to spiral into a sam-mai tragedy.
“I won’t let that happen.”
The countless limitations placed on Oh Youngguk by the broadcasting company prevented him from becoming truly great.
The betrayal of his former senior, who had an affair with his wife and then took everything he had.
After being removed as director-general, Oh Youngguk’s life spiraled downward.
Doyun had visited those same roadside stalls, quietly listening.
When he heard those same stock traders talking about the drama he had created…
He had wanted to pour Soju for Oh Youngguk and say, “I finally did it.”
But he couldn’t contact him.
He thought Oh Youngguk wanted to be forgotten, and leaving him alone was the respectful thing to do.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t want people to come looking for me.”
But when he heard that Oh Youngguk had passed away alone, with a quiet funeral…
The news hit him like a heavy stone rolling into his chest.
This time, he didn’t want to have any regrets.
“Director, I want to become a successful sam-mai.”
Oh Youngguk raised his eyebrows at Doyun’s words.
“Well, I guess that makes us similar.”
“We’re different. I’ll fight like a sam-mai to succeed.”
Oh Youngguk stroked his chin thoughtfully, then looked at Doyun.
“You mean, like how you handled that bridge scene?”
Doyun would do even more, but he didn’t say it out loud.
Why?
Once you decide to fight like a sam-mai, there’s no reason to play fair anymore.
Instead, Doyun smiled softly and said, “If reason prevails, I won’t interfere with the director’s authority again. I’m just a planning PD, not a director.”
“……”
“To protect the director’s authority, I’ll ensure everything operates within reasonable limits going forward.”
***
“Kim PD, how’s the drama shoot coming along?”
The voice of Moon Sungil, the director of Music Campfire, came through the phone.
Doyun, watching the shoot beside a junior lighting technician, moved to a quieter spot to answer.
“Thanks to your concern, things are going smoothly.”
In the end, Oh Youngguk had taken Lee Beom-un back to Seoul.
Although the Il-san studio set was ready, everyone knew the real reason.
“Lee Beom-un has been blacklisted by the director-general.”
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