Chapter 39
“Ah, no, I was just embarrassed to receive a gift, so I played a little prank…”
“But did you have to rip it? I’m disappointed in you, Mr PD.”
“Seo Dongjin, that’s not what I meant…”
“Pfft! That was acting. Gotcha! Think of it as a birthday prank. Ah, haha. You really fell for it.”
Watching Seo Dongjin laugh while clutching his stomach, Kim Doyun found it so ridiculous that he couldn’t help but smile faintly.
‘I’m playing pranks with actors now? Kim Doyun, have you become too soft?’
***
[“Thanks to the popularity of the Wed-Thu drama A Summer’s Cantabile, tourists are flocking to the East Coast. A bizarre phenomenon is occurring, with the travel time from Seoul to Gangneung reaching 17 hours. The area around Jeongdongjin Station is experiencing parking lot-like congestion…”]
This was before the Daegwallyeong Tunnel was constructed, so the average travel time from Seoul to Gangneung was about four hours.
‘Seventeen hours means it’s taking over four times as long.’
Such phenomena peaked during the summer vacation season. This forced them to shoot the drama’s ending scenes during dawn or late-night hours to avoid the crowd.
‘This time will likely be no different.’
Since it wasn’t pre-produced, filming in the latter half of the drama often approached a live broadcast schedule, with scenes edited immediately after being shot.
As long as Han Jiseon refrained from sending last-minute scripts, and Lee Beom-un didn’t relapse into his “artistic affliction,” the drama might make it to the finale relatively smoothly.
At least, that’s what he thought!
But in the production meeting that resumed after yesterday, Lee Beom-un started causing issues.
‘Ah, this is maddening.’
Studio scenes and critical shots were assigned to Team A, led by Lee Beom-un, while secondary outdoor scenes and less important shots were given to Team B, led by Jang Sanggoo.
However, Lee Beom-un was greedily insisting on handling almost all the scenes himself.
Director Jang Sanggoo of Team B was being ignored simply because he wasn’t from the broadcasting station’s internal talent pool, even though his directing skills were outstanding.
‘That’s exactly why I brought him on board.’
Despite Jang Sanggoo’s superior skills and experience, Lee Beom-un seemed intent on asserting dominance, raising his voice.
“For the scene where Yeonwoo gets scolded by Yeonwoo’s father, complex emotions need to be conveyed. Who drafted this cue sheet? Hey! Are you not doing your job properly?”
Lee Beom-un hurled the cue sheet at the two assistant directors.
A drama cue sheet included shot lists, camera angles, settings, actor movements, dialogue, and the distinction between day and night.
Knowing its importance, Kim Doyun had reviewed the cue sheet several times before the meeting. If he were to grade it, it might score around 70 out of 100. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t so flawed as to warrant this outburst.
‘Is he raising his voice early on to intimidate and establish dominance?’
Lee Beom-un’s provocation seemed premature. While Doyun could anticipate the outcome, he chose to observe quietly.
Lee Beom-un continued to yell at the assistant directors and script supervisor, throwing papers around.
“We haven’t even started filming, and you’re slacking off. Do you think we can shoot with just this? Ugh, what a bunch of dimwits. Director Jang, I’ll shoot all of this myself, so take note.”
“Yes, understood.”
Surprisingly, Jang Sanggoo replied calmly. Then he turned to the assistant directors and script supervisor he’d brought along and said:
“Everyone, stand up. The director says he’ll handle it alone.”
With the sound of chairs sliding back, all the assistant directors, the script supervisor, and even the filming assistants stood up. It was a clear collective protest.
“What are you doing? Are you not filming?”
“You said you’d handle it alone.”
“You… you’re unbelievable!”
“Unbelievable? Look here, Director Lee. I’m also a director. Even if I’m not from the station, I’ve been in the field longer than you.”
“Are you looking down on me because I’m younger? Or is it because you think I lack field experience?”
“You’re the one disrespecting us. Before the cue sheet was drafted, you should’ve written down your requirements in the script. What were you doing until now, yelling at the team?”
Hearing Jang Sanggoo’s argument, Doyun couldn’t help but nod in agreement. Meanwhile, Lee Beom-un turned to him with a pleading look, signaling him to intervene.
‘Why should I?’
This was a battle between directors, and as the main director, Lee Beom-un needed to resolve it himself.
Feigning a phone call, Doyun smoothly exited the conference room.
“Hello? Yes, I’m sure I sent it. You didn’t receive it? I’ll check immediately…”
There was no way he would clean up someone else’s mess. Leaning against the wall outside the room, he waited to see how things would unfold.
When Jang Sanggoo didn’t come out after some time, Doyun concluded that the situation had been resolved.
‘Did Beom-un manage to placate him? Or did he concede? Either way, it seems sorted.’
***
After the production meeting ended peacefully, while others went for lunch, Doyun headed to The Spectrum.
“Hello, PD Kim Doyun.”
Yoon Jungho greeted him. In his 30s, Yoon wore a luxurious suit paired with a designer watch. A wedding band glittered on his ring finger.
As the team leader of Actor Team 1 at The Spectrum, Yoon managed four managers, each responsible for one of Korea’s top stars.
Juggling advertising contracts, actor negotiations, interviews, and fan management, Yoon’s desk had two computer monitors running simultaneously.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kim Doyun.”
After exchanging a light handshake and presenting his business card, Doyun introduced himself briefly.
“This is quite the interesting connection. Our Gunwoo is set to star in your company’s competing drama.”
“I read the news.”
Skipping over the obvious, Doyun answered curtly and sat down. Taking a seat across from him, Yoon asked:
“Should I consider you Eun Jihoon’s guardian?”
“Think of me as holding his management negotiation rights.”
“You seem to have an eye for talent. Would you consider transitioning to management? Our company offers quite competitive salaries.”
Not knowing what prompted this suggestion, Doyun drew a firm line.
“I’m here to talk about Jihoon.”
“Of course. But as the producer of our Gunwoo’s rival drama, I have to choose my words carefully.”
After moistening his lips, Yoon sighed.
“We haven’t decided on a child actor for Gunwoo’s role yet.”
What nonsense is this?
There was no child actor role for Jin Gunwoo in The Emperor of the Night.
Could it be that Han Jiseon revised the script to add a child role for Seo Dongjin, and now The Emperor of the Night is suddenly creating a child role as well?
Everyone except Kim Doyun had no idea why Han Jiseon suddenly decided to rewrite the entire script, which had already been approved and scheduled.
‘It’s because I staked my flag there.’
In his previous life, although the drama had successfully concluded, Kim Doyun always felt regret.
He constantly carried thoughts of “I should have done it this way,” and in this life, he resolved to address those regrets.
That regret was specifically about the child actor scenes.
The story of two high school protagonists who fall in love at first sight, separate, and then meet again three years later at the seaside to feel destined love.
‘If I rewrite it like that, Han Jiseon won’t insist on emotional narratives being underdeveloped and won’t throw tantrums with last-minute scripts.’
In other words, the idea of adding child actors to A Summer’s Cantabile was a resolution 20 years in the making.
However, wanting to win against the competition led to hastily filling the script with child actor scenes. But adding something meant taking away something else.
There’s only so much you can show in a 60-minute drama episode.
What’s more, filming would start in a few days, and with editing and broadcasting to follow, creating child actor scenes without preparation was reckless.
This was nothing short of throwing out last-minute scripts from the very beginning of the shoot.
It was both pitiful and frustrating. It felt as though the drama, doomed from the start, was being deliberately wrecked, and frankly, Doyun couldn’t help but feel sorry for the actors.
‘Jin Gunwoo will become a laughingstock.’
Kim Doyun pointed his chin at the script for Episode 1 of The Emperor of the Night sitting on the table.
“How much screen time does the child actor have in the script?”
He wasn’t genuinely curious; he just wanted to understand why they were so adamant about casting a child actor for Jin Gunwoo.
If it was simply out of hope for the success of Jin Gunwoo’s project, there wouldn’t be any need to summon a competing producer for such unpleasant business.
Yoon Jungho flipped through the script and, with an awkward expression, replied.
“There’s no child actor screen time yet. The writer is still rewriting the script. To be honest, I don’t trust the writer. It’s a drama starring our Gunwoo, so why bother adding a child actor?”
“I don’t understand you more, Team Leader Yoon. If you trust Jin Gunwoo so much, why are you trying to steal a child actor from a competing drama?”
Yoon Jungho grinned awkwardly at the sharp question and answered.
“It’s because Eun Jihoon is too good to waste.”
“You even mentioned recruiting me as a manager?”
“That’s because I think highly of a producer who recognized Eun Jihoon early on and secured negotiation rights…”
“So, why are you going to such lengths? It seems related to money.”
Yoon Jungho laughed nervously, feigning surprise.
“Wow, your intuition is sharp. Are you sure you don’t want to work with me? I feel like you’d succeed.”
“Answer the question.”
“…I invested 5 billion won into The Emperor of the Night. On behalf of the company.”
As expected.
Kim Doyun crossed his legs and nodded.
“Now I understand. You and Jin Gunwoo invested 5 billion won, so you’re splitting the profit share.”
“Exactly.”
“And because Jin Gunwoo is a superstar in Japan and Southeast Asia, you calculated that selling the distribution rights would result in a jackpot.”
Yoon Jungho was left speechless, amazed at how accurately Doyun had deduced his motives. However, Doyun’s gaze grew even colder and more emotionless as he stared at him.
“But now that you’ve lost confidence in the drama’s success, you wanted to sabotage A Summer’s Cantabile. Isn’t that right?”
“Would a drama fail just because a child actor and a planning producer left?”
Such excuses left a bitter taste in Doyun’s mouth.
“You still wanted to throw ashes on it, didn’t you? Well, too bad. It’s not going to work.”
“I’ll offer 30 million won. Just pretend to work at our company for a while, and I’ll make sure you get into a drama production company funded by a major corporation.”
“Pfft. So that’s my worth—30 million?”
Kim Doyun, the planning producer of A Summer’s Cantabile.
The one who tamed the infamously difficult Han Jiseon, ousted the troublemakers Bae Shin-ho and Hwang Changsoo, and was now assembling the staff to begin filming.
Once the first episode aired, the entire drama industry would be turned upside down.
People would start investigating who was truly responsible for creating this blockbuster drama.
Was it the writer? The director? The planning producer? Or was it Jeong Woon-Young, the executive producer and financier?
They’d be curious about whose influence played the biggest role in delivering such a high-quality drama.
‘And the ones in the know will call me.’
But what Doyun desired wasn’t fame or a flood of scouting offers.
In his previous life, he was a low-ranking assistant, but now, as a planning producer, he wanted the satisfaction of creating a better drama while also supporting “his people.”
And that would soon become reality.
But 30 million?
“Stop with the boring jokes. I’ll take my leave now.”
“…40 million…”
Yoon Jungho stammered, adding another 10 million to the offer. At that moment, the faint smile lingering on Doyun’s face vanished.
“Team Leader Yoon, instead of scheming, why don’t you focus on Jin Gunwoo’s well-being? Stop sending him to motorcycle training sessions and running him ragged right before filming starts.”
“…Why are you worried about Gunwoo?”
“Because you and I are different.”
On a roll, Doyun looked Yoon Jungho straight in the eye and said,
“You seem to manage actors with a ‘let’s try and see’ approach. As a human being, you should feel ashamed, and as a professional, you should do your job properly.”
“You’re even worse than the rumors say, you bastard.”
At last, Yoon Jungho dropped his facade and hurled curses at Doyun. But instead of being offended, Doyun found it amusing.
“So the rumors about me are already circulating? Do you know what that means? Every single person calling me a bastard is someone like you, Team Leader Yoon. People who don’t do their jobs and only want to steal others’ achievements.”
Getting cursed by such people only confirmed that he was protecting what was his.
“It’s best if we erase today’s meeting from our minds. Goodbye.”
_
Not long after Kim Doyun left the conference room, the door to the adjacent room opened.
Jin Gunwoo stepped in, and Yoon Jungho’s heart sank.
The structure of the office, with only a thin plasterboard wall separating the rooms, meant Gunwoo had likely heard everything.
“Oh, Gunwoo. Did you come here right after practice? When did you…”
“Whose idea was it?”
“What? What are you talking about? Adding the child actor scenes was a decision made after discussions between the writer and director…”
Before Yoon Jungho could finish his excuse, Jin Gunwoo cut him off.
“Taking the child actor from a competing drama. Was it your idea? Or the CEO’s?”
“Well… It’s just… We wanted to reduce your burden a little.”
“So it came from the CEO?”
Jin Gunwoo ran his hands through his hair, leaving it a disheveled mess.
“Why are you doing this?! You block the roles I want, and only push the ones I hate onto me.”
The Emperor of the Night wasn’t a role Jin Gunwoo wanted.
The drama’s gloomy narrative, with over 80% of the scenes set in studios and night shoots, was suffocating.
Even just reading the script made him feel like he was going to lose his mind.
‘How did I end up like this?’
Jin Gunwoo, who used to laugh easily, had always wanted to try romantic comedies or family dramas.
But his agency, claiming such roles lacked charm, constantly pushed him into roles like soldiers or police officers.
As a result, he always had to act rigidly wherever he went and couldn’t express his honest feelings.
‘I don’t even know who I am anymore.’
It was like living a life where he played the role of “actor Jin Gunwoo” crafted by the agency.
“All of that was for your image management…”
“For that so-called mysterious concept? I’ve been so restricted between home and the office that I can’t even remember the last time I walked under the sunlight.”
Jin Gunwoo slammed his hands on the desk, breathing heavily.
Even though he was breathing, he felt as if oxygen wasn’t reaching his brain, a symptom of shortness of breath overtaking him.
Startled, Yoon Jungho grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge, opened it, and handed it to Jin Gunwoo.
“After this is over, go to Hawaii. Get some sunlight, surf, and relax.”
“After this drama, let’s not see each other again. I can’t live like this anymore.”
The timing aligned with the expiration of his contract. Whether he started a one-person agency or took a break, he had been planning not to work with The Spectrum anymore for a long time, and he took this opportunity to say it out loud.
“Do you think the CEO would just say, ‘Oh, fine, goodbye,’ if you act like that? Are you ready to take responsibility for the Choi Eun-ah scandal?”
The female lead of the drama Flaming Butterfly, Choi Eun-ah, was an actress from Division 1 of The Spectrum.
Jin Gunwoo had fallen in love with her after exchanging brief greetings at the agency.
But the agency, wanting to keep Jin Gunwoo locked in a cage forever, interfered, making it impossible for them to meet, and eventually, they broke up.
‘Eun-ah retired from the entertainment industry and went to a wealthy man.’
Jin Gunwoo couldn’t stop Choi Eun-ah, who just wanted to live a quiet, happy life away from the spotlight.
Knowing he couldn’t give her that kind of life, he had been drowning in deep depression.
“What did Eun-ah and I even do to be treated like criminals?!”
“Your fans wouldn’t see it that way. Sure, you might gain sympathy for being dumped by Eun-ah, but Eun-ah wouldn’t come out of this unscathed.”
Jin Gunwoo raked his hair back with an expression of utter frustration.
“You’re using Eun-ah as leverage to threaten me? You know I care more about her getting hurt than my own pain, and you’re exploiting that!”
“So for Eun-ah’s sake, stop talking about leaving the agency. Got it?”
At that moment, the door creaked open. While Jin Gunwoo, emotionally charged, didn’t notice who entered, Yoon Jungho did.
“Ki… Kim Doyun PD?”
As if he’d seen a grim reaper, Yoon Jungho stumbled backward in terror, tripping over the armrest of a sofa.
With an indifferent expression, Kim Doyun casually walked in and headed to the sofa where he had been sitting earlier.
“I left my phone here. Ah, here it is.”
Finding his phone, Kim Doyun held it up for Yoon Jungho to see and smiled faintly.
“Please, continue your conversation.”
As Kim Doyun left the room, Yoon Jungho clutched his chest in frustration, as though he would lose his mind.
“That bastard left his phone here on purpose. Did he turn on the recording function or something?”
Panicking, Yoon Jungho decided he needed to report this to the CEO and called him immediately.
Meanwhile, Jin Gunwoo bolted out of the room.
“Hey! Jin Gunwoo! That bastard isn’t going to spout nonsense, is he?!”
***
Kim Doyun was waiting by the elevator, holding the down button. He already had a guess about who would follow him.
“Mr PD?”
As expected, Jin Gunwoo called out to him, having chased him down. Turning slowly, Doyun looked at Jin Gunwoo.
‘Such a tender and fragile personality.’
It was the first time Doyun had seen Jin Gunwoo in person, in both his lives.
When Kim Doyun had gained enough recognition to be invited to year-end entertainment awards, Jin Gunwoo had already vanished without a trace.
Jin Gunwoo’s first impression resembled a charming villain from a romance comic.
If he grew his hair, wore leather pants, and a white shirt, his exotic features could easily land him a role in a Western romance movie.
His long, slender eyes, thick lashes, and sharp, straight nose gave a strong impression, but his dark pupils wavered under Doyun’s gaze.
“Speak.”
Doyun’s question implied that someone who chased him all the way to the elevator must have something to say. Hesitating, Jin Gunwoo finally spoke.
“Our team leader was very disrespectful. I’m sorry for the trouble, especially since you’re busy preparing for filming.”
“It’s already behind us, and I’ll forget it quickly. But are you okay? You look extremely tired.”
Maybe it was because he had seen Seo Dongjin playing around with Eun Jihoon in matching blue jackets yesterday?
Gunwoo’s pale face and hollow eyes were a stark reminder of what it meant to be the doomed protagonist of a failing drama.
“I’m just nervous about the upcoming shoot. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
A top star living under a tightly controlled “mystique” concept.
And soon, he might become a tragic star, severely injured or even dead in a motorcycle accident.
“Actually, I’m a fan of yours, Jin Gunwoo.”
“…Me?”
“My mother and younger sister are fans too. I hope you won’t forget that many people care about your health.”
Those were the words Doyun had longed to hear when he had cancer.
Not empty phrases like “I hope you recover” or “You’ll get better,” but words that reassured him he hadn’t been forgotten.
When suddenly cut off from society, shuttling only between home and the hospital, the fear of disappearing as a person had been overwhelming.
It was another form of death—being socially deceased while still breathing.
Perhaps Gunwoo was also afraid of that. Depression was an illness, after all—a very dangerous one.
“I hope to see you healthy again. And if necessary, I can be your witness.”
Doyun turned his phone toward Gunwoo, showing the recording app running.
Gunwoo’s eyes widened in shock.
“T-then…”
“Don’t let yourself be threatened—do the threatening. If people learn that Jin Gunwoo sacrificed himself to protect his ex-girlfriend, your fans will fight for you.”
Gunwoo hesitated, then closed his mouth.
“Judging by your silence, you don’t seem ready to go that far. Call me if you change your mind.”
Handing over his business card, Doyun stepped into the elevator.
“Always wear a helmet. Though using a stunt double would be best.”
As the doors were about to close, Gunwoo stuck his arm through, making them reopen. He spoke.
“I’ll definitely call you.”
“I hope it won’t be because I had to release this recording.”
“No! That’s not it… If I ever get the chance, I’d like to work with you, Mr. PD.”
The drama might fail, and Gunwoo might take a hit, but if given the right role, he would rise again.
Of course, that would require overcoming some harsh trials, but the resolve in Gunwoo’s eyes, which had changed so dramatically in just a few minutes, gave Doyun hope.
“Then break free from your cage. I’ll see you again.”
—
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