Glory Film Company

Chapter 34: Two Hearts (3)

“What is the reason?”

 Gu Bonjik asked sharply, his face a mix of disappointment and irritation. Park Sunghoon, while equally disgruntled, didn’t have the luxury of indulging his frustration.

“You know the system. When we review projects of a certain scale, unanimous approval is required.”

“So, there was a dissenting vote? Why?”

Having boasted about securing 600 billion won in total investment—300 billion per installment—it was an awkward and frustrating situation for Gu to deliver the news that Director Ahn’s project was on hold. The very thought that he might lose Ahn Junseok and his work made him break out in a cold sweat.

“I’m not saying it’s impossible. It’ll just take some time, so I need you to smooth things over in the meantime.”

“Who opposed it?”

“It started with one vote, but it grew to four. Convincing them is going to take some time.”

Park Sunghoon didn’t bother hiding the details of the situation.

“Four votes?”

“Is Director Ahn really confident about this project?”

Gu hesitated, unable to answer immediately. Sensing this, Park’s expression sharpened.

At first, Park Sunghoon had been furious with Yang Hyesoo. Despite knowing it was his carefully selected item, she had stubbornly opposed it, claiming it didn’t feel right. However, once his temper cooled and he reviewed the script thoroughly, he began to understand her perspective.

Though Korean cinema had significantly improved, this genre still carried considerable risk.

Sci-fi is an alluring genre with a dedicated fanbase, but successful sci-fi films were almost always based on pre-validated original IPs—stories proven through books, comics, or dramas. These existing works provided a foundation for successful adaptations.

In contrast, Ahn Junseok’s script was an untested original. Could it immediately captivate audiences upon release?

‘Not sure.’

To recover the massive 600-billion-won investment, the film would need to draw at least 10 million viewers. This meant appealing not only to the core audience of 20s and 30s but also to family viewers.

It was at this point that Park Sunghoon’s mental calculations ground to a halt.

‘This script alone isn’t enough. I need to hear more about how the director plans to expand the story and what level of talent can be cast.’

Finally, Gu Bonjik, after much hesitation, gave a belated response.

“…Director Ahn has always been confident in his work. This script feels thoroughly prepared as well…”

Gu tried to defend Ahn Junseok, eager to move the project forward. But Park Sunghoon’s stance had already begun shifting in the opposite direction.

*****

A few days later

“Director Park! Let’s have a casual dinner together.”

 Gu Bonjik reached out to Park Sunghoon.

“Dinner?”

“We should meet with Director Ahn. We can discuss the project in more detail.”

“Oh, I was curious about a few things, but isn’t Director Ahn on vacation?”

“Ah, about that. His trip was cut short. He returned to Korea yesterday.”

“Oh, I see. I thought he’d be gone for a while.”

“Haha, well, how about this Thursday evening?”

“Sure, I’ll try to make it since it’s a meeting with Director Ahn.”

“Great! It’ll be a comfortable and open discussion.”

“Can I bring a few more people from our side?”

“Oh, of course! Are you referring to members of the investment committee? Just let me know the numbers, and I’ll prepare accordingly.”

“Not too many—just three, including myself.”

“Got it! I’ll confirm the time and place and get back to you.”

In just a few days, the power dynamics had completely shifted.

The once-nervous Gu Bonjik was now proactively arranging meetings with the director, expressing a strong desire to persuade Park Sunghoon and the investment committee. Meanwhile, Park Sunghoon, who had taken a step back, was strategizing how to maintain his advantageous position.

A card too valuable to lose.

Would this be the opportunity to bring the independent and visionary Ahn Junseok under control—an auteur who had built a distinct creative universe, free from the interference of investors and producers?

It was a scene that made one salivate just imagining it. “Let’s do what needs to be done, drink what we want, and enjoy it.”

To make that happen, they needed an actor who could play the hunting dog role. Park Sunghoon called Yang Hyesoo.

****

“Isn’t it strange? I was determined to stay firm, but before I even made a move, they called me first.”
Yang Hyesoo, meeting Youngkwang again, enthusiastically recounted what had happened at work.

“The director called you personally?”
“Yeah. I thought they were calling me to reprimand me, you know? Last time, they told me to bring a project that seemed promising if I was so confident. So I grabbed the book you gave me and included it in my file, just in case.”
“And then?”
“I didn’t even need to bring it out. Oh, I don’t mean to say they dismissed it. It’s just that this is a time to assess the situation. Anyway, the director told me they were planning to meet Director Ahn Junseok and asked me to join the meeting.”
“Oh.”
Things were starting to get interesting.

While Yang Hyesoo was busy preparing questions and relevant examples from Ahn Junseok’s book for a potential clash, expecting the director to overpower her, she found him smiling gently and extending a hand instead.

“How can we determine a movie’s fate just from the first draft? We’re not gods of cinema. Representative Gu is arranging a meal with Director Ahn, so keep your schedule open for Thursday evening. Got it?”

Mimicking Director Park Sunghoon’s tone, Yang Hyesoo shared his proposal but then looked troubled again.
“…But since this is an official meeting, it’s really tricky to invite you.”
“That makes sense.”
“If I want to handle this well, I need to come up with a good strategy. Do you think this will work?”

She slid the materials she had prepared toward Youngkwang. It was a report analyzing the successes and failures of movies in similar genres. While she had clearly put in significant effort, it was unlikely that Ahn Junseok would sit quietly and review it—or react positively, even if he did glance at it.

“Are you planning to flip the table entirely?” Youngkwang tilted his head.

“Huh?”
“It comes across as if you’re outright doubting the director’s ability and insisting he abandon his vision because your data is solid. Do you think Director Ahn’s pride would take that well?”

“Sigh. Then what should I do?”

Yang Hyesoo’s expression showed she hadn’t grasped the idea that delivery matters as much as content when communicating. Having always spoken bluntly, forging and breaking relationships with directness, it was understandably difficult for her.

“Just share the meeting time and location with me.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll show up there as if by coincidence. You can at least arrange for me to join the table, right?”
“Oh, that much is no problem.”

Thinking that introducing an industry peer wasn’t difficult, Yang Hyesoo nodded lightly. But then she resumed pondering if her prepared materials would backfire with Ahn Junseok.

It was frustrating and concerning for her, but it was good news for Youngkwang. The more Yang Hyesoo stumbled, the more it gave him opportunities to shine.

*****

Thursday evening, at a bar in Gangnam.

Park Sunghoon, Gu Bonjik, Director Ahn Junseok, Yang Hyesoo, and her supervisor, Manager Kim, gathered in one place. After exchanging names and business cards, they began casually discussing projects.

At a nearby table, two young men were in a heated debate, and their raised voices drew attention.

“No, we can’t just stick to simple series anymore; we need to aim for franchises!”
“Franchises?”
“Sure, it’s high-risk, but once the system is established, it brings stable profits. That’s how Hollywood movies are being produced.”
“Superhero movies are made that way, yeah. But can we do that in Korea?”
“Why not? Korean-style fantasy has already proven successful in a few cases. Production companies need to have such franchises to plan the long-term structure of the movie market.”
“That could also help establish a foothold in overseas markets.”

The ears of everyone at the table, including Director Ahn, perked up. The two young men were now the focus.

“Franchises? The future of Korean cinema?”

Were they industry insiders?

At first, the group exchanged amused glances, finding the overheard conversation at the next table intriguingly coincidental. Gradually, their chatter subsided, and their focus shifted entirely to the neighboring discussion.

Understandably so—what was being said seemed like the very discussion they should be having about Ahn Junseok’s project, delivered with depth and insight.

“Wow, who could they be?”
Unable to hold back any longer, Ahn Junseok asked, his face brimming with curiosity.

“They sound young, but their perspective is exceptional. Confident, too. What do you think they do?”

Park Sunghoon, too, let out an amused chuckle, intrigued by the situation. Among those present, only Yang Hyesoo recognized the voice.

“Unbelievable. That bastard Youngkwang. He got here early to time everything perfectly?”

She was certain it was Youngkwang’s voice, which had grown familiar over the past few days.

“Act like it’s a coincidence and give me a chance to join the table, okay?”
The words Youngkwang had spoken just a few days earlier came to mind, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Hyesoo, why are you smiling? Do you know something?”
“Oh, I think I recognize that voice. Let me just check real quick.”
“Go ahead.”

Park Sunghoon and Ahn Junseok watched her with growing curiosity, while Gu Bonjik, sensing something ominous, forced a twisted smile.

The moment Yang Hyesoo turned the corner, she called out in a loud voice.
“Wow, isn’t that Youngkwang? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Hyesoo?”

Sure enough, Lee Youngkwang was sitting face-to-face with actor Lee Jaehyun.

While the atmosphere was slightly awkward, it wasn’t entirely stiff. Watching Yang Hyesoo stumble toward him with robotic awkwardness, Youngkwang grinned slyly to himself.

“Let me introduce you. This is actor Lee Jaehyun, who’s working on a project with us. And this is my friend Yang Hyesoo, who works in the production evaluation department at Jeil Entertainment.”

“Oh, you’re friends with Ms. Yang?”

Before the introductions could be completed, Ahn Junseok, unable to suppress his curiosity, abruptly approached Youngkwang’s table.

“Wait… is that Director Ahn Junseok?”

“Wow, Youngkwang recognized me. And by face, too.”

“Ah, good evening. Though it’s truly my honor. My name is Lee Youngkwang—‘Youngkwang’ happens to be my actual name, haha.”

Youngkwang attempted a cold joke, and one person’s face darkened visibly.

“Lee Youngkwang? Him again?”

To Gu Bonjik, it was undeniably the same Youngkwang who had tormented him nearly two decades ago, now reappearing with a different face at this critical moment. He was convinced it was fate—an unwelcome one.

“Director, let’s return to our table now.”

Gu Bonjik’s voice was tinged with anxiety as he called out to Ahn Junseok.

“And Ms. Yang, once you’ve said hello to your friends, come back quickly as well.”

Both in the wild and in society, showing nervousness meant revealing a weakness—and losing control of the situation. Ahn Junseok recalled this principle with a faint smile as he looked back at Gu Bonjik.

Instead of complying, Ahn Junseok ignored Gu Bonjik’s request, glancing between Yang Hyesoo and Youngkwang.

“Not to eavesdrop, but your conversation sounded fascinating. And since you’re friends with Ms. Yang, you’re hardly a stranger. What do you think? Care to join us for a chat?”

“Oh, that sounds great. We were just keeping things casual ourselves.”

With a confident smile, Youngkwang slowly rose from his seat.