Glory Film Company

Episode 38: Hidden Agendas

One of the common mistakes made by those in power, or those who are exceptionally talented, is underestimating their opponents. They operate under the complacent belief that no one can possibly read their moves or match their intellect. This often leads to a downfall—unless, of course, they’re dealing with someone thoroughly prepared to exploit them.

And when it comes to someone as sharp as Youngkwang? They’re bound to face an amusing reversal.

“Jeil Entertainment wants to meet with us? That General Manager Park Sunghoon himself?” Director Lee Deokjae tilted his head, seeking confirmation.

“They said the primary topic would be the investment for Director Ha Pilsung’s 300 Days After We Break Up. But they’ve also expressed interest in hearing about our other projects,” Yang Hyesoo relayed faithfully.

The excitement on Lee’s face was hard to miss.

“If they’re interested in other projects, that means they’re considering additional investments, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

“Ha, but Director Kwak’s project isn’t ready to be revealed yet… Still, we can probably share the proposal, right? And I could bring along what I’m working on as well.”

“That’s fine, but how much are you planning to ask for?”

“What?”

“If we’re looking for investment in those other projects, under what conditions and how much are you aiming for?”

“Well… the more, the better, right? Why would we turn down any reasonable offer?”

Lee Deokjae had no concrete plans yet.

“It’s better to have a ballpark figure in mind before going in. They’ll likely come prepared with several scenarios,” Youngkwang pointed out.

“Scenarios?”

Lee blinked, clearly out of his depth.

Youngkwang sighed inwardly. Of course, Lee’s genius lay in directing, not in business strategy.

“Park Sunghoon is bound to propose specific investment amounts and conditions. He’ll present several options to gauge our reactions. If we show up unprepared, they’ll steer the conversation to suit their advantage.”

Youngkwang’s thorough explanation caused Lee’s expression to harden. It made sense, and yet the uncertainty about Jeil’s plans left him more anxious than reassured.

“We need to draft some budgets for these projects,” Lee admitted, immediately sitting down and spreading out his notes.

Director Choi Suhyeon silently joined him, bringing along the proposal for Kwak’s project. Soon after, Director Joo Kanghyuk, now practically Choi’s shadow, gathered a calculator, some A4 sheets, and pens, finding a seat nearby. Even actor Jang Hyunmin took a spot with a serious look on his face.

For the first time in a while, My Way Pictures’ full team had come together.

“All right, let’s start with Director Kwak’s next project. How much do we think it’ll cost?”

“Kwak mentioned a minimum of 7 billion won, but that’s nonsense. To make Guardian Spirit properly, it’ll cost at least 20 billion.”

“Agreed. The CG alone will require a significant budget, not to mention the locations, sets, and moving shots. Every scene demands high production value.”

“How much do you think President Park Mujin would invest?”

“Feels like it could be around 3 billion, but that’s just a hunch.”

“If Jeil Entertainment were to fund the rest, what do you think they’d demand from us?”

“What’s the most recent project Jeil funded at that level? We should compare to get a sense.”

The scene resembled a group of students preparing for college entrance exams or job interviews. Over the next few days, they tirelessly ran through scenarios, worked the calculator, and prepared model answers to expected questions. Their discussions were cautious yet incisive.

Meanwhile, Youngkwang had deliberately stepped back from the center of the action. After all, this was a test he had set in motion.

“To deal with someone like Park Sunghoon, this level of preparation is essential.”

Youngkwang had designed the exercise to help the well-meaning but naive My Way Pictures team develop the resilience to handle real negotiations.

“By estimating budgets, they’ll get a sense of whether Jeil plans to lowball us or make a fair offer. Thinking through different scenarios before the meeting will make them less vulnerable.”

The problem with first loves, and first experiences in general, is their inevitable naivety. Unfamiliar with the terrain, lacking instincts and knowledge, people stumble through mistakes until they self-destruct. But that’s not just about love—it’s the rule of life. The first attempt is clumsy; survival breeds strength and shrewdness.

“No time to sit and wallow now. If I can turn crises into opportunities, I’ll welcome as many as come.”

Youngkwang bit his lip.

Park Sunghoon wasn’t just trying to recruit Ahn Junseok—he was now showing interest in My Way Pictures itself. Why?

Because of the stellar 20-minute rough cut? Unlikely. No one of Park’s caliber would get swayed over a single film.

“Shady bastard. He backstabbed Gu Bonjik without blinking, and now he’s suddenly extending an olive branch to Yang Hyesoo?”

Youngkwang frowned. Sudden kindness always had an ulterior motive.

What could Park stand to gain by investing in My Way Pictures’ projects? Was the investment even real?

Youngkwang began sorting through the situation from Park’s perspective.

“This industry is full of dreamers—and predators. I’ve seen enough people crushed by a single wrong move.”

My Way Pictures, a small, fledgling studio, likely seemed like easy prey. That might be how others saw it. But to Youngkwang, the studio was a vessel for dreams he wouldn’t let anyone sabotage.

*****

“It looks complete now, doesn’t it? With low, standard, and generous budget scenarios laid out, I think we’ve covered all the bases,” said one of My Way Pictures’ team members, their eyes bloodshot from days of work.

“Well done,” Youngkwang said, barely glancing at the budget sheet. “Now, let’s decide our hard limits—what we’re willing to concede and where we draw the line.”

He wasn’t interested in the numbers themselves anymore; it was time to consider the chessboard they were walking onto.

“If Jeil Entertainment offers the largest budget—200 billion won per project—but attaches unreasonable conditions, would you accept?”

Youngkwang finally asked the question he had been holding back.

“What do you mean?”

Hot-tempered Jang Hyunmin was the first to react.

“…What unreasonable conditions could they possibly attach?” murmured Choi Suhyeon, glancing around the increasingly chaotic office with a grimace.

“Like what, exactly?”

Lee Deokjae’s gaze was sharp as he scrutinized Youngkwang. He knew from experience that Youngkwang wouldn’t bring this up without good reason.

“For example, what if they demanded enough equity to control My Way Pictures?”

Youngkwang’s provocative suggestion stunned the room.

“What?”
“Are you serious? Could they actually do that?”
“And then what happens?”

The three exchanged uneasy glances, the scenario as alarming as it was unthinkable.

But Youngkwang couldn’t shake the feeling that this was Park Sunghoon’s true goal. His gut told him so.

And in this industry, gut feelings often turned out to be right.

“It’s just a possibility,” Youngkwang said calmly. “But if you think ahead a few steps, it’s one worth considering.”

Park Sunghoon was clearly maneuvering to sideline Gu Bonjik and secure a direct contract with Ahn Junseok. He had used Youngkwang as a pawn to facilitate that.

Now, by leveraging Yang Hyesoo, he was reaching out to both Youngkwang and Lee Deokjae under the guise of discussing investment.

But what if this was part of a broader scheme to use Lee Deokjae and My Way Pictures as additional pawns in his game?

Youngkwang couldn’t ignore the possibility.

“Either way, we’ll know more after the meeting. I just wanted to bring it up so we’re prepared for as many scenarios as possible,” he said, backing off to let the conversation settle.

The warning had been given.

Soon, the lid would come off, and they would see what was inside.

****

“So, you’re offering to send over Lee Youngkwang?”

After repeatedly ignoring calls from Jeil Entertainment’s general manager, Park Sunghoon, Ahn Junseok finally gave in and agreed to meet for dinner. During their conversation, Park presented an aggressive proposal that immediately piqued Ahn’s interest.

“From what I saw, he’s got a good sense for things. I think he’d work well with you. What if we assigned him to your directing team?”

“Isn’t he a producer? And isn’t he already employed by another company?”

“Oh, we’ll handle that. The specifics of his role will be entirely up to you.”

Park spoke as if Youngkwang were his subordinate, casually offering him as part of the deal. Although Ahn found it curious, the offer itself wasn’t unappealing, so he nodded.

“I did want to talk more with him that day. Though I’m not sure I’d have been satisfied even if we had. He seemed confident, but still…”

“Then let’s arrange another meeting. And…”

Park trailed off, locking eyes with Ahn.

“…?”

“We’re not just bringing in that guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve mentioned this before—Jeil Entertainment is gearing up to get into production directly.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Well, we’re planning to propose an equity investment in My Way Pictures.”

“What?”

Ahn’s head shot up, clearly startled.

“We’ve already decided to invest in the country’s top VFX studio, Wall. That deal is finalized.”

With a self-satisfied grin, Park casually unveiled his latest achievement. Just a day earlier, he had signed a contract with Wall, an emerging virtual production hub in Asia, and planned to release the news publicly within the week.

Wall Studio was renowned for its high-quality VFX work across dramas, commercials, music videos, and films. It was often compared to the likes of New Zealand’s Mount Studio, famous for titles like Dinosaur Wars and The Lost Time, and Hollywood’s Milky Studio, known for projects like Lucky Man, Mirrorworld, and Top Secret.

Among Korea’s ten major VFX studios, Wall was indisputably at the top, and Jeil Entertainment’s substantial investment was poised to widen the gap even further. It was clear that Jeil’s films would soon take top priority in Wall’s pipeline.

For Ahn, whose films relied heavily on special effects and CGI, this move made Jeil Entertainment an incredibly enticing partner.

“Jeil Entertainment is being quite aggressive, aren’t they?” Ahn remarked.

“We have clear goals,” Park replied confidently.

“Given the scale of this, you must have other major projects in development aside from mine.”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s something I need to clarify.”

“What’s that?”

Park, sensing that Ahn was coming around, smiled smoothly.

“In terms of scale and priority, where does my project rank among your slate?”

The question carried more than curiosity—it was a matter of pride. Park, recognizing this, made sure to tread carefully and offer reassurance.

“Ah, I should’ve mentioned this first. Naturally, your film is our top priority. It’s the project we’re most committed to promoting.”

It was the perfect answer to satisfy Ahn.

“Good. Let’s discuss the specifics, then.”

For the first time, Ahn leaned back comfortably on the sofa, signaling his willingness to engage. Gu Bonjik’s face briefly flickered in his mind, but Ahn dismissed it. He didn’t owe Gu any loyalty.

While Jeil Entertainment’s approach initially struck Ahn as disrespectful—trying to win him over with money—it now seemed genuine.

And above all, hearing Youngkwang’s name again sparked a pleasant sense of anticipation.