Glory Film Company

Episode 40. Jealousy (1)

“It’s not an easy sum.”

The following evening, at a certain location in Yeonnam-dong, Park Sunghoon, head of the department, rubbed his nose with an expression of feigned difficulty while negotiating the budget for 300 Days After We Break Up with the members of My Way Pictures.

“It’s an unprecedentedly ambiguous budget. But it’s not entirely impossible to manage.”

“What do you mean?”

Lee Deokjae’s face briefly showed confusion at Park Sunghoon’s abrupt shift in tone, but his calm nature kept him silent, waiting for the next words.

“Not just 300 Days After We Break Up, but My Way Pictures also has several excellent projects in the pipeline—Director Kwak Junghoon’s upcoming work, Director Lee Deokjae’s comeback project. Jeil Entertainment is very interested in these as well.”

Park Sunghoon began to reveal his ambition.

“To be honest, Jeil Entertainment is pushing an aggressive investment strategy to expand its content business.”

This was the same insight Youngkwang had already identified and shared internally.

Jeil Entertainment had invested in “WALL,” Korea’s top VFX (visual effects) studio, and now planned to invest in production companies that not only held quality IPs but also had the capability to produce them.
Park Sunghoon subtly emphasized how this proposal was a golden opportunity.

The members of My Way Pictures, pretending to hear this for the first time, focused intently on what Park Sunghoon was saying.

“The good news is that priority will not be given to major production companies or studios with extensive filmographies. The focus will solely be on potential—on future growth prospects and the synergy a partnership with Jeil Entertainment can create. Those will be the key criteria.”

Good news for whom?

Despite the ostentatious framing, Park’s words came across as long-winded. Lee Deokjae, who rarely interrupted conversations, directly addressed the core issue.

“So, are you saying Jeil Entertainment is interested in My Way Pictures?”

“That’s correct.”

“You mean like the equity investment you made with WALL?”

“Yes, that’s right. Of course, equity participation means involvement in management, but on the bright side, you’d gain a system and financial capital. I hope you’ll see this as a positive opportunity.”

His words carried an undercurrent of arrogance, as though he were offering to teach them how to properly run their company.

However…

“Wow. Does that mean all of our ongoing projects could receive proper investment?”

Following the plan he had coordinated in advance with Youngkwang, Lee Deokjae readily took the bait.

“With increased budgets or by reallocating funds across projects, management and production would become much easier. That would mean we could comfortably make 300 Days After We Break Up with a 3.5 billion won budget.”

“Could you explain in more detail?”

As Lee Deokjae’s eyes lit up with interest, Park Sunghoon smiled, satisfied, and nodded.

****

The fall of 2022 was one of the busiest and most successful seasons of Youngkwang’s life.

First, Ha Pilsung’s film 300 Days After We Break Up had surpassed 50 shooting sessions.
Then, he participated in the pre-production of Director Kwak Junghoon’s next film, The Guardian Spirit, as well as the planning meetings for Director Lee Deokjae’s comeback project, Youth.

On top of this, Youngkwang had to review contracts with Jeil Entertainment, which meant attending numerous meetings. But what occupied most of his time was Director Ahn Junseok’s next project.

If I weren’t young, I’d have collapsed by now.

Late at night, back home, he stared at his reflection in the mirror—a gaunt, exhausted face that seemed to have aged overnight. He touched his sunken cheeks and muttered to himself:

“Damn it. In the old days, I could’ve churned out one movie a month. This is so slow… too damn slow.”

The film industry had changed drastically over the past 19 years. The increasing scale of productions had also significantly extended timelines. Pre-production now took three months, shooting another three, and post-production another three.

Even with insane, nonstop effort, it was clear that completing a film in less than a year was nearly impossible.

Living off a meager 800,000 won monthly base salary with a 10% incentive promised later, Youngkwang’s life was unsurprisingly frugal.

When he had complained to Yang Hyesoo about not being able to afford meat, he hadn’t been exaggerating.

“Director Ha Pilsung’s film won’t be released until spring or summer next year at the earliest. I can’t live like this until then.”

Maybe it was time to move to a cheaper place.

Youngkwang looked around his tiny apartment: one small bedroom, a living room, and a bathroom. The monthly rent alone was 600,000 won, and when utilities and phone bills were added, his fixed expenses exceeded 700,000 won.

If he couldn’t walk to the office, transportation costs would’ve piled up too.
Lunch was covered by the company, and he often freeloaded dinner through work meetings or charged it to the company card. But with only coins jangling in his pocket, there were moments when his chest felt tight with frustration and gloom.

What am I working so hard for? What riches am I chasing?

Of course, if just one film became a massive hit, all of Youngkwang’s problems would be resolved at once. And while the additional income from Jeil Entertainment for working on Director Ahn’s project would help for the time being, Youngkwang decided to tackle the root of his issues.

A house I only come to sleep in… there’s no reason to spend this much.

After spending a few days throwing away unnecessary items and consolidating only what he truly needed, Youngkwang realized he could easily live in a smaller studio apartment.

However, after scouring nearby neighborhoods—Yeonnam-dong, Yeonhui-dong, Donggyo-dong, Seogyo-dong, Sangsu-dong, Hapjeong-dong, and Mangwon-dong—he found nothing affordable.

“They’re all the same. This market is insane,” he muttered.

No matter how hard he stared at real estate apps, no solution presented itself. As he endlessly scrolled with his finger, he accidentally answered a surprise call from Ahn Junseok.

Producer Youngkwang!

“Yes, Director!”

Damn.

Lately, Ahn Junseok had been calling him at all hours, relying on him more and more. While Youngkwang had planned for this and intentionally cultivated the dependency, the degree to which it escalated was becoming a problem.

Even getting a “You awake?” text at 2 a.m. stretched the limits of what could be considered reasonable behavior.

Come out! We’re at Hapjeong right now!

He had mentioned a script meeting with a writer, but his voice sounded clearly intoxicated. If he were completely blacked out, Youngkwang might have ignored the call, but it didn’t seem to be that bad.

“Yes! I’ll head over immediately!”

With a loyal-sounding reply, Youngkwang hung up.
Sigh.
A deep breath escaped him.

It was already 10 p.m. Another day he wouldn’t get home until the early hours of the morning.

But that night, Ahn Junseok was a little different from usual. The writer who had been with him had already left, likely having fled.
Ahn Junseok was clearly not in good shape.

“I really liked Director Lee Deokjae, you know?”

Suddenly, Ahn began rambling in a drunken confessional tone.

“Some people say he used up all his genius in his twenties, but that’s just ignorant nonsense. He is a genius. And now, that genius is making a comeback.”

“Haha. I think Director Lee Deokjae would be thrilled to hear you say that.”

“Don’t change the subject, Producer Youngkwang. What do you think? Is the project going well?”

Though he was drunk, his sharp and intense gaze belied his words.

This was likely the result of hearing something somewhere, brooding over it, and then blurting it out. Youngkwang had a rough idea of what might have triggered it.

“I wouldn’t presume to judge. We’re still in the stage of finding direction.”

By stepping back with a measured response, Youngkwang maintained his composure.

Ahn Junseok chuckled faintly.

“Why so coy? Everyone’s saying the My Way Pictures projects are the most anticipated releases.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on—fantasy films by a double ten-million-hit director, Lee Deokjae’s comeback project, and even a romance film by a former erotic director. There’s not one that doesn’t draw interest. Nail the marketing, and they’ll all be hits, one after the other.”

“Have you been meeting with someone?”

Though he already knew the answer, Youngkwang feigned ignorance.

“That friend from the investment committee team. Yang Hyesoo, your university alum? She…”

Ahn furrowed his brow.

“She sent me the wrong message.”

“What kind of message?”

“It got deleted immediately, but it was something like, ‘The My Way Pictures projects have way more potential than expected. Priorities have been adjusted to make aggressive investments. A contract for the discussed amount will be signed within days.’ I don’t know. It’s all business talk anyway.”

The content of the message wasn’t what mattered—it was what Ahn inferred from it.

The phrase about changing priorities must have shaken him deeply.

Youngkwang smirked internally.

It appeared as though Yang Hyesoo had accidentally sent a message intended for My Way Pictures to Ahn Junseok instead.

But it wasn’t an accident.

It was a calculated move, directed by none other than Youngkwang.
Every aspect of this was part of his script—the Ahn Junseok jealousy provocation plan.

Genius eccentrics often experienced wild emotional swings, and to Youngkwang, Ahn Junseok was no exception. Though confident and talented, his mental stability wavered at even the slightest hint of insecurity.

Particularly when his position felt threatened, he became utterly unhinged.

And that was precisely why Youngkwang had decided to draw him in.

When the time came for My Way Pictures to extract everything they could and pull out, Ahn’s jealousy would serve as the driving force for their plans.

Of course, Youngkwang had planned to properly reward Ahn Junseok for his involvement.

“Oh, that message? We received it as well.”
Youngkwang nodded casually as if it were no big deal.

“You did?”

“Director Lee Deokjae got it. I just heard about it secondhand. But the content you remember is mostly accurate. It seems Jeil Entertainment was quite impressed with our projects. It looks like the investment amount will be substantial as well.”

“That’s good, then.”
Ahn Junseok offered a half-hearted congratulations.

“But, it’s not really fair to compare those projects with yours.”

“…?”

“They’re entirely different in scope.”

It was unclear whether Youngkwang was siding with him or just trying to gloss over the matter. Ahn furrowed his brows, trying to discern Youngkwang’s intent.

Seeing this, Youngkwang let the silence hang for a moment before delivering his prepared line.

“You know, the projects you mentioned earlier—who do you think knows the details of those, down to the nitty-gritty? Including your own project?”

“The person handling all of them would be… the Jeil Entertainment representative, I suppose…”

“And me, right? Isn’t that true?”

“Hmm.”

Youngkwang sipped from his glass before setting it down and spoke with a sly smile.

“…Junseok hyung.”

“…?”

“Let me speak honestly today, just as your little brother.”

The sudden shift to informal language startled Ahn, clearing his drunken haze.

“If I spoke as a producer tied to a company, my words might sound biased. But now, I’m just talking to you as a younger brother. Is that okay?”

“…Uh, sure. Go ahead.”
Ahn briefly calculated the age gap between them and, after a moment, nodded.

“From my perspective, your project is the best.”

“What?”

“The scale alone is different. Yours is a franchise film. Director Kwak’s project, at best, might become a two-film series. Director Lee’s comeback film? We’re all worried about it, honestly. He’s returning to directing after such a long time, and he’s clearly feeling the pressure. His thoughts are all over the place. It’s understandable, right? People around him are full of expectations, saying this or that. But if he fails this time, will he get another chance? He’s in a situation where he has to overcome that burden to create something.

“And what else is left? 300 Days After We Break Up—a romantic comedy. You’ve been dismissive about it because it’s by a former erotic film director, haven’t you?”

“What? No! I just said it was unique and intriguing.”

“Come on. I could feel it. Anyway, that film is just a low-budget 3.5 billion won project. It’s not even in the same league. Even if Jeil Entertainment is backing it, it’ll never carry the same weight as your film.”

“Well, that remains to be seen.”

“Then wait and see.”

Youngkwang gave him a meaningful smile.

“See what?”

“You haven’t signed the contract yet, right?”

There was a moment of silence.

“That’s right.”
Ahn nodded. The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow, but it wasn’t a deadline that couldn’t be pushed.

“Tomorrow, we’ll sign the investment contract for our project. I’ll let you know Jeil Entertainment’s final offer and conditions. That’ll tell us exactly who they’re prioritizing.”

“What? Really?”
Ahn’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“So, hold off on signing for a few more days. And don’t tell anyone where you got the information. If it leaks, I’ll get fired, okay?”

“You sly little punk!”
Ahn pulled Youngkwang into a bear hug.

“Don’t worry, hyung. I only do things that lead to a win-win. Your project needs to succeed, and so do My Way Pictures’ films.”

Only half comprehending, Ahn vigorously nodded in agreement.

“Let’s do this, hyung.”

“Alright, thanks! Youngkwang, you’re my brother!”
Ahn hugged him again, overcome with enthusiasm.

Youngkwang patted Ahn’s back a few times, satisfied with the performance he had coaxed out of him.

“Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to formal language.”