Glory Film Company

Episode 43: The Move

The weather had turned quite chilly.

My Way Pictures’ first film, 300 Days After We Break Up by Ha Pilsung, was nearing the end of its long journey, finally approaching its crank-out (final day of shooting).

“Okay! Cut! Great work, everyone.”

“Thank you for your hard work!”

“Well done!”

“You all did amazing!”

The once-intense atmosphere on set wrapped up smoothly and without any major issues.

However, the journey of making a film was far from over. Post-production, depending on circumstances, could easily extend beyond a year.

Of course, Youngkwang intended to finish this process as quickly as possible to get their first movie on the screen soon.

“Music is key, but I’m not feeling it yet,” Ha Pilsung said, slowing things down as if something was bothering him.

“What’s wrong with the music?” Youngkwang asked.

“The main theme is just too plain,” Ha Pilsung said quietly. “This is the piece that will play whenever actress Kang Jooyeon appears. It will also play whenever Minwook recalls Yeonsoo. Later, just hearing the music alone should clue the audience into what’s happening between the male and female leads.”

His reasoning was sound.

Since the story of the two leads was the core of the film, the music that enriched their narrative was of utmost importance.

The problem was that everyone envisioned a different melody in their heads, and until something tangible was created, there was no definitive “Yes, this is it!” moment.

Instead, there was only the frustration of remarks like, “Something’s missing,” “This isn’t it,” or “Isn’t there something better?”

“Well, we still have some time. We’ve also sent out requests to a few more places. Let’s listen to the samples when they come in and discuss further.”

For now, though, the crank-out was complete.

It was a day to celebrate the hard work of the cast and crew, appreciating one another and promising an evening of camaraderie over dinner.

Ha Pilsung, aware of the expectant eyes of the staff waiting for him, nodded quickly and headed off to the reserved dinner venue with light steps.

Just then, Youngkwang’s phone buzzed softly.

“…Oh?”

It was a reply to the urgent message he’d sent earlier that morning.

Sorry for the late reply. I just woke up.

The other party immediately began with an apology for their tardiness.

It would be best if you could come see the place before 7 PM. I have to leave for work after that. If possible, around 6 PM would be ideal.

Finally, a response to the question Youngkwang had asked hours ago.

The previous evening, Youngkwang had stumbled across an incredible listing while searching, as always, for a suitable place to move.

Hongdae, Yeonnam-dong, 13-pyeong fully-furnished studio. Available from 7 PM to 7 AM. Looking for someone (male) who only needs a place to sleep.

Monthly rent: 150,000 KRW. Utility bills to be paid based on usage.

150,000 KRW per month?

Even with utilities, the cost wouldn’t exceed 200,000 KRW.

That was less than a third of his current living expenses!

Without even considering the condition of the place or other details, it was a listing worth grabbing.

He’d immediately sent a message to check if it was still available and to ask when he could visit. The reply had just come through.

Youngkwang politely sent a response back.

It seems it’s already past 7 PM today. May I come to see the place tomorrow around 6 PM?

*****

“I work a night shift job, so I leave the house at 7 PM and don’t get back until around 7 or 8 in the morning. That’s why I need someone who only needs a place to sleep during that time.”

“And what about furniture or appliances?”

“As you can see, the space isn’t very big, so there’s no room for large items. But most things here you’re welcome to use—just take care not to break anything, and please don’t touch the items over there.”

It was an unusual arrangement.

In a way, it was an ad for a roommate, but the condition was that they would never cross paths at home.

The idea was to find someone who could sleep in the house while it was empty during the night and contribute to the rent.

“What about weekends?”

“I don’t get weekends off either. It’ll be the same—7 to 7. Twelve hours when I’m out, and twelve hours when you’ll be out.”

Though it seemed like the man had trouble finding someone who fit such specific criteria, for Youngkwang, it was perfect.

On the rare occasion when their schedules overlapped, he could always spend some time at the My Way Pictures office. In any case, he didn’t spend twelve hours at home either.

“Great. Let’s sign the contract right away.”

“Ah, yes. When can you move in?”

“Next week is fine. As early as Monday?”

“Sure, that works.”

The move progressed quickly. The sooner he moved, the sooner he could reduce his expenses.

Thankfully, leaving his current place was easy. When Youngkwang informed the rooftop studio landlord in Sangsu-dong about his decision to move, the landlord was surprisingly enthusiastic, even admitting that they had been planning to raise the rent anyway.

The young Youngkwang felt a mix of melancholy and relief as he walked away with the 10 million won deposit from his previous lease. He straightened his shoulders confidently.

Ha Pilsung’s film was bound to generate profits as soon as it was released. Winter would pass, spring would come, and soon his bank account would feel more substantial. Youngkwang smiled broadly. His life was gradually aligning with the trajectory he had envisioned.

****

“Your belongings are quite minimal,” his new landlord remarked.

“Oh, I’d already sorted things out in advance, anticipating the move.”

Moving Day.

Two suitcases and a single backpack—that was all Youngkwang brought with him.

“Here’s your key.”

The process was straightforward. Receiving the key and a few instructions marked the end of the formalities. After that, the landlord disappeared entirely, leaving no trace of himself.

For about two weeks, everything seemed perfect—until Youngkwang became certain that there was another reason why this property had been listed so cheaply.

Eerie sounds began to disturb his nights.

Hiiiiing…
Screeeech…
Groooowl…

“Ugh!” Startled, Youngkwang bolted upright, thinking he was experiencing sleep paralysis.

Initially, he thought it might be a bad dream or that his weakened body was playing tricks on him. But then…

Psshhhhh…
Beeeeeep…

The inexplicable, chilling noises clearly emanated from the apartment upstairs.

“Isn’t typical noise between floors supposed to be footsteps, music, or voices?” he muttered.

It was as if a horror film aficionado lived upstairs, and the peculiar sounds crawled down the walls, setting him on edge.

“This is driving me crazy.”

The fact that it only happened in the middle of the night made it unbearable. After a week of this, Youngkwang reached his breaking point.

Thump, thump, thump.
Aaaaaaaaagh…

It was close to 2 a.m.

“This is too much,” he thought, storming upstairs. I need to say something—people living in shared buildings should have basic manners!

Just as he was about to press the doorbell, Youngkwang froze.

Haaah…
Huff…
Haaaah…

Labored breathing, followed by the unmistakable sounds of skin slapping and lips meeting, seeped through the cracks of the door.

“Ugh, unbelievable.”

Though curses surged to the tip of his tongue, he couldn’t bring himself to ring the bell. Defeated, he turned and trudged back down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

He resolved to confront his inconsiderate neighbor another day.

*****

Meanwhile, at My Way Pictures, three films were simultaneously in development.

The first draft of Lee Deokjae’s new film, Youth, had been completed, and heated discussions were taking place daily. Director Kwak Junghoon’s movie, Guardian Spirit, was progressing through casting and pre-production. Ha Pilsung’s 300 Days After We Break Up was steadily being refined through editing, smoothing out its rough edges.

“How about adding two more frames to this shot?” someone suggested during the editing process.

“Sure. It’s a subtle emotional moment—it might be worth comparing,” another agreed.

In the dimly lit editing room, Ha Pilsung hadn’t gone home for days, working tirelessly alongside the editing director.

“Alright, let’s watch the adjusted cut one more time,” the editing director suggested, carefully gauging Ha Pilsung’s condition.

The editing process focused less on obsessing over each sequence’s polish and more on establishing the overall flow of the narrative before diving into details. Consequently, both Ha Pilsung and the editor had watched the same film dozens of times by now.

Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Ha Pilsung nodded. “Let’s do that.”

Click.

The editing director tapped the keyboard, and the film’s opening scene played.

The camera wavered, moving as if someone were peering through a gap, spying on the subjects. Two figures stood illuminated in bright light, their faces obscured by backlighting. Instead of their faces, the woman’s voice emerged distinctly:

“I just wish nothing would happen to me.”

It was a dry, detached voice.

“Good things, bad things, anything at all.”

The faint trace of a smile in her voice carried an inexplicable sadness.

“Haah.”

A soft sigh escaped—this time from a man.

“Back then, I didn’t understand what she really meant. I was too busy agonizing over whether I’d done something wrong.”

The screen showed the man recalling the woman’s words from the past. True to his narration, the man on the screen appeared tormented, hesitating about whether to approach her. In the end, he lowered his head before her, defeated.

“Back then, I was a fool. The worst kind of fool.”

“Hold on a second,” Ha Pilsung interrupted as soon as the first scene ended.

Click.
The footage froze.

“As expected, the music’s the problem here. It should have a subtle, bittersweet feel, but right now, it’s overkill.”

“Agreed. It’s too much. The actor’s restrained performance makes it feel even more excessive.”

“Kang Jooyeon really delivered in this scene. This was the one that took over twenty takes.”

“Exactly. Usually, you’d expect some overacting in a scene like this, but every single take stayed within the right bounds. It was uncanny, almost chilling, to see how in sync her performance was with the director’s guidance.”

“The chemistry was spot-on. Our team started out with a rough 20-minute edit, so the bond we built on this set is probably two or three times stronger than most.”

“Haha.”

The lively conversation stemmed from their excitement over the project, but the lingering disappointment was evident. The perfect music for this scene had yet to be found.

Both directors sighed silently.

Beep.

The editing room door opened cautiously.

“Oh, PD Youngkwang!” someone greeted him cheerfully as he nudged the door open with his shoulder, his hands full.

“You’re still alive?” he teased.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ha Pilsung replied.

“Well, the last time I saw you both, you looked like you were about to drop dead.”

“Come on now.”

Ha Pilsung scratched his head, unable to refute the observation, before glancing at the clock and asking, “So, what brings you here?”

“First, take these.”
Youngkwang handed them two lunchboxes, drinks, and snacks. “Eat up and take a breather. We’ll head over afterward.”

“Head over where?”

“Sound Supervisor Jung Yeoul called. The background score is ready. They said there’s still some work left to do, but we offered to drop by.”

“Oh, really?” Ha Pilsung perked up. “Then let’s go!”

He sprang to his feet while the editing director gathered their belongings.

“Wait, they said there’s still some work left. If you eat first and then go, the timing will be perfect.”

Youngkwang calmed them down.

Today was the day they’d finally get to hear the much-anticipated film score. They had carefully selected the most fitting samples from the submissions and sent their requests. Earlier, Jung Yeoul had contacted Youngkwang, saying the work was nearly finished.

“Why am I so nervous?” Ha Pilsung muttered, placing a hand over his chest while mechanically eating.

“Same here,” the editing director said, mimicking the gesture and taking deep breaths.

“I can’t do this. I’m going to choke. PD Youngkwang, let’s just go now.”

“If we leave now, we’ll just end up waiting for over 30 minutes there.”

“I’d rather wait there.”

“You should at least freshen up in the meantime.”

“What? Am I that bad?”

“You’re starting to smell. Did you even shower?”

“Of course! When was it… yesterday? The day before? I went to the sauna.”

Sigh.

Judging by the state of his greasy hair, Youngkwang doubted the claim but decided to let it slide. He understood how Ha Pilsung must be feeling.

“All right, let’s go.”

Youngkwang, too, was curious about what the music would sound like. He hoped that this time, they’d finally find the perfect score for the film.

With that, the three of them left the editing room and headed to the recording studio in Nonhyeon-dong, a ten-minute walk away.