Glory Film Company

Episode 56. Identity (3)

“What’s with him?”

Bae Youngho, visibly unsettled, nudged the seemingly unconscious Youngkwang with his finger.

“Is he seriously out of it?”

Kwak Junghoon glanced between the two, clearly as confused as Bae, and finally let out a long sigh.

“Anyway, say what’s on your mind.”

“Say what?”

“The thing you’ve been bottling up all these years—the truth you believe about what happened.”

Bae remained silent for a moment despite Kwak’s persistent prodding, but the atmosphere didn’t allow him to simply brush it off.

Finally, Bae glanced at Kwak, then pulled an empty glass toward himself and poured a generous amount of liquor.

“Producer Lee Youngkwang was an incredible person.”

“He was,” Kwak agreed.

“The progress we’ve seen in Korean cinema owes more than 50% of its success to him. Honestly, I’d say closer to 80%.”

“True, he was a remarkable guy.”

“And that kind of talent died on my set.”

Bae took a long swig of his drink, his brow furrowing deeply.

“That day, Hong Ingi was at my set.”

“Right, you mentioned seeing someone who looked like him.”

“He had on a mask and a hat, but his build and eyes were unmistakable. You know how sharp my eyesight is.”

“Yeah, your observational skills are second to none. Everyone knows that.”

Kwak nodded but cautiously added, “But didn’t Hong Ingi have an alibi for that day?”

Bae scowled even deeper at the mention.

“They said he was three hours away from the site, meeting an actor. The actor even confirmed it.”

“All lies.”

Bae shook his head firmly, but Kwak raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Do you have proof?”

“……”

“I mean solid proof, Bae. Without that, it’s just your word against his. And even if it’s true that Hong was on set that day, there’s no direct link to Producer Lee’s death. Without evidence that his alibi was fake, this just… doesn’t go anywhere.”

Kwak rattled off his words like a machine gun before letting out a heavy sigh.

It was an argument they’d had countless times over the past 19 years. Bae would insist that Hong’s alibi was fabricated, yet he never presented any evidence. As a result, it was impossible to distinguish whether this was a paranoid suspicion or the actual truth.

“Ugh.”

Frustrated, Bae pounded his chest with his fist, looking as though the unfairness of it all might crush him.

“Kim Minseo.”

“What?”

“The actor Lee Youngkwang saved that day—Kim Minseo.”

At the mention of the unexpected name, both Kwak and the eavesdropping Youngkwang perked up.

As the conversation took a sudden turn, Kwak leaned in, while Youngkwang, still feigning unconsciousness, focused intently.

“…What about Kim Minseo?”

“That day…”

Bae gulped audibly, his voice trembling.

“I saw the two of them together.”

“The two of them? Who? Where?”

“Kim Minseo and Hong Ingi. At the rehearsal site. I saw them meet.”

“What?”

Kwak’s eyes widened as he leaned even closer, disbelief etched across his face.

“Why would Kim Minseo and Hong Ingi be meeting?”

“At first, I thought Hong was just another staff member. Everyone was dressed darkly, wrapped up to stay warm, so I didn’t think much of it. But then I noticed something off about Kim Minseo’s expression.”

Bae’s voice grew heavier as the details poured out, each word charged with emotions pent up for 19 years.

Even if he had never spoken them aloud, it was clear that he had relived these memories every day, holding on to every detail.

“Kim Minseo knew. She knew that the guy in black was Hong Ingi.”

“….”

Bae Youngho’s eyes burned with intensity before softening into a mournful expression.

“She was definitely afraid. She came to me out of nowhere, suddenly talking a lot and urging us to hurry the rehearsal. It was strange. I thought maybe she wasn’t feeling well and decided to push things along. I left for a moment to check the monitor, and when I came back to that basement room…”

Bae paused, the memory clearly still vivid.

“That guy in black—Hong Ingi—brushed past me on the stairs.”

“That kid’s got such a nasty look in his eyes. Even with his face all covered up, I could tell it was Hong Ingi. And when I went back inside, Kim Minseo was a wreck, mentally.”

The rehearsal site had only one way in and out, and Bae said he vaguely heard the sound of a door shutting as he walked down the stairs. It was clear that the two had spoken. And then, moments later, the fire broke out.

To Bae, it was too suspicious to dismiss. A mysterious outsider had infiltrated the set, and that outsider could very well have been connected to the tragedy.

“Then couldn’t you just ask Kim Minseo? Did she see Hong Ingi that day? Does she admit it?”

Kwak Junghoon, visibly frustrated, shot question after question at Bae.

Good point.

Still feigning unconsciousness, Youngkwang silently agreed with Kwak’s logic. If Kim Minseo admitted to seeing Hong Ingi that day—or revealed what he had done—it could confirm whether Bae’s suspicions were valid or baseless.

But then Bae shook his head, his expression crestfallen.

“She denies everything.”

“What?”

“She refuses to admit she even spoke to anyone during rehearsal, let alone Hong Ingi.”

“To anyone?”

“Yes. I asked her after the accident, and she reacted like she was having a full-blown panic attack. Her eyes were unfocused, and she seemed unstable. …I thought maybe the trauma of Producer Lee’s death had made her overreact.”

Years later, Kim Minseo still stuck to her story, maintaining ignorance about that day. And with her life spiraling into personal misfortune—divorce, debt, and constant struggles—Bae couldn’t bear to push her any further for answers.

“Ambiguous,” Kwak said, stating his honest impression.

“Look, who gained the most after Producer Lee’s death? It was Gu Bonjik and Stay Film. At the time, Hong Ingi was a producer at Stay Film.”

“Now, hold on. Are you saying they planned Producer Lee’s death together?”

“I don’t think it was that calculated,” Bae replied, sighing deeply as he drained the rest of his drink.

Kwak’s discomfort was evident. He had worked with Stay Film multiple times, producing two blockbuster hits with them. This kind of accusation was bound to feel personal.

Still, once Bae started talking, it seemed impossible for him to stop.

“Ten years ago—remember that scandal?”

“What scandal?”

“Hong Ingi’s. That’s when my suspicions solidified.”

At the mention of Hong’s infamous scandal, Kwak’s face darkened.

“The investigation was cut short, but we all knew the truth about him.”

“Yeah, no argument there. Those scumbags should’ve been wiped out then. But instead, it ended in a farce. And now that fraudster comes back to Korea with a shiny career from the U.S.? Makes no sense to me.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

There weren’t enough pieces to see the full picture, but Bae was convinced of one thing: Hong Ingi had some connection to Producer Lee’s death.

Even Kwak, who had brushed off such suspicions before, seemed more uneasy now. His brow furrowed as he mulled over the idea of Gu Bonjik and Hong Ingi’s partnership.

“I still have nightmares,” Bae admitted with a bitter laugh.

“They’re always the same. I’m standing on set, and suddenly there’s a loud crash, and the fire spreads. I hear screams, and everything’s chaos. Just like that day, my feet are stuck to the ground like they’re glued, and I can’t move. It feels like I can’t breathe.”

His face was etched with guilt.

“If Producer Lee hadn’t rushed in, Kim Minseo would’ve died. And…”

Bae let out a long, heavy sigh.

“If I’d checked the set one more time, that accident wouldn’t have happened.”

Despite his own heartbreak, Bae directed the blame inward. Even if the actor had been rushing him, or the excitement of the crank-in had gotten to him.

“Let it go already.”

Kwak Junghoon gave Bae Youngho a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“You’ve tortured yourself enough over this. You even gave up the movies you loved so much. Now that your life’s more stable, why not go back to filmmaking and try to enjoy life? That way, Producer Lee Youngkwang can finally rest in peace, too.”

At those words, Youngkwang stirred and sat up, rubbing his head. All eyes turned to him.

“You’re always talking about that producer whenever I’m around, so let me just say this,” Youngkwang began, scratching his head as if hesitant.

“If he was such a great person and his death such a huge deal, why wasn’t the cause thoroughly investigated? Why did the investigation fizzle out?”

Bae’s mouth fell open.

“What the—? You weren’t asleep?”

Ignoring the question, Youngkwang pressed on.

“Seriously, was there no CCTV? Nothing to record what happened? If there were so many doubts, why didn’t anyone dig into everything to find answers?”

“It wasn’t like today, where there are cameras everywhere,” Kwak replied in a soothing tone. “And even when there were, the footage quality was terrible.”

“You think we didn’t try? We asked everyone—was there a camera rolling on set? Did anyone take any kind of low-quality video on their phone? But there was nothing,” he continued with a sigh.

“It wasn’t that kind of site,” Bae muttered, biting his lip.

“You know how meticulous I am. I used to refuse to shoot a single frame without a storyboard, and I personally managed every aspect of the set to a fault.”

It was true. Bae had been infamous for poring over every line item in the budget that Youngkwang meticulously prepared, nitpicking endlessly. On the day of the crank-in, he had inspected every corner of the set.

Still, the fire had broken out. A gas explosion, in a setup he had double- and triple-checked.

“At this point, it’s just not enough,” Kwak interjected, grounding the conversation.

“Producer Lee wasn’t the type to make enemies. There’s just no plausible reason. It’s hard to find any clear motive.”

Youngkwang nodded slightly, agreeing with Kwak’s practicality. Bae’s theory about Kim Minseo being a potential witness was just that—a theory. Her refusal to admit seeing Hong Ingi might well have been the truth.

But one thing was becoming clearer: there were too many loose threads, and Hong Ingi needed to be dealt with, sooner rather than later.

Ran off to the U.S. after a massive scandal ten years ago, huh?

Youngkwang’s lips curled into a bitter smile as certain memories floated to the surface.

Hong Ingi was infamous for his exploitative behavior, and he boasted about it with an unsettling pride.

“I told you what I did with that brat Haeun, right? She got cocky after becoming a sudden star, so I introduced her to Park Yonghyun. A few months later, she was crying her eyes out after finding out he was a playboy and a scam artist. She spent millions on him before figuring it out—what an idiot.”

“Actors always expect too much—credit, cash, and respect. But if you hit them with a few blunt truths, they shrink right up. That extra money? It pays for tonight’s drinks!”

“Exposure? Please. Just tell them to think of Basic Instinct and they suddenly feel like Sharon Stone. Works every time!”

Scamming actors, withholding fees, fake contracts—Hong Ingi didn’t just commit these misdeeds; he bragged about them openly.

Even at a bar Youngkwang frequented, Hong’s rowdy voice had carried more than once.

At the time, Youngkwang ignored him, figuring the man would never truly succeed in the industry. But now…

So, he stirred up Chungmuro, leaving countless people in tears, and now he’s walking free and sniffing around the film industry again?

Regardless of what had happened 19 years ago, Hong Ingi was undeniably a cancer on the industry.

Youngkwang made up his mind: he had to be cut out.

Once Director Ahn Junseok gets wind of Hong’s past, he’ll drop him for sure.

After all, Ahn had dropped Na Sejeong over mere allegations. He wouldn’t tolerate Hong Ingi’s blatant misconduct.

As the three shared another bitter round of drinks, a vibration broke the moment.

Bzzzt.

A message arrived on Youngkwang’s phone.

The sender: Do Junyoung, his upstairs neighbor and a foley artist.

“Producer, I’ve got news about that Korean guy who scammed people and fled. Thought you’d want to know.”

It seemed Junyoung hadn’t forgotten Youngkwang’s earlier request and had gone out of his way to gather the information.