Glory Film Company

Episode 57. The Culprit

“Are you available for a quick call?”

Youngkwang called immediately, and Do Junyoung answered with a slightly agitated tone.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I was just taking a break. About that guy—like I mentioned before, he’s supposed to be in his mid-40s. They called him Michael over there. Michael Hong. No confirmation on his Korean name, though.”

“Michael Hong?”

“Yes, Michael Hong.”

Hong.

Could this really just be a coincidence? The name rang too many bells, making it impossible for Youngkwang not to think of Hong Ingi.

“Any other details? Something concrete, like a photo?”

Trying to narrow down the suspect further, Youngkwang pressed for more.

“That’s the weird part,” Do said, his tone dropping. “There’s nothing. No photos, no personal information. It’s like he didn’t exist. Maybe it’s because the company over there is super strict about privacy, or maybe the person I asked couldn’t dig deep enough. But still, it’s strange.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Five years working for the same company, yet no trace of him existed? That was peculiar in an industry like film, where records and images of colleagues were bound to exist.

If no evidence had surfaced, it meant one of two things: someone had erased his tracks, or Michael Hong had been extremely careful about managing his own data.

Either way, it reeked of suspicion.

“Oh, and there’s something else. Before he joined that company, there were rumors he worked in…adult films. Lots of scandals attached to that. The stories are pretty sleazy.”

Do Junyoung let out a bitter laugh.

If he was a leaky bucket in Chungmuro, it’s not like Hollywood could’ve magically fixed him.

At this point, it seemed insulting to even consider Michael Hong and Hong Ingi as separate people.

“That’s enough to give me an idea. Thanks for going out of your way to check.”

“No problem. Gotta help you clean up scum like this, right?”

Michael Hong. Hong Ingi.

Had he proudly attached the Hong name to his exploits abroad, just as he had back in Korea?

Although Youngkwang was almost certain now, it was best to keep his suspicions to himself for the moment. Someone like Hong wouldn’t hesitate to cut his losses and run at the first sign of danger. Evidence needed to be solid before any moves were made.

For now, he had another priority: clearing Na Sejeong’s name.

*****

“About that whistleblower… Can I get their contact information or email address?”

Meeting with Director Ahn Junseok, Youngkwang asked directly about the person who had accused Na of plagiarism.

“Why do you want that?” Ahn replied curtly, his tone flat.

“Take a look at this.”

Youngkwang held up his phone, showing a page from a private blog Na had mentioned.

“What’s this?”

“It’s Na Sejeong’s portfolio, posted on a private blog. Look at the dates. These are from years ago.”

“And?”

“You said the person accusing her of plagiarism claimed they met in a group chat three years ago, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, look at this. These posts are from five years ago. I’ve gone through them, and while there are some edits in the final version, the core content hasn’t changed. It’s the same work.”

Ahn stared hard at the phone, clicking through one of the posts. As Youngkwang said, there was nothing wrong with Na’s work. Feeling a little awkward, Ahn handed the phone back and asked, “Why are you going to all this trouble?”

Judging by the situation, Ahn figured Na must already know about the plagiarism accusation. And the person who told her? Undoubtedly, it was Youngkwang.

The director felt a mix of resentment and guilt. He had chosen to quietly dismiss Na without explaining why, hoping to avoid unnecessary drama. But now, with this evidence surfacing, it felt like he’d lost control of the situation.

“I’m not doing this for Na Sejeong.”

However, Youngkwang simply smiled slyly.

“What are you talking about? Is someone else involved?”

“It’s still a bit early to say. I’ll investigate further and let you know once it’s confirmed.”

“Hmm. Does this have anything to do with me?”

“It’s not just you, but several others are involved as well.”

“…What?”

Ahn Junseok blinked in confusion. He had no idea how he, along with multiple others, could be connected to the matter of an unknown rookie writer.

“I told you before, didn’t I? I only do things that result in a win-win.”

“Ha. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So, let me look into it properly. Could you share that informant’s contact information?”

Ahn Junseok stared at Youngkwang’s sly face for a moment, sighed, and then started digging through his email inbox. While he wasn’t entirely clear about the situation, it didn’t seem like Youngkwang’s actions were entirely leaning in favor of Na Sejeong. That thought eased his mind a bit.

Still, a cautious thought crept in.

“You’re not asking me to bring the writer back onto our team, are you?”

Even if the plagiarism issue turned out to be a misunderstanding, reinstating her would be difficult. The writer’s position had already been filled, and besides, Ahn Junseok had experienced a few uncomfortable situations with Na Sejeong before.

This was a long-term project, and there were already plenty of stressful tasks. He preferred to work with people he was comfortable with—that was his honest sentiment.

“No, I’m not. And from what I’ve heard, the writer seems to be getting calls from other places.”

“Really? That’s good, then.”

“So, I decided to send her a call too.”

“What?”

Watching Ahn Junseok’s head tilt once more, Youngkwang grinned broadly.

“She has a style I like in her portfolio.”

“Ah. Her writing wasn’t bad.”

But that was as far as it went. Ahn Junseok handed over the informant’s email address and the details he’d received, along with a few formal words wishing for a resolution to the situation. He also included some insincere best wishes for Na Sejeong’s success.

Youngkwang looked at Ahn Junseok with a hint of pity in his eyes. In the film industry, success or failure ultimately depended on people. Not knowing the value of good people was a grave mistake.

While it was true that the workforce in this field often turned over, with people leaving and being replaced, it wasn’t something to take lightly. Among those who come and go, there were plenty who could stick around as long as—or even longer than—someone like himself.

If someone were confident in achieving unbroken success without any setbacks, then they might be able to get away with disregarding their reputation. But Ahn Junseok, too, would inevitably face a crisis someday.

Still, there was no point in saying anything now. There might be circumstances he didn’t know about. With a slight nod, Youngkwang stepped back.

*****

“Please be lenient.”

When legal action was threatened for defamation, spreading false information, and various other charges, the informant, trembling, immediately cowered.

“I misunderstood. I didn’t even consider that it might be a script written before. I believed it was something discussed during a critique session in a group chat. Back then, I contributed a lot of my opinions, too.”

The informant, an aspiring writer in their mid-thirties, claimed never to have met Na Sejeong in person.

Although they had made harsh accusations online with the click of a keyboard, in face-to-face confrontation, they were weak. A little more pressure, and tears seemed ready to fall.

“This plot came out years ago, and there’s even an early draft. Look at the dates on the forum.”

When Youngkwang turned the laptop to show them, the informant lowered their head again.

“People’s ideas are all similar, you know. It’s possible that what I thought of overlapped with what Writer Na came up with…”

Their muttered voice had long since lost its conviction. However, it wasn’t a matter that could be brushed off as a simple misunderstanding.

“Of course, overlaps can happen. It’s something that’s quite common even in the film industry. But from what I see, this feels a bit malicious.”

Youngkwang leaned forward as he spoke.

The café bustled in the afternoon sunlight. Outside the window, snow was falling heavily. Upbeat carols filled the air, enhancing the year-end atmosphere. At the packed tables, cheerful faces exchanged lively conversations.

Only at the table where Youngkwang, Na Sejeong, and the informant sat, there was a frosty chill, like a Siberian tundra.

“…Malicious?”

The informant asked, their face blank with confusion.

“One or two overlaps could happen by coincidence. But you claimed that five of your works were plagiarized?”

At those words, the informant’s pupils quivered uncontrollably.

Someone must have instigated this.

Youngkwang was certain there was someone behind the informant’s actions. Whoever it was, whether it was one person or a chain of connections, he intended to uncover the culprit.

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

“Ah, well…” The informant fumbled.

“Could five works overlap? At this level, it’s not coincidence or misunderstanding; it looks premeditated. Oh, by the way, if you can’t give us a satisfactory explanation, the compensation you’ll be liable for will increase significantly.”

The man, now visibly scared, looked pathetic. He was probably someone who had been bouncing around the film industry, dreaming of someday earning the title of “writer.”

If he had been waiting all this time for an opportunity and now faced the prospect of his career ending before it even began, the pressure and fear would be unbearable. With a cold gaze, Youngkwang silently waited for the truth to spill from the man’s mouth.

Soon, the man’s dry lips parted.

“Well, at first, I really did misunderstand. I entered the same contest where Sejeong won an award.”

After the results were announced, he found out that Na Sejeong had won the top prize, and he realized that her work was similar to something previously discussed in their group chat.

“I felt wronged. So I posted about it on the writer’s forum… and then someone reached out to me.”

As expected, there was someone else involved. Maintaining a neutral expression, Youngkwang listened attentively to the informant’s explanation.

“They said they understood why I felt wronged, and it made me even more emotional. Then they mentioned that they also worked in the film industry and claimed to know about Jeil Entertainment’s internal affairs regarding the contest.”

“…The contest?”

“Yes. I don’t know if they were a staff member or what, but they even knew about my submission. When I told them the title, they said they remembered it making it to the preliminaries. They said it was impressive but ultimately didn’t make the cut. Then…”

The informant glanced nervously at Na Sejeong before lowering his voice.

“They told me that if the plagiarism issue had been known, Sejeong’s work wouldn’t have been chosen. They said if it hadn’t been for her, I might have made it to the finalists.”

“Haha. And then?”

It was so absurd that Youngkwang couldn’t help but laugh. He was curious about what came next.

“They told me about Na Sejeong’s recent activities, like working with Director Ahn Junseok.”

It was impossible to determine where the truth ended and lies began, but knowing so much about an unknown rookie writer’s activities suggested the culprit might be someone close to her.

“Writer Na, do you often make enemies?” Youngkwang asked with a light smile.

Sejeong shook her head vehemently, her expression serious.

“No, I’m a total loner! How could I make enemies when I barely meet anyone?”

While her reaction made him laugh, Youngkwang’s mind remained icy and focused.

Could it be Hong Ingi? The way they’re manipulating people feels too familiar. The timing is suspicious, too.

Calmly, Youngkwang sipped his now-lukewarm tea. Meanwhile, the informant, reflecting on their actions as they recounted the story, seemed to realize their own foolishness and continued speaking with a pained expression.

“They also told me to report it to Director Ahn. They asked if I was just going to let it slide.”

“So, that’s why you lied about five works being plagiarized?”

“No! That wasn’t my idea either,” the informant protested, startled.

“They said that claiming only one work overlapped might not be strong enough, so they told me to say it was five.”

“Wow.”

The story was reaching its climax.

“And then, about two days later, they contacted me again.”

Here came the peak of the drama.

“They showed me Na Sejeong’s portfolio. They told me to use it as reference material.”

“What? My portfolio?”

Sejeong’s eyes flared with anger, practically shooting sparks.