“Senior, are we really going to end up just running reruns like this until we’re finished?”
Nam Hee-seong sat on the sofa with his legs crossed, staring directly at his senior, Hwang Jong-gi. There was a mix of cautious anticipation and long-standing frustration in his eyes.
Hwang Jong-gi’s official title was Deputy Director of the Variety and Drama Department. He was essentially the director in all but name, as programming rights and the approval line all went through him.
Hwang Jong-gi carefully sipped his 300-won vending machine coffee. The edges of the paper cup were stained, and the coaster was damp.
“Hee-seong, I know without you telling me. I can see it in your eyes these days.”
Nam Hee-seong let out a small sigh.
“It’s a really funny script, Senior. You know the name Lee Junghyuk. It’s a sitcom with an unbelievable premise, but it’s absurdly funny, the planning is fresh, and the structure is perfect.”
“And?” Hwang Jong-gi asked nonchalantly. A knowing expression played on his lips as he sipped his coffee.
“Let’s… let’s produce it. For real. Just once. We have to do this.”
“Hee-seong, you know the situation we’re in. The higher-ups want to merge Aladdin TV as is. There’s been talk for a while about clearing out the affiliates that aren’t performing.”
“That’s why we have to do it even more, Senior.”
“No. What we need to do right now is organize. We need to maintain the existing rerun business to defend our revenue and reduce the channel’s churn rate. That way, the higher-ups will think ‘this place at least doesn’t lose money,’ so we can at least survive the workforce consolidation.”
Nam Hee-seong was at a loss for words at Hwang Jong-gi’s remark. The director’s eyes were reflecting the harsh reality: revenue, organizational restructuring, business withdrawal, and maintaining rerun ratings.
“Then… are we just going to keep spinning reruns until we’re done?”
“We’re a broadcasting station, Hee-seong. It’s true that a station should broadcast… but in our current situation, what is a broadcast? Running reruns of *Hur Jun*, *Dae Jang Geum*, and *Emperor Wang Gun*. It’s just elderly people taking turns watching them, and that’s it. We need at least that to stay afloat with the copyright fees paid by CL.”
“And what if CL suddenly takes back the rerun rights? Are we just going to fold the business then?”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t do it. Is there anyone in this industry who doesn’t know that Writer Lee Junghyuk is on CL’s bad side?”
Nam Hee-seong couldn’t say anything more and just firmed his lips at Hwang Jong-gi’s words. However, the sentence that followed the silence made Hwang Jong-gi flinch.
“…Still, Senior, we’re broadcasters.”
Hwang Jong-gi’s eyes, which had only been reciting realistic plans, wavered slightly.
“Can we really say we’re broadcasting if we’re just playing things others made? Senior, what did you say to me when you brought me here? You said that one day, we should make something that stays under our names. You said that if I just trusted you and followed you, you’d let me make a show like that.”
Hwang Jong-gi put down his coffee without a word.
“That opportunity is here now, Senior. Lee Junghyuk sent us a script. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for us to put our names on a drama by Lee Junghyuk. If we don’t grab this, we’ll really regret it later.”
Nam Hee-seong’s gaze was unwavering. Faced with that steady conviction and the dream-filled eyes, Hwang Jong-gi avoided his gaze and quietly leaned back against the sofa.
“…Fine. You’re right. You punk. You’ve grown up enough to talk back to your senior like that.”
“Are we doing the drama with Lee Junghyuk? Are you giving me permission?”
“Yeah, do what you want.”
“Thank you, Senior! No, Deputy Director!”
“But listen, Hee-seong.” Hwang Jong-gi raised a finger and drew a circle with his usual ruthlessly realistic face. “What money are you going to use to make it?”
Nam Hee-seong was left speechless.
***
Amidst the team members turning off the office lights and heading home, Nam Hee-seong was still sitting at his desk. On his laptop screen was a planning proposal spanning two pages of A4. Beside it was an Excel window—the budget sheet.
No matter how many times he moved the cursor or merged the cells, the conclusion remained the same. There. Was. No. Answer.
“How… how are we supposed to film this?”
In an era where K-dramas were making their mark globally, production costs were at least 10 billion won. And that was just the minimum cost based on ultra-low-budget production rates.
Set costs, actor labor, production staff, food, equipment rental, location costs… even the insurance premiums and filming permit fees that had to be paid in advance. Everything in the drama production process was money.
‘The available capital at Aladdin is… at most, four billion won. That’s if we scrape everything together, so we probably can’t even use half of that.’
Nam Hee-seong irritably scratched his thinning crown. This was already the result of deleting all marketing costs within Aladdin TV’s capability. He was even prepared to die working overnight for half a year to handle the post-production personally.
“It’s going to be a deficit…”
He opened the calculator app again. What if he replaced the actors entirely with rookies? Save 200 million won. Reduce outdoor filming? Save 80 million. Rent an empty church instead of a set? Save 50 million. Give up post-recording? Save about 40 million.
Still, the gap between the expected total production cost and the available budget was at least five billion won. The daunting numbers blinked on the screen.
“Sigh…”
A sigh escaped him. The feeling of self-loathing naturally set in due to the impoverished circumstances where they couldn’t even film a drama despite having a great script because they lacked the funds.
“I really can’t do this…”
Nam Hee-seong closed the laptop. For a moment, the urge to give up swept over him. But soon, he opened the laptop again. He pushed the document to one side and opened a new window.
Mailbox, business card folder, old client list, partner address book.
“I’ll have to pull in production costs even if it means handing over shares…”
He couldn’t come up with 50 million won right now, but there were ways to attract some external investment under the guise of small-scale co-production or take out a personal credit loan and share equity on the condition of ‘joint ownership of the work.’
Of course, the risk was high. If it failed, his personal credit would be ruined. But what if it succeeded? *Zodiac Chaos* would become the first work broadcast under his name.
Nam Hee-seong’s finger stopped as he scrolled through the planning proposal again.
[An absurd sitcom set in the countryside featuring the family of the twelve zodiac deities.]
[However, it contains the scent of family, faith, and humanity.]
He had been hooked on this sentence since the first time he read it.
“Yeah… screw it. Life is all or nothing for Nam Hee-seong.”
He stood up as if he had made a decision.
***
“So… let me just check if I understood correctly.”
I smiled quietly and looked down at the printed material in front of me. A drop of sweat rolled down Producer Nam Hee-seong’s face.
“Total production cost: 7.86 billion won. Actor labor costs based on ‘diligent rookies,’ location using a ‘nearby closed school,’ meals are ‘individual lunch boxes.’ Broadcast is IPTV exclusive, and as for the writer’s fee…”
“I’m sorry, but we’re in a situation where advance payment is difficult…”
“Replaced by future profit sharing. Furthermore, the script copyright is to be partially shared.”
Producer Nam Hee-seong couldn’t lift his head. I could summarize the proposal he had just risked his life to explain in three lines:
1. No casting above rookie level.
2. The writer’s fee is practically nonexistent.
3. Copyright must be split.
It was an absurd contract.
“Hmm.”
“I’m truly sorry. It’s not that we’re trying to ignore you, Writer Lee, it’s just that it’s impossible for us unless we squeeze things to this extent…”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
I decided to accept the proposal. Producer Nam Hee-seong looked at me with a dazed expression.
“…Excuse me?”
“You have the contract with you right now, don’t you? Let’s sign it immediately. I’ll even give you my seal.”
“Wait a minute, Writer Lee. Are you really okay with these conditions?”
“Of course.”
“No, I mean, think about how much you’re losing here. I feel so sorry from our end. You’re basically working as the main writer for free. Logically speaking—”
“Producer Nam,” I cut him off with a smile. “Getting the broadcast out is the priority.”
Even so, I spoke to Producer Nam, who still had a skeptical look on his face.
“I’m very confident in this script. However, no one would accept it, so I had nowhere to send it.”
There was a bit of sincerity mixed in with that statement, and a bit more acting.
“Besides, once it’s broadcast, no one knows what will happen next. Sitcoms last a long time if they blow up. Holding out just to get a bit more funding… might actually be more of a loss, don’t you think?”
Producer Nam looked down at the contract in my hand, still looking flustered.
“This is the first time I’ve seen a writer accept such conditions so coolly…”
“It’s also my first time signing with an IPTV.”
“…Well then, I suppose it’s a milestone for both of us.”
We both let out an absurd laugh at that. He hurriedly stamped the contract, and I signed my name. Copies were made as scans, and the files were uploaded to Google Drive.
A digital age, a digital contract, and digital, unbelievable conditions. But even at that moment, I was thinking to myself.
‘This work will definitely be talked about later, somewhere, even if it’s late. Once it gets positive word of mouth and creates a buzz, I’ll remain the original creator of this work. And CL Media will see that, and someone will be green with envy.’
So, this contract wasn’t a loss. In fact, it was quite a sophisticated move. I just nodded nonchalantly on the surface.
“Then, I’ll assume we’re moving straight into pre-production.”
Producer Nam reached out his hand with a slightly overwhelmed expression. As I shook his hand, I felt a quiet sense of relief.
‘Phew, the broadcasting station is somehow sorted out.’
After finishing the contract and shaking hands with Producer Nam Hee-seong, I left Aladdin TV. As I walked down the hallway to the first floor—there wasn’t even an elevator—strangely, each and every step felt so light.
“It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this.”
The air outside had a slight hint of spring. The cherry blossoms had fallen early, and instead, the smell of ramen broth wafted from somewhere. Honestly, it was a ridiculously shabby local station, but strangely, it wasn’t bad at all.
An absurd contract. Sending an original sitcom through an IPTV was experimental beyond reason. However, I was more satisfied than anyone right now. Now all that was left was to produce the work properly.
I took out my phone and opened the messenger. Next to the name ‘Hong Ju Hee,’ the message I sent 2 hours ago was still marked as unread.
– The contract is finalized. Filming starts as early as next month. Let’s start coordinating schedules for actors Cheon Na Young and Seojiwon.
I had been worried because there was no reply, but now, strangely, I didn’t care at all. Once I set the stage, they would move as well.
I looked at the sky for a moment. The sky… didn’t really inspire any emotion. It was just hazy and cloudy. So I looked down. I decided to walk while looking at the ground today.
First, I should buy a cup of ramen from the convenience store. Since Producer Nam boldly said there was no food budget.
‘Well, I’m from the lunch box generation anyway.’
It was funny. The feeling of going to work with a lunch box just to do a project. But why did I feel so good? That day, I met a producer who made the most absurd choice among all these absurd options. And for the first time in a while, I saw a broadcaster who truly wanted to make a ‘good drama.’
So… things will work out somehow.
***
In front of the coffee vending machine at the end of the office hallway, Nam Hee-seong was blankly watching the coffee pour into the paper cup. The lingering feeling from when Lee Junghyuk left with the contract was still stuck somewhere in his body.
“…He really accepted those conditions?”
He muttered to himself and picked up the cup, but the coffee had filled more than half of it. Since there was no coaster, the hot liquid touched the back of his hand, but it didn’t even hurt.
‘Lee Junghyuk is a bit different.’
Ordinary writers… no, they obviously would have rejected such conditions. Ultra-low budget, split copyright, no guarantee, and even IPTV.
‘Writer Lee couldn’t even remember our company logo, so he wrote “Alla TV” on the contract…’
He gave a bitter smile. But just now, that man had accepted all those conditions as if they were natural. He hadn’t even changed his expression.
“Based on clichés alone, that’s a total foreshadowing of a con artist.”
It wasn’t scary; it was fascinating. He either had true pride in his work, was aiming for something, or was just a writer to the core. On his way back to the meeting room, Nam Hee-seong looked at the script sitting on the photocopier one more time.
*Zodiac Chaos*
Even the title was absurd, and the content was even more of a hybrid, but inside, it had an unbelievable pathos, and above all, it was too funny. It was funny because it wasn’t trying too hard to be funny, and it was even funnier because it pushed a crazy premise so seriously.
‘That’s what a piece of work is…’
Thinking back, it felt like he had wanted to do exactly this kind of drama back when he first decided to become a producer. A drama that was funny but sincere, light but heavy.
He closed the meeting room door, sat quietly in a chair, and pulled out a page of the script.
[Scene 5 – In the yard, the father, who serves the Ox God, and the second daughter, who serves the Rabbit God, engage in a contest of divine powers. The father calls a calf, and the daughter sends a grass-eating rabbit flying.]
“…How is this funny…?”
It was funny. It was really funny. But it was also somehow touching. This man, Lee Junghyuk, was pulling this nonsensical world along with absurd seriousness. At that moment, his heart thumped strangely.
Thump. Thump.
No, this wasn’t fluttering…
“…My heart is full right now, isn’t it?”
He was so embarrassed by the words he spoke aloud that he almost clapped at his desk.
“Are you crazy, Nam Hee-seong? Are you really moved? Hey, you only just signed the contract.”
He tried to calm himself down, but it was already too late. He reread the sentence written on the last page of the planning proposal.
[This drama is a story about people. I want to tell the most sincere story through the funniest tale.]
It was a sentence written by Lee Junghyuk. He smiled quietly and repeated it to himself so no one would hear.
‘This is the first time my heart has raced like this in my dozen or so years of broadcasting.’
And he reflected on it in a low voice. He would make sure it blew up properly.
Thankyou for the chaper. Things are getting exciting