Chapter 151: The First Scenario

There was still one concern lingering in Taeha’s mind.

What genre should his next project be?

A drama… or a film.

Truthfully, Taeha had only appeared in dramas so far. It wasn’t that he disliked films. On the contrary, he often found inspiration in movies and had visited theaters frequently even in his previous life.

But for some reason, after his possession, he had little connection to films.

At most, my only role was in The Last Duel.

Of course, that was unavoidable for Taeha.

To maintain his identity as both a writer and an actor, he had no choice but to appear in works he had written himself. From the beginning, everyone around him—even Cho—had wanted that.

In the end, Taeha steadily built his career through dramas and eventually created a work that was even nominated for an Emmy.

I guess I’ve established myself.

That was why, this time, he seriously considered choosing a film for his next project.

But in the end, he still couldn’t make that choice.

If he wanted to continue working as both a writer and actor, sticking to dramas seemed inevitable.

However, if Representative Han’s words were true—

I can write and act while filming a movie.

That possibility made Han’s proposal even more attractive.

At the same time, though, doubt lingered.

Is that even possible?

It was a natural concern.

After all, Taeha had never written a film scenario before.

That alone was the reason he had never seriously considered working as both a writer and actor through film.

Unaware of Taeha’s concerns, Representative Han misunderstood his silence and began persuading him.

“You’ll only know if you try, but honestly, I think your idea would shine even more as a film scenario.”

He continued,

“Most importantly, unlike a single-season drama, films have enough profitability to support the production scale you want.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Even though the film market had struggled because of the pandemic and rising ticket prices, successful movies still generated enormous profits.

If Taeha created a strong scenario, securing investment wouldn’t be difficult.

And that meant he wouldn’t have to worry about budget limitations dragging down production quality.

Representative Han continued.

“On top of that, Salamander Studio has been doing very well in film production lately. Adapting your work into a movie wouldn’t be difficult.”

He paused before adding,

“Of course, if we move toward film, you’ll probably have to part ways with Team Leader Kim for a while.”

At those words, Kim Seoan looked visibly disappointed.

It was understandable.

If Taeha chose film as his next project, a specialist manager would naturally be assigned to him. A temporary separation from Kim Seoan was unavoidable.

Besides, as Han had said, Salamander Studio’s film division had been thriving recently.

The studio had entered the film industry in earnest while Taeha had been busy filming The Great Legacy.

It wasn’t unusual.

Recently, changes in the entertainment industry had begun breaking down the barriers between dramas and films. More production companies were now handling both.

Salamander Studio had recognized the shift and expanded into film as its next step.

Of course, the beginning had been rough.

Despite the industry’s changing landscape, dramas and films still differed greatly in production methods.

Moreover, Representative Han and most of Salamander Studio’s staff had long been accustomed to evaluating drama scripts.

Finding strong film scenarios had proven difficult.

But over time, Salamander Studio gradually built its expertise.

They also successfully recruited numerous professionals with extensive film experience.

Perhaps that was why Salamander Studio had recently released several critically praised productions.

Even within the film industry, the studio was widely recognized as having settled in successfully.

So if Taeha decided to make a film, there was no reason to look elsewhere.

Representative Han’s words carried that implication.

Though, to begin with, Taeha had never considered working with another company anyway.

“I also think my idea suits a film better,” Taeha admitted.

“If I write a strong scenario, I believe we can secure enough funding.”

After a brief pause, he added,

“And honestly, I’d prefer to work with Salamander Studio on the production.”

Then his expression turned uncertain.

“But… I’m not sure I can pull it off.”

Representative Han tilted his head.

“What’s the problem?”

Taeha answered honestly.

“The scenario.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“I’ve never written one before.”

Silence fell over the room.

A few seconds passed.

Then—

“Hahaha!”

Representative Han burst into laughter.

“I was wondering what the issue was!”

Kim Seoan covered her mouth, smiling softly.

But Taeha only looked confused.

To him, this was a completely reasonable concern.

Sensing his confusion, Representative Han explained.

“I’m sure Team Leader Kim feels the same way, but I honestly don’t doubt for a second that you’ll write a great scenario.”

“Even if it’s your first time.”

“…Really?”

“You’ve succeeded every time you challenged something new.”

Han counted on his fingers.

“You started as an actor, then suddenly became interested in writing. And your first drama was The Crowned Path—do I even need to say more?”

He chuckled.

“You even wrote the lyrics for Echoes of Winter recently.”

Kim Seoan nodded in agreement.

“That’s true. Your sense for language is basically genius-level.”

She smiled warmly.

“I’m sure you’ll write a great scenario too. Even if there’s some trial and error.”

Still, Taeha remained uneasy.

Writing song lyrics was one thing.

This was entirely different.

Unlike what Representative Han believed, Taeha hadn’t simply stumbled into writing through talent alone.

In his previous life, he had struggled desperately to become a successful drama writer.

He had endured criticism, humiliation, betrayal, and countless failures.

Only after accumulating all of that experience had he finally managed to create The Crowned Path.

That was why Han’s confidence did little to erase his anxiety.

In truth, Taeha wasn’t the genius Han and Kim Seoan imagined him to be.

Of course, using his immersion ability might help him create a decent scenario.

But that was only a possibility.

As always, immersion ability merely brought out the user’s latent potential.

If Taeha truly lacked talent for screenwriting, no amount of immersion would magically create it.

Seeing Taeha’s continued uncertainty, Representative Han and Kim Seoan gradually grew serious.

It was clear his doubts ran deeper than they had expected.

After thinking for a moment, Representative Han cautiously proposed an idea.

“Then how about this?”

“How?”

“You write a scenario first.”

Han leaned back slightly.

“And we’ll see whether any directors are interested in it.”

“If nobody wants it, then we drop the film idea.”

Taeha considered the proposal carefully before nodding.

“That’s not bad.”

He let out a quiet breath.

“There’s no point in being scared before even trying.”

“I’ll only know the quality once I actually write it.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” Taeha added, “I want one condition.”

“What condition?”

“Not just any director.”

His expression sharpened.

“I want someone who genuinely wants to direct my work.”

“Ah…”

“And no rookie directors with barely any experience.”

He continued calmly,

“If both the writer and director are newcomers, the project won’t turn out well.”

In television, people often said:

Dramas are the writer’s game.

But in film—

Movies are the director’s game.

A director’s capability was absolutely crucial.

That was why major film festivals often treated Best Director as more prestigious than Best Screenplay.

It also explained why famous directors were household names while screenwriters often remained unknown.

Taeha needed someone capable of elevating the work—even if the scenario itself still had flaws.

Most importantly, before fully committing to this path, he wanted reassurance that his scenario truly had value.

And from Salamander Studio’s perspective, it was a reasonable condition as well.

If Taeha’s film failed, it wouldn’t just damage one project.

People would inevitably say he had abandoned dramas to chase film and ruined his momentum.

From a business standpoint, the loss would be massive.

A failed movie would cost far more than a failed drama.

In the end, Taeha’s caution wasn’t just for himself.

It was also to avoid harming Salamander Studio.

As if understanding his thoughts, Representative Han sighed lightly.

“You don’t need to worry about us or the company…”

Then he nodded.

“But I understand what you mean.”

“Let’s do it your way.”

***

The next day.

After finishing his workout and breakfast, Taeha entered the study overlooking the courtyard and opened his laptop.

His current home was the detached house he had viewed earlier through the real estate agent.

In the end, he had decided to move into a single-family house.

And so far—

He was satisfied.

Maintenance could have been troublesome, but he had deliberately chosen a home that was easy to manage and even hired a caretaker.

Life there was far more comfortable than expected.

More than anything else, he loved being able to write while enjoying a courtyard that belonged entirely to him.

His favorite feature was the pine tree standing gracefully in the center.

Its elegant shape transformed the courtyard into something resembling a living landscape painting.

I’ve come a long way.

To think I can write while looking at scenery like this.

After quietly admiring the pine tree’s curved branches—full of vitality and movement—

Taeha finally began writing his very first film scenario in earnest.