Chapter 30: The Hundred-Million Contract

Jo Minseong first discovered dramas at fifteen, and ever since then, he set his sights on the world of TV series.

At the age of twenty, he entered the Department of Public Administration at Yonsei University, and after graduating, he passed the NBN open recruitment exam.

Afterwards, under NBN, at their production studio Ten Entertainment, when Jo Minseong turned forty, the Baekmajin incident with an external contractor broke out, resulting in the ousting of the entire management.

And so, Jo Minseong was promoted to replace the previous director.

The reason Jo Minseong was able to ascend to the position of director at MG-speed, all while following a Confucian elite path, was thanks to his diligent attitude—never getting complacent about his position and always working in the field.

Not only did he personally scout directors and writers, he often spent sleepless nights near filming sets or studios for the sake of his job.

Because of this, he still hadn't settled down even at forty.

But he would always dismiss others’ concerns by saying, “I’m married to my work.”

Thanks to this attitude, both his juniors and those around him found him difficult and treated him like a madman.

Yet even today, Jo Minseong was fulfilling his duty—ordering a McMorning set early in the morning and appeasing his hunger in his car.

He had parked along the roadside near Yeouido Park, opposite the The Shop Officetel building—a spot where, fortunately, parking enforcement rarely made rounds even for long stays.

He had been lying in wait here for a full three hours.

‘It has to be Lee Junghyuk…!’

Director Jang Byunghyun had set a strict condition: the writer must be Lee Junghyuk.

At first, faced with such an unreasonable demand, he planned to persuade Jang and look for another writer.

But a few days ago, after sneaking a peek at Lee Junghyuk’s script, he made up his mind to do whatever it took to secure a contract with him.

Even as he took a bite of the muffin, soft bread sandwiching egg, bacon, and cheese, and sipped his coffee, his eyes never left the front.

He looked less like the director of a company and more like a stakeout cop or a reporter chasing a scandal.

Today, his only target was Lee Junghyuk, Writer Lee Junghyuk.

“There he is.”

Just then, in the distance at the entrance of Yeouido Park, he saw Writer Lee Junghyuk, clad in workout clothes, finishing his jog and walking out.

After briefly waiting at the crosswalk, Lee Junghyuk entered ‘Omega Coffee’ as soon as the light turned green.

Quickly wiping his lips with a tissue, Jo Minseong grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat and got out of the car.

After moving into The Shop Officetel, I made myself a routine.

Not to the extent of some famous Japanese novelist, waking up at dawn to eat fresh vegetables and go jogging in the early morning.

But I did wake up early, jog for about thirty minutes at Yeouido Park near home, then drop by the first-floor café for a dose of iced Americano on an empty stomach—a reasonably healthy routine.

Only today, since I woke up too late, I didn’t finish jogging until almost lunchtime.

The point of a routine, after all, is just doing it.

A little delay in time doesn’t matter much.

After all, I don’t have a “commute” or anything—since I’m a “popular drama writer.”

As I entered the café, the part-timer’s greeting came.

“Welcome!”

“Hello, one iced Americano, please.”

After paying with my card, I watched as the part-timer leveled out the ground beans on the portafilter—a bit clumsy, as usual.

‘Still not quite there.’

Personally, I thought the coffee made by the part-timer who appeared in the afternoon, always wearing a mask, was more fragrant and cleaner than the one in the morning.

Then, a strangely unfamiliar voice sounded from behind me.

“Oh, aren’t you Writer Lee Junghyuk?”

It was that man who had been sneaking peeks at my script at the café a few days ago.

“You must come to this café often. I make sure to drop by every afternoon—the coffee here is just amazing.”

“Ah, yes. Hello.”

I greeted him curtly, and Jo Minseong took the chance to strike up a conversation, just as he’d been waiting for it.

“Are you planning your next project already, Writer?”

“I’ve already finished writing my next project.”

“Could it be that script I happened to see the other day?”

Standing at the counter, not taking a seat, I gazed silently at Jo Minseong.

“Director, you didn’t by chance wait for me here all morning, did you?”

“Haha. You’re quite sharp, Writer.”

Wiping the business smile from his face and returning to a more natural expression, Jo Minseong leaned in and whispered quietly.

“The coffee here is tastier in the afternoon than in the morning, you know.”

At that, Jo Minseong scratched the back of his head sheepishly and laughed heartily.

“I’ll remember that. Writer, if you have some time, could you spare me just ten minutes?”

I didn’t have to be so cold as to turn away someone who had come all this way just to see me, and I had nothing else scheduled for the afternoon.

“Your iced Americano is ready.”

Jo Minseong and I took our coffees and moved to a window table.

As soon as I sat down, I took a sip, but as expected, the aroma was weak and the aftertaste was a bit murky.

I set my cup down with a slightly disappointed look and got straight to the point.

“I’ve already signed a contract for my next project. I signed it right away with the place I worked with for .”

“Yes, I knew that. The script for  also made it to Park Hyungjun at our Ten Enter.”

“I see.”

Jo Minseong pulled his chair close to the table and began pitching enthusiastically.

“I’m not after —what I want is the  I saw before. If you don’t mind, I’d like to formally read the script this time.”

“Are you sure you can be convinced by just seeing a few pages?”

“Given the length I saw, it was at least five minutes’ worth. That’s more than enough.”

There’s a saying—the Five-Minute Rule.

Writers believe that if you can get viewers hooked within five minutes, your drama will succeed.

Jo Minseong was convinced  would be interesting, based on that very rule.

Just like how you size up your blind date in five seconds, five minutes in a script is short, but never too short.

“How about hearing our terms first and taking your time to think it over? I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

“I’m already being well compensated as it is.”

“I’ll give you seventy million per episode.”

Seventy million per episode was the maximum that H Studio could stretch to—what they called their top rate.

Even at seventy million won per episode, it was A-list treatment; I had little to complain about the amount.

‘Still, working with someone other than H Studio weighs on my mind a little.’

If it’s just about money, CEO Hong would probably offer at least seventy million for the next-next project as well, so I hesitated for a moment.

As I showed signs of hesitation at the offer, Jo Minseong quickly added,

“I heard you write scripts at an incredible pace, Writer.”

“Yes, I’m not exactly slow.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long does it take you to write four episodes, exactly?”

“Well, about a month on average.”

Of course, I often finished even faster, but for most writers, writing the first few episodes in a month was considered quick, so I answered moderately.

He thought for a moment, then grinned at me.

“So your next script is already complete to the end?”

“…Yes. That’s right. So, I was already working on the one after.”

“For a writer with your superhuman pace, I think the next-next project should be with us.”

“And why’s that?”

“The studio you signed with, H Studio, can’t handle two projects at the same time.”

I couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

H Studio had only been around for about three years—a small, fledgling production company.

They simply lacked the budget, manpower, and infrastructure to manage multiple projects.

Jo Minseong picked up on that and made a rational offer that matched my writing speed.

Just as I was about to be swayed by his offer,

‘If he’s this rational, why did he come all the way out here?’

Usually, when a company is desperate or falling behind, they aggressively court writers like this.

Perhaps, even while pretending to be rational, Jo Minseong was hiding some reason he absolutely had to sign with me.

Like—

‘Does he have a reason he absolutely needs to make this contract with me?’

Otherwise, there’s no reason to hang around waiting to snatch up a next-next project when he’s only read a snippet of the script.

Feeling bold, I tested him.

“Is seventy million per episode your fixed limit?”

“It’s not fixed, but as you know, at this level, it’s quite sufficient in the industry…”

“It’s not much different from what H Studio offered. Since Ten Enter is a bigger company, can’t you do a little better?”

Stung by my directness, Jo Minseong hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought things over, then cautiously spoke.

“I could go as high as eighty million from my side.”

I met his gaze calmly, neither agreeing nor refusing.

“…Alright. Ninety million. I can’t go higher than that myself.”

“That sounds like, with a little time, you could convince your higher-ups for an even better deal.”

Jo Minseong crossed his arms, bouncing his leg nervously as he did some quick calculations. Finally, as if admitting defeat, he shut his eyes tight and replied,

“I’ll try. But there will be some strict safety clauses.”

“What kind of clauses?”

“First, the contract period will be a minimum of three years. As you know, it’s not easy to complete a project within that time. And if the project isn’t produced, you’ll need to return the advance if you want to take your script back.”

Drama contracts usually lasted about three years, so I had no issue with that.

It was also industry practice to return the advance if you reclaimed your script after the contract ended, so there was no reason to object.

“These are standard safety clauses. I trust you understand.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“And the extra clause I’ll propose to convince our CEO is this: You must submit the completed draft within four months.”

“Four months?”

“Yes. Only then can I persuade the higher-ups that we’ll be able to fast-track production for a first-quarter launch next year. We need to boost our sales in the first half of next year.”

For most writers, being told to finish all sixteen episodes in a single quarter would be absurd.

But for me, it was more than doable. In fact, I’d have plenty of time left over.

Clearly, Jo Minseong assumed I’d only written about episode one of .

‘In reality, I’ve already written up to episode four, but there’s no reason to mention that.’

Feigning consideration for a moment, I nodded and accepted Jo Minseong’s offer.

“Alright. If you can convince them, I’ll give you sixteen completed scripts within four months, at a hundred million per episode.”

“I believe you can do it, and I’ll do everything to persuade them

“Yes, I believe you too. I look forward to working together.”

 

In the end, my next-next project, , was set at a fee of one hundred million per episode.