Chapter 32: The Part-Timer

5th floor of Yeouido General Shopping Center, located at Exit 5 of Yeouido Station.

There, Shindong Banquet Restaurant is famous as a Chinese restaurant run by ethnic Chinese for three generations, boasting forty years of tradition.

Past the spacious, comfortable hall, with red tablecloths on every table, there was a private room furnished with a Chinese-style round table.

Director Jang Byunghyun, Director Jo Minseong, and I sat at comfortable distances so we could all face each other.

Seated at the head of the table, farthest from the entrance, Director Jang appeared familiar with the place, recommending dishes without so much as a glance at the menu.

“How about the five-spice braised pork? The winter leeks on top are firm and very tasty.”

“I see. Is there anything else you’d recommend?”

“The pan-fried dumplings are good, and since it’s winter, the chive japchae should have a nice aroma too.”

“Then let’s order those three...”

As Director Jang lightly raised his hand, an attendant waiting outside the room came in to take the order.

Once the attendant left, I stood and offered a polite bow to Director Jang, taking the opportunity to greet him formally.

“I didn’t expect the director to join us today. Allow me to introduce myself again. I’m the writer, Lee Junghyuk.”

“Haha, I pestered Director Jo to make sure I came. I’m Jang Byunghyun, the drama director.”

Director Jang looked at me with a pleased smile and asked,

“I heard you’ll be working on two projects at the same time if you join us?”

“Yes, it just turned out that way.”

“Hahaha, impressive. Even during Park Eunsook’s heyday, she never worked on two projects at once.”

“I was lucky, that’s all.”

Sipping the warm jasmine tea from a porcelain cup, the fragrant aroma spread through my mouth.

As I savored the taste, Director Jang continued with another question.

“So there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask if I ever met you, Writer Lee.”

“Please, ask whatever you wish.”

Director Jang leaned in, placing both arms on the table and looking at me keenly.

“I’m curious. Why do you work so hard? Is there a goal driving you?”

Facing a director renowned as a master, I wondered if I should give a grand answer.

But shallow words wouldn’t convince Director Jang.

Besides, I wasn’t the type to speak loftily of artistic passion.

My goal was simple.

“I do it to make money.”

“You work that hard, for money? And at that quality?”

“Yes, I’m just grateful that I can earn a living by writing.”

“Hahaha, that’s the most honest and transparent answer I’ve ever heard. Thank you for being frank.”

As the atmosphere grew warm and cheerful, with idle chatter passing between us,

The attendant returned, bringing in the dishes we’d ordered.

The five-spice braised pork, chive japchae, and thick, perfectly fried pan-fried dumplings, made with seasonal ingredients, were set before us on ornate plates.

“Wow, look at that. Let’s talk as we eat.”

Jo Minseong let out a brief exclamation, then took a serving spoon to share some chive japchae onto my plate and Director Jang’s.

Picking up the steaming japchae noodles and chives with my chopsticks, I put them in my mouth in one bite. The oily, springy noodles mingled perfectly with the sharp aroma of the chives, making me smile unconsciously.

The five-spice braised pork, too, was made from chilled, lean pork tenderloin, with the mild sweetness of the meat and the spiciness and subtle sweetness of thinly sliced leeks blending so well that it made me crave a drink.

Noticing everyone enjoying the food, Director Jang asked with a playful glint,

“Don’t you think it’s a shame to eat this without some alcohol?”

“Oh, I completely forgot. Shall we have some drinks?”

As everyone nodded readily, Director Jang laughed heartily and called to the attendant,

“Please bring us a bottle of Moutai.”

“Yes, right away.”

Soon, the famous Chinese liquor, Moutai, with its characteristic white bottle and red label, was brought to the table.

When the Chinese Communist Party, unable to withstand the National Revolutionary Army’s assault, relocated its base from the southeast to the northwest, Mao Zedong passed through Maotai Town. There, the villagers served him this liquor, and, not forgetting their hospitality, Mao fostered Moutai as China’s national liquor.

A single bottle was so valuable that its market price surpassed even Samsung Electronics or America’s Coca-Cola and Pepsi.

‘A bottle must cost at least 500,000 won. They’re serious drinkers.’

With practiced hands, Director Jang uncorked the Moutai himself and poured me a drink.

“Let me serve you a glass.”

“Thank you.”

Being a strong baijiu, we drank it in small sips rather than all at once, but its unique rose scent lingered richly in my mouth.

“It’s my first time trying Moutai, but I see why they say its aroma spreads for miles once uncorked. It’s truly fragrant,”

“Exactly, which is why it goes perfectly with oily and spicy dishes like these.”

One glass, then another, and the strong liquor soon made me tipsy.

I felt like I could say things I normally wouldn’t on a first meeting, thanks to the rare feeling of getting drunk.

It wasn’t just me.

“Writer Lee, would you mind if I spoke more casually?”

“You’re Director Jang, of course you should. Please, speak comfortably.”

“I felt from the start that you and I would get along. You know the saying, birds of a feather flock together.”

“You feel a kinship with me?”

“Hahaha, oh Director.”

Sensing where this was headed, Jo Minseong tried to diffuse things with a hearty laugh, but Director Jang continued unfazed.

“I’m divorced too, you see. I’m a ‘dolsing’ myself.”

I hadn’t known, since it wasn’t public knowledge, but Director Jang said it had been over five years since he’d divorced his wife.

The story of a normal housewife and a husband called a great master, who amassed wealth and fame, was the complete opposite of my own situation.

But there was a strange common ground.

“Can you believe it, my wife had an affair!”

“You must have been furious. Let me pour you a glass.”

“Just thinking about it still makes my blood boil.”

“I know that feeling all too well.”

Perhaps it was feeling left out by the two divorced men bonding,

But Jo Minseong also downed a shot and let out a hot sigh.

“Whew, but at least you two got to experience marriage. I’ve spent all these years just working. Nothing but work.”

Director Jang clucked his tongue, sounding regretful, and slurred a bit as he asked,

“I mean, Director Jo, you’re handsome and capable. Why aren’t you meeting any women?”

“I did love someone once. But that’s an old story now.”

“So everyone here’s got a story, huh.”

Maybe it was the mood, but even after emptying a bottle of Moutai, Director Jang’s excitement didn’t fade, and he ordered another bottle of Wuliangye.

Before long, with the strong Chinese liquors running freely, our conversation started to head in a particular direction.

“Your ex-in-laws, I’m telling you, they’re real scoundrels! They’re ruining the whole drama industry. They think everything can be bought with money!”

Director Jang said that when he took on , it was thanks to massive backing from CL.

It worked out for him personally, but with writers, directors, and actors all rushed onto the project, it was bound to leave a bad aftertaste. He warned us to beware of those blinded by money.

“I really love dramas, you know. That’s why I hope people like Writer Lee do well. On the surface, you say it’s for money, but inside, you’re like me, aren’t you?”

“Haha. Who’s to say I’m any different?”

“No. I know you’re different. Once you reach a certain age, you see things for what they are. People who put up grand ideals are often hiding dark motives. Writer Lee,”

Director Jang gazed at me as if he could see right through me.

“This field is crawling with CL people. Let’s change the game together.”

Jo Minseong, as if to join the mood, jumped in quickly.

“With us together, let’s shake things up for real.”

“Enough talk, let’s have a national toast.”

“Absolutely! Raise your glass! Writer, give us a toast.”

Though it sounded like I’d just agreed to sign with them,

I didn’t mind Director Jang’s words and gaze.

Why do I write dramas? Why do I work like crazy to put out works on Godflix?

Because I love dramas, and I want to earn a lot of money.

Neither is wrong, but deep down, what drives me is ‘that.’

‘That’ is my anger towards Jeon Minjeong, who used my passion to cover up her own dirty secrets, trampling on my desire to become a good drama writer.

“Down with CL!”

“Down with CL!!”

One hour later.

When we came out of the restaurant, the three of us were thoroughly drunk.

Jo Minseong called for a chauffeur at the parking lot to send the completely inebriated Director Jang home.

After saying goodbye to them and heading home, I heard Jo Minseong call my name from behind.

“Writer Lee Junghyuk.”

Though I thought he was drunk, his face was suddenly clear, his voice sharp and sober.

“If you decide to join us, I’ll make sure you never regret it.”

Seeing him keep his manners and professionalism even in this situation, I found myself trusting Jo Minseong a bit more.

I reached out to him first, in a gesture of agreement.

“I look forward to working with you. I’ll send you the script when I wake up tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Writer! I’ll prepare the contract and come see you soon.”

After exchanging farewells, I trudged towards The Sharp Officetel.

Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute walk past Yeouido Park, so I made it home without trouble.

As soon as I entered my room, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

---

The next day, after meeting with Director Jo Minseong and Director Jang Byunghyun.

I woke up with a slight hangover.

“Ugh, feeling a bit dizzy.”

Thanks to the quality liquor, my hangover wasn’t as bad as usual.

Remembering there was a Yangpyeong hangover soup restaurant on the first floor of my officetel, I tossed on a hat and comfortable clothes and stepped outside.

It was still before lunchtime, so the hangover soup place wasn’t crowded. I sat in a corner and soothed my stomach with a hot bowl.

The spicy, rich broth finally made me feel completely refreshed.

Just as I finished the bowl and leaned back for a breather,

A text message alert went off on my phone.

-Writer, did you get home safe last night? Make sure you eat something for your hangover.

It was the ever-polite Jo Minseong.

-Yes, I got home well thanks to you. Hope you take care of your hangover too, Director.

-Thank you. By the way, I’m reaching out about the supporting actress casting we discussed last night.

A moment later, several PDF files popped up in the messenger window.

Opening the files, I saw they were a list of actresses currently available for immediate casting through Ten Entertainment.

He remembered me saying in passing over drinks, “I’m not sure who to cast as a supporting actress for ‘Ma Boksoon’,” and had put together a list right away.

‘When it comes to work, he’s really fast and reliable.’

With the empty soup bowl in front of me, I leisurely looked through the list Jo Minseong had sent.

Every actress was recognizable at a glance.

Some were even so famous that casting them in a supporting role seemed excessive.

But.

‘None of them are exactly the image I’m looking for.’

I stood up with a sigh.

A hearty bowl of hangover soup, followed by an ice-cold americano to cleanse the palate, made for the perfect hangover routine.

With a bit of regret, I closed the files Jo Minseong had sent and headed to ‘Omega Coffee.’

As I opened the cafe door and stepped inside, I caught sight of a man at the counter, seen in profile.

He stood at least 185 cm, had a face the size of a fist, a sharp nose, and clear skin—anyone could tell he looked like a model.

‘Is he an aspiring actor? He’s handsome.’

Standing a step back and waiting, I overheard the order. This model-like man wasn’t ordering coffee.

“Here’s my business card. Please contact me if you’re interested.”

“Ah...”

With a confident expression, as if he’d never failed to get anything he wanted, the man was asking the part-timer for her number.

I watched like some old-timer secretly eavesdropping on a youthful romance.

I waited for the woman’s next line, expecting her to accept with a smile.

“I don’t want to.”

The part-timer answered sharply, like she’d just gotten a spam call.

“Eh... eh?”

“I said no. I really should wear my mask.”

With that bold response, the handsome man’s face stiffened.

He must not be used to being rejected.

‘This is getting interesting.’

Unlucky for the good-looking guy, but as a writer, the sassy rejection was a much more intriguing development than her shyly accepting the card.

“If you’re not going to order coffee, could you move aside? There’s a customer behind you.”

“Ah. Ah...”

Looking pale and flustered, the man glanced at me, mumbled, “Sorry,” and hurried out of the cafe.

Tsk tsk. Poor guy, he looked sharp too.

Instinctively, I wondered if the morning shift part-timer was always this pretty, as I took my place at the counter.

I naturally ordered my coffee, trying to sneak another look at the part-timer—

“Hmm?”

The sound slipped out before I knew it.

It was no wonder; the part-timer in front of me was not the morning shift girl.

Her light greenish-brown eyes, skin so pale it was almost translucent, and facial features so perfectly symmetrical it looked as if AI had calculated them.

Compared to the woman before me, that handsome man earlier was—well, maybe not a squid, but certainly just an ordinary human.

Even with her cap pulled low, this woman exuded an unearthly beauty she couldn’t possibly hide, as if she were not of this world.

I almost blurted out, “Beautiful!” but barely held myself back with the last scrap of reason.

“Three cups, right?”

The part-timer asked in that familiar listless tone. She knew my order exactly.

That’s right. Hearing her voice, I realized.

This was the same part-timer who always wore a cap and mask whenever I came in the afternoon.

“Your card, please.”

“Oh. Ah, here.”

Flustered, I fumbled my card just like the man before me.

I realized there was a reason she always hid herself behind a cap and mask.

“Um, are you an actress?”

As she handed back my card, I asked a question for the first time in months.

I knew it was a weird question, but I couldn’t resist my curiosity.

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a mask. I was just wondering if there was a reason.”

“Hah. What reason? Why, do you want my number too?”

“...Excuse me?”

“You’re not my type, mister.”

Looking at this bold, angelic—no, part-timer—I thought to myself.

‘What kind of nutcase is this?’