Chapter 50: The Day the Lights Returned

[Spring has come in full bloom to Yeouido.]

The announcer, dressed in a pale pink blouse and skirt, continued her words with a smile on her face.

[At Yeouido Park, beneath the cherry trees in full pink bloom, friends, couples, and families are spreading picnic blankets, eating homemade lunches, and enjoying spring together…….]

Just as the announcer said, the cherry blossoms near the smoking area in the The Sharp officetel complex had also bloomed splendidly.

After watching the news briefly on my phone, I stubbed out my cigarette and started walking.

Returning home—or rather, to my studio—the drab, dull colors with not a hint of pink greeted me.

Looking at Lim Sung-hee’s crown, where a few white hairs had started to sprout among her jet-black hair, I asked,

“How much is left?”

“I was revising the final scene of Episode 4. It’s almost done.”

“Can I take a look? Please give me Taemi’s as well.”

I took the scripts handed over by Lim Sung-hee and Jung Taemi, and examined them carefully.

It was clear that three months of working diligently, without stepping outside once, had paid off pretty well.

‘Of course, there are still plenty of points to fix, but even so, this is a huge leap forward.’

Normally, it takes six months to write four episodes’ worth of script, but the two of them really wrote four episodes in just half that time, just as I’d asked.

For the final review, I went over both scripts one last time, tweaking some small details and lines, and after about three or four hours, the Episode 4 scripts were all finished.

I let the two hardworking writers know that their primary goal was now accomplished.

“You both worked so hard. I’m sure the results will reflect all your effort.”

“Ugh… I thought I was going to die. I mean, writing four episodes in three months was impossibly tough, so how do you pump out two or three episodes a month, Writer?”

“That’s what I want to know! Are you a machine? No, even calling you a machine isn’t enough. Did you have an AI chip implanted in your brain or something?”

Lim Sung-hee shot me a suspicious glare.

“At this point, I don’t just respect you, I’m a little scared. How can someone not only launch two works a year, but also start writing the next one in advance?”

“My point exactly. Come on, just admit it. You got a chip in your head, right?”

Lim Sung-hee shook her head, joking that maybe one of those wild rumors you hear on the Seoul subway—that some American IT tycoon has implanted chips in people’s heads—might actually be true.

I let out a quiet chuckle, then took the scripts the two had written with such care, printed them out, punched holes in the corners, and organized them neatly like booklets.

“Can we go home now?”

“Or maybe… a team dinner?”

Seeing the two of them obviously hoping for a reward after such a long period of work, I smiled gently.

“I have some guests coming over tonight, so you’ll have to delay going home just a bit. But if you want a team dinner, I’ll give you my card later.”

“Guests?”

“Once I said the scripts would be done today, there were people who said they’d come right away.”

Speak of the devil, right as I finished speaking, the doorbell rang.

When I opened the front door, Hong Ju-hee and Cho Min-seong were standing side by side.

“You two came together again today?”

“Oh, so you invited this guy too, Writer? I thought it was just me. How disappointing~”

“I’m not disappointed. Thank you for inviting me, Writer. Haha.”

Perhaps they’d had a round of mind games on the first floor already, because the two entered without giving each other an inch.

Just like that, Lim Sung-hee and Jung Taemi, looking thoroughly worn out from just finishing their scripts, greeted them.

Including myself, the five of us gathered around three desks in the living room, arranged in a ㄷ shape.

I handed the two scripts I’d printed in advance to Hong Ju-hee and Cho Min-seong, who were sitting next to each other at the same desk.

“These are the scripts up to Episode 4. Please take your time, and feel free to say anything.”

“The script’s already up to Episode 4? That was fast.”

“Let’s skip the small talk for now and read first.”

Noticing that they’d each received a different script, the two asked me,

“We have different scripts?”

“Yes, for now I recommend reading them separately.”

“Hm, if you say so, Writer. Got it.”

A quietness so deep you could hear the ticking of the clock filled the room.

Seated opposite the two producers, Lim Sung-hee and Jung Taemi bit their nails with anxious faces, waiting like twins for the reading to finish.

Then, almost simultaneously, Hong Ju-hee and Cho Min-seong turned the last page, finishing both scripts.

Seeing this, I spoke up.

“How was it?”

Hong Ju-hee answered a split second before Cho Min-seong.

“As expected from something handled by Writer Lee Jung-hyuk, I could feel the unique freshness and immersion of your scripts. But if I had to nitpick, the level of polish was a little off.”

As Hong Ju-hee trailed off cautiously, Cho Min-seong picked up quickly.

“I feel the same. If we’re talking about polish, it wasn’t quite on par with your usual scripts, Writer Lee Jung-hyuk. It felt like maybe 70–80% complete, not 100%. There was a slight lack in the detailed depiction of characters’ psychology and the kind of scene transitions you plan with camera work in mind.”

“I see.”

“But as Cho Min-seong said, that’s only compared to a ‘Lee Jung-hyuk script.’ Objectively, it’s a script any production company would want to get their hands on.”

“I agree with that. We’re nitpicking, but purely for enjoyment, it’s really fun.”

Hearing that, I quietly admired how they’d zeroed in on every detail, and asked,

“Putting aside all circumstances, let me be blunt: if you didn’t know my name was involved, would you want to sign a contract?”

They thought for a moment, then both nodded and answered almost at once.

“Yes. Writer Lim Sung-hee’s , let’s sign with our H Studio.”

“If you entrust Writer Jung Taemi’s to Ten Enter, we’ll make something great out of it.”

As expected, this was all within my predictions.

After hearing their answers, I turned to Lim Sung-hee and Jung Taemi and asked,

“What do you think? Is it all right if Lim works with H Studio and Jung with Ten Enter?”

Both broke into wide smiles and nodded quickly.

“Yes! Of course! Are we really signing a contract?”

“Oh my, finishing the script and sealing a deal all on the same day—does this even make sense?”

“Well, usually they review just the first episode and take their time deciding, but since you two worked so hard to finish four episodes, they could make up their minds faster.”

At my words, Hong Ju-hee and Cho Min-seong nodded in agreement.

“We don’t have the contract on hand today, so it’s only a verbal agreement for now, but the scripts you wrote would get picked up anywhere.”

“Yes, the scripts are realistic and concrete enough for actual production, and most importantly, the quality compares well with established writers.”

Thus, the contract offer for each of the two—who were formerly assistant writers—was 15 million won per episode.

That was a high figure for rookie writers, but as members of Lee Jung-hyuk’s team, their scripts had promotional value and the assurance that Lee Jung-hyuk had reviewed them.

If all went smoothly and they signed, the two would receive a 60 million won contract for four episodes.

Jung Taemi and Lim Sung-hee simply stared at each other, dumbfounded.

‘They must be overwhelmed.’

They’d lived as assistant writers, on irregular pay, never knowing if they’d be let go after one project.

Now, their lives had turned around in just three months—it was only natural for them to be stunned.

“Unni… would you mind slapping my cheek, just once, so I know this isn’t a dream?”

Smack.

“How is it, Taemi? Does it hurt? Is this real?”

“It freaking hurts, unni. I think it’s real.”

“Kyaaah!”

The two hugged each other tightly, not caring who started it.

Seeing that the past three months of their hard work hadn’t been wasted, I let out a quiet sigh of relief and smiled contentedly.

“And if you, Writer, are credited as the Creator, the fee per episode is about this much.”

“Yes, we can match that as well.”

Cho Min-seong was the first to propose a creator fee: 50 million won per episode.

Given that the last show, , was 90 million won per episode, this might seem low, but the creator system was actually win-win for both producers and writers.

From the production side, a script that would normally cost 9 million per episode could now be acquired for a combined 6.5 million—5 million for the creator, 1.5 million for the rookie writer.

From the writer’s perspective, becoming a creator meant that instead of writing every script personally, you could work with two new writers simultaneously, earning 5 million per project, for a total of 100 million won.

It was a thoroughly capitalist logic, but that made it reasonable.

“Understood. Let’s proceed with both companies on those terms.”

That was exactly what I’d been aiming for.

If the creator system stabilized and gained speed, I could release numerous projects on Godflix without writing all the scripts myself.

The accompanying rewards were just a bonus.

This was the most efficient way to use Godflix.

It was the first step toward that grand journey, and it was a success.

After agreeing to revise the contracts and set a future meeting date,

Hong Ju-hee and Cho Min-seong left Lee Jung-hyuk’s studio and went down to the underground parking lot.

Even as they made their way to their parked cars, both seemed deep in thought.

Hong Ju-hee spoke first.

“So, you liked that script too?”

“Looks like you did as well?”

“If you’re okay with it, want to swap scripts in my car for a bit? Aren’t you curious?”

“…Should we?”

Moving to Cho Min-seong’s car, since it was more spacious, the two sat in the driver’s and passenger’s seats, pulled the scripts from their bags, and exchanged them.

They each read the other’s script in silence.

After some time, Hong Ju-hee spoke first.

“Ha, is really fun.”

“Right? was great too. Sigh.”

Cho Min-seong let out a hearty laugh, and they returned each other’s scripts.

Leaning back in her seat, Hong Ju-hee shook her head.

“I must have underestimated the Writer.”

“Who? Writer Lee Jung-hyuk?”

“Yeah. He’s not just a good writer—he’s incredible at bringing out good writing in others.”

“I was surprised too. I came because he asked me to review the assistants’ scripts, but honestly, I didn’t expect something like what we saw today.”

“You know how it is. Other writers try to be creators and it’s a mess. Just between us, some take the money and don’t care at all.”

“Yeah. I didn’t think Lee would do that, but still, this level of quality…”

Perhaps because they were alone in the car, they naturally dropped formal speech and shared their honest thoughts.

“He probably already knew which script we’d pick.”

“I mean, it’s not written on the cover, but it almost feels like each was aimed exactly at our companies.”

“Yeah, even if we’d both gotten both scripts, we would have made the same choices.”

H Studio was expanding rapidly, but didn’t yet have the infrastructure for all-star casts or huge sets.

After successfully producing the romance , a romcom like was a natural fit.

With romcoms, if the leads have chemistry, you don’t need an all-star cast.

But thanks to , there were plenty of established actors eager to do a romcom.

It was daunting to find suitable locations for a chaebol story, but it was a necessary step if H Studio wanted to go further.

‘It’s a manageable challenge.’

On the other hand, Ten Enter had strong infrastructure, experience working with top stars, and enough capital to build massive sets.

Court scenes could be set-built, but they even considered constructing an entire prosecutor’s office.

With action scenes and a prosecutor protagonist who moved around outside the courtroom, there would be plenty of variety.

With Lee Jung-hyuk and Ten Enter together, it’d be easy to secure a star-studded cast.

‘Still, this is a good chance to discover new talent.’

Legal dramas have lots of episodes, so many actors are needed.

After years of competing for first or second place, Ten Enter had grown complacent—like H Studio, they wanted to find some fresh faces.

Reading , Cho Min-seong felt the excitement he’d been missing for a long time.

“He really is some kind of sage or eccentric. Not just a great writer, but with a keen eye for actors and for other people’s scripts too. Isn’t that totally OP?”

“Probably all calculated. He’s scary.”

“A genius, a real genius.”

After a brief sigh and a moment of admiration, the two looked at each other.

“Unintentionally, we’ll be competing again with scripts handled by Writer Lee Jung-hyuk.”

Cho Min-seong extended his hand to Hong Ju-hee.

“Let’s do our best, President Hong. No hard feelings.”

“Of course, Director Cho. We’ll be seeing each other often, so let’s leave the past in the past.”

“Right, let’s keep it clean. Take care.”

As their cars left the underground parking lot and exited The Sharp officetel,

Lee Jung-hyuk was leisurely sipping a glass of zero-calorie cola with ice on the terrace, enjoying the cherry blossoms bathed in the evening glow.

Lim Sung-hee approached him cautiously.

“Writer, I have a question.”

“Yes, ask me anything.”

“Did you already decide whose script would go to whom?”

“No.”

“Then what standard did you use?”

Lee Jung-hyuk looked at Lim Sung-hee silently.

Then he shook his head slowly, smiling gently.

“Coca-Cola tastes good.”

“Sorry?”

“If it’s good, have some more. Ding-dong-dang, Dr. Know-it-all. Try and guess.”

“Oh.”

Having no idea that some people worshipped him as a genius, Lee Jung-hyuk was simply relieved that he wouldn’t have to have the two swap scripts if they were unhappy with the assignments.

‘Thank goodness, really.’