Chapter 55: The Instinct of Predators

I was momentarily taken aback by Kudo Kei’s awkward Korean.

A woman, who looked to be Kudo Kei’s assistant—the one who had likely called me earlier—came over and conveyed his intentions once more.

“The director would like to work on a drama with you, Writer.”

“Oh. I see.”

A young female employee with jet-black bobbed hair and blunt bangs calmly interpreted Kudo Kei’s words into Korean.

“Rather than standing around here, let’s go inside.”

From the moment I got off the plane at Narita Airport to arriving at the director’s studio, I’d been treated with utmost VIP hospitality. Now, I was heading to Kudo Kei’s studio in Shinjuku.

The two-story detached house was a modern reinterpretation of a Japanese wooden building, done in beige tones.

In front of the wall, bamboo stalks were planted, and inside, there was a small courtyard.

My eyes lingered briefly on the typical Japanese landscaping, and then I climbed the stone steps to enter the studio.

Cone-shaped rattan lights caught my eye, and unlike its exterior, the interior was very modern.

I’d expected tatami mats or sliding doors covered with shoji paper, but it looked more like a marble-floored hotel lobby.

‘Wow. This place is so clean.’

“Please, have a seat over here.”

It was a reception room where a long wooden table and iron chairs matched oddly well.

Looking out the window at the courtyard, it seemed as if the entire structure had been designed with that view in mind.

Since these are directors who care about mise-en-scène, I thought, perhaps they don’t miss even these minor details.

“Your studio is amazing.”

“Thank you. This building has been here for over fifteen years now.”

“Fifteen years?”

Well, Kudo Kei is the maestro who ignited the J-drama craze in the 90s.

Before leaving for Japan, I’d met with CEO Hong Ju-hee for a crash course in Kudo Kei’s works, and every single one was a masterpiece.

Among them, Sashimoto Won, who made his name with , became the most famous actor in Japan from then until now.

If I had to compare, it would be like actor Wonjin in Korea, or these days, actor Kim Soo-hyung.

He was like a father figure who created Japan’s top stars, so in Japan, his prestige was as longstanding and solid as this building.

“Incredible. To produce masterpieces for so many years.”

Kudo Kei listened to my words in Japanese and quietly shook his head.

“No, not at all. Japanese dramas today are in a deep slump. I believe it’s time for change.”

What Kudo Kei said next was astonishing.

Even in his sixties, his passion and affection for dramas were unmatched.

He worried about the future of his country’s content market and considered the legacy and scalability for future generations.

Both the Japanese production company and AbahiTV broadcast station agreed with Kudo Kei and, in an unprecedented move, promised to invest an enormous amount of capital.

Kudo Kei’s vision was to create a project that would create a sensation not only in Korea and Japan but worldwide—by uniting Korea’s best writer, Japan’s top director, and an all-star staff and cast from both countries.

As I listened to Kudo Kei, someone suddenly came to mind—Director Jang Byung-heon.

He, too, believed that Korean dramas had stagnated and chose me, a young writer, to create  together.

And his choice was correct.

It’s not just because it was my work.

These were people who’d survived the rough-and-tumble world of dramas, constantly seeking change and growth.

In the end, though they had no idea what Godflix was, their experience-born intuition led them to me.

‘I guess you could call it the instinct of predators.’

Recalling the works I’d seen on Godflix, I quickly began thinking about what kind of project would be good to make with him.

‘Hmm. If only I’d gotten another level up and could see the dramas with ratings in the 3-point range.’

The thought of working with Kudo Kei naturally stirred my ambition.

‘If I set aside the projects I handed to Writer Im and Writer Jung, what’s left are period dramas, historical dramas, medical dramas, and noir. I can’t really do a period or historical drama in Japan... and a medical drama is iffy too.  has a melodrama vibe... Would Director Kudo Kei like it?’

There wasn’t a project I could put forward with confidence.

The closest fit was , which I’d given to Writer Im; it matched Kudo Kei’s style.

But the script was already more than halfway done and had been handed to H Studio.

“Do you have any scripts in the romance genre already prepared?”

“Not at the moment, unfortunately.”

“That’s fine. We can work on it together. But before that, there’s something else I’d like to discuss.”

Kudo Kei hesitated for a moment, then nodded to his assistant.

His assistant, already aware of the topic, swallowed nervously and cautiously spoke up.

“We’d like to attempt a joint project.”

“A joint project? Is there another director besides Director Kudo Kei?”

“No, it’s not another director...”

While the assistant hesitated, there was a knock from the door inside the reception room.

‘What? Are we not alone here?’

Seeing the person who entered, I instinctively jumped to my feet.

“Hello, Writer Lee Junghyuk. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Park... Eun-sook, Writer?!”

---

Kudo Kei Director’s second-floor studio.

The study, decorated in wood, was lined wall-to-wall with books in Japanese.

A single recliner and a fabric sofa were placed side by side around a small table.

Lee Junghyuk sat somewhat uncomfortably at the edge of the recliner.

Park Eun-sook, sitting across from him, saw this and smiled gently.

“Looks like things have become a little awkward, though it’s not what I intended.”

“Ah... Honestly, I haven’t quite figured out what’s going on.”

“I felt the same way at first. Actually, I was the one who first received this proposal from Director Kei.”

“I see. But why did you suddenly call me here as well?”

“I guess the director sees your work just as highly as mine, maybe even more.”

Though Park Eun-sook said it lightly, her words struck Lee Junghyuk’s heart with weight.

“At first, I wondered what this was all about too. But on second thought, I realized it’d be good to work with you.”

“A joint project?”

“As you know, I’ve never remade someone else’s work or collaborated with anyone. Never even considered it. I have pride that the words that come from my head alone are the best.”

Had anyone else said it, it might have sounded arrogant, but coming from Park Eun-sook, Lee Junghyuk accepted it immediately.

Korea’s undisputed top drama writer.

Whenever she writes a show, not only does it get sky-high ratings, but every actor in it becomes a star.

Her famous lines become variety show captions, SNS memes, advertisements—consumed even by the general public.

She’s every aspiring writer’s role model.

That’s Park Eun-sook.

“I enjoyed Twin Love. I’m also watching Macho Restaurant and Maboksoon.”

“It’s an honor. Thank you for watching my work.”

“After seeing your projects, I changed my mind. If I’m going to co-write, it has to be with someone like you.”

Silvery hair, a plain face without makeup, and eyes shining with intensity behind red horn-rimmed glasses.

The charisma of a beast.

When she spoke to Lee Junghyuk, there was an aura he couldn’t possibly refuse.

She, like Kudo Kei, was a top predator in this industry.

Having one’s name listed alongside Park Eun-sook’s was every writer’s dream—there was no reason to refuse.

But,

“I’m sorry, but that’s a bit difficult for me.”

“?”

At Lee Junghyuk’s unexpected words, Park Eun-sook’s smile faltered.

“Are you saying you don’t want to collaborate with me?”

“No, of course not. It would be a tremendous honor for me to work with you. It’s just...”

Lee Junghyuk paused, searching for the right words.

In that moment, Park Eun-sook grew anxious.

She’d begun writing dramas at twenty-five, and thirty years had flown by.

After her debut drama  broke record ratings, the feeling of ‘anxiety’ had become foreign to her.

‘No, that’s not right. Wasn’t it when  was nipping at the heels of  in ratings? That was the last time I felt like this.’

The memory made her bite her lip.

It was the first time in over a decade she’d lost in ratings to another writer in the same time slot.

While Park Eun-sook, a Korean master, was feeling this anxiety, Lee Junghyuk was wrestling with a completely different problem.

‘If I co-write with Park Eun-sook, I can’t write for Godflix.’

After much deliberation, Lee Junghyuk spoke again, slowly.

“I’m not sure what kind of synergy we’d have together. As you said, you already write the most entertaining scripts in Korea. I’d only get in your way.”

At this humble-sounding but ultimately rejecting answer, Park Eun-sook fell silent for a moment.

“Do you know what I fear and guard against the most? That younger writers better than me might appear? That my drama’s ratings might drop? No.”

“......”

“It’s becoming complacent and settling for where I am now.”

Hearing this, Lee Junghyuk nodded unconsciously.

The way she guarded against stagnation reminded him of Jang Byung-heon; perhaps that was why both of them were called ‘masters’ in this field.

“Even though I lost to you in ratings, there are still production companies lined up in Korea to get my scripts. Yet, I came to Japan—not to earn some yen or wave the national flag.”

When she finally spoke, Park Eun-sook still radiated the charisma of a beast.

“It’s because Japan is a step on my way to my ultimate goal.”

“Your ultimate goal...?”

“Are you planning to write only in Korea, Writer Lee?”

Lee Junghyuk was dumbfounded at her unexpected question.

Only write in Korea? He’s a Korean writer, writing in Korean, so...

‘Wait. Could it be—this person...’

“I get five hundred million won per episode. Even if I want more, if I get paid more, production costs skyrocket, and I can’t ask for it. Actor fees have already gone up, and as the so-called industry top, I can’t be seen encouraging it. Korea has already reached its ceiling.”

“You’re looking to expand your market.”

“In America, the production cost per episode is basically Korea’s, just add a zero. Of course, the staff get paid more too.”

“But breaking into Hollywood isn’t as easy as it sounds...”

“I know. But if I don’t do it, who will?”

Lee Junghyuk couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Director Jang Byung-heon and Director Kudo Kei both saw the world differently from others, but Park Eun-sook was on another level altogether.

“And I believe the only one in Korea right now, besides myself, who can do this—or deserves to—is you, Writer Lee.”

“Me?”

“So don’t talk about getting in my way or any of that. Let’s do this together. Even if you end up surpassing me, I won’t mind. If I can see a Korean writer make it in Hollywood before I die, I’ll have no regrets.”

The words that what she fears most is stopping and becoming content.

Lee Junghyuk was internally amazed by Park Eun-sook’s vast ambition and future vision.

Five hundred million won per episode was six times Lee Junghyuk’s current fee.

And yet, her goal was beyond anything he’d dared to imagine.

“How can you be more confident in me than I am?”

“I’ve seen enormous self-assurance in your writing. Am I wrong?”

‘Well... that’s because it was written by Godflix.’

“Unless a perfect script just fell from the sky one day, you know yourself how high the quality of your writing is.”

Aside from the fact that it dropped not from the sky but from an old laptop, her insight was scarily accurate—it gave Lee Junghyuk chills.

“I was just lucky to work with good actors and production companies.”

“Be as humble as you want. I believe our field is ninety percent luck, ten percent skill. In this industry, luck is as important as skill.”

Park Eun-sook held out her hand to Lee Junghyuk.

“Let’s do this together.”

Looking at Park Eun-sook, Lee Junghyuk felt a thrill rising in his chest.

Watching and writing dozens of projects through Godflix, he’d felt his skills improving without even realizing it.

This was his chance to prove it and grow even more.

Lee Junghyuk grabbed Park Eun-sook’s outstretched hand firmly.

“Yes. Let’s do it.”