There are buildings in South Korea that embody the very word "success."
Seongsu Trimage, Jamsil Lotte Tower, and Hapjeong Mecenatpolis are just that.
These kinds of buildings add an extra 1,000 won delivery fee and have monthly maintenance fees of over a million won, so you end up with quite a few unnecessary expenses.
But the advantages far outweigh the drawbacks.
Especially as summer approaches—being perfectly insulated from the oppressive humidity and heat, and enjoying the luxurious community facilities inside is more than enough for a comfortable life.
Through the Hapjeong Mecenatpolis building, you can access internal facilities like a pilates studio and gym with professional trainers offering personal PT sessions, an indoor restaurant alley filled with all kinds of famous franchise eateries, a large supermarket, and even cafes.
If I had to pick one single downside, it would be that the place is so ridiculously vast that even after living here for a month, I still get lost from time to time.
It really lives up to its price.
Right now, I was sitting in front of the enormous, tinted glass windows that blocked the sunlight, watching the sun slowly set.
Sipping a cool iced Americano while looking down at the web of intersecting roads around Hapjeong Station made me feel, without a doubt, that I was a successful star writer.
Just then, Lim Seonghee, who had been walking the path of my success alongside me, came over and asked.
“So, are you really not planning to go to Yeouido The Sharp anymore?”
“I’m just not quite used to this place yet. I’ll stay a bit longer.”
“You’ve been here for a whole month now, Author. And only in that corner over there!”
Lim Seonghee pointed to my personal office set up for me at in Hapjeong Mecenatpolis.
There, it was simply furnished with my desk, a chair, and a three-fold cot that squeaked every time I lay down.
For a star writer who had founded , it was rather spartan, but since I grew up with nothing, this kind of frugal lifestyle suited me just fine.
“Why on earth don’t you go home and insist on eating, sleeping, and washing up here? You paid good money for a perfectly fine apartment.”
“That’s not true, I eat well, sleep well, and shower just fine here.”
At every mealtime, I’d wander through the gourmet food court inside the building, work out at the gym with my resident membership and shower there, and sleep on my familiar cot—so I just didn’t feel like going home.
“Good grief, you’re relentless.”
“I’m really not staying here because I don’t want to waste the 1.2 million won monthly maintenance fee. It’s genuinely more efficient this way, I swear.”
“Yeah, yeah. But at least go home tomorrow. Leaving it empty for too long isn’t good either.”
“At least you’re not telling me to go today. Thanks.”
“Author, did you seriously forget?”
“Forget what?”
Lim Seonghee looked at me as if I was a person who had the uncanny talent of making others feel slighted with casual, thoughtless remarks.
Then, from behind, Jung Taemi—who had been sitting at her desk—shook her head with a deep sigh and turned to me.
Jung Taemi had her hair tied up in a bun, with a pencil tucked in, pulling off the look of a “driven drama writer swamped by deadlines.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you about six times that today’s the premiere of and . You forgot again, didn’t you?”
“Oh, so that’s why you wanted me to stay and watch it today.”
“It’s about to start, so stop wandering around and sit down to watch the premiere with us.”
“Let’s do that!”
I smiled brightly and took my seat.
When I turned on the TV—the same model as the one at The Sharp—the opening ost for was playing, which was airing first.
“Hmm, the ost turned out nicely. Who sang it?”
“Ailee sang it. I sent you the ost, but you didn’t listen, huh?”
“No, I don’t listen to songs with lyrics when I’m writing.”
Soon, the first scene of began.
From here, it was a scene I knew very well.
A thirty-year-old female lead working at a mid-sized company visits a major corporation for a meeting, but loses her visitor pass and gets stuck in the first-floor lobby.
Worried about being late, she stops a passing man, explains her situation, and borrows his visitor pass to enter.
Later, in the meeting room, she encounters the man she borrowed the pass from—who turns out to be the company’s headquarters director and the youngest grandson of the conglomerate owner’s family.
It was a typical but pleasant rom-com cliché—one that anyone could watch with a smile, with nothing divisive about it.
“These days, all the actors are so good at acting.”
“Mmm, I agree.”
Unlike me, who was enjoying the premiere at ease, Jung Taemi nervously bit her nails and couldn’t relax until the drama ended.
Lim Seonghee gently comforted her from the side.
Eventually, episode 1 of ended, and I gave Lim Seonghee a light round of applause.
“Good job. And congratulations. You pulled off the premiere of your first project without a hitch.”
“Phew, it’s all thanks to you, Author. I just hope the ratings turn out well.”
Other assistant writers opened their laptops, saying they’d organize the ratings data, and soon, began airing on another channel.
Unlike the rom-com, it was a professional genre drama, but not too heavy or serious—a legal show with just the right tone.
Jung Taemi’s signature detailed scene descriptions and props were tightly woven into the production, making it easy to sense even while watching the drama.
The actors playing the prosecutor and the criminal delivered solid performances—no rough edges or overacting, which made it feel stable.
The young actor playing the juvenile offender, Jang Ji-won, in the opening scenes left such a strong impression that I wanted to ask about his filmography.
“That actor playing juvenile offender Jang Ji-won—what are his main works?”
“He doesn’t have anything major yet, and it’s been about two years since he started dramas. He’s a Korea National University of Arts graduate and has a lot of stage experience, so he’s pretty solid.”
“Hmmm, I’d like to cast him for a suitable role in the future.”
Both and had successful premieres.
Viewer responses were also mostly positive in real time online.
-Pretty fun and smooth. When’s episode 2?
-It’s got a kind of stable charm. Amazing that a rookie writer did this.
-The writer standards in our country these days are so high fr
-It’s true new writers have gotten better, but apparently this came out of Lee Junhyuk Studio.
-No wonder the vibe is similarㅇㅅㅇ
On top of that, the ratings graph from Nelson Korea showed at 5.2% and at 4.8%—pretty close.
“For a first episode, both of you did well. It’s not a jackpot, but you can’t expect to be full from your first spoonful.”
Hearing the ratings, Lim Seonghee and Jung Taemi finally relaxed, sinking back into their chairs with a sigh of relief.
“Ah, thank goodness, really.”
“Good work, everyone. Thank you, truly.”
Watching them, I couldn’t help but recall how I’d felt after watching the premiere of for the first time, and a smile crept onto my face.
Just then.
-Bzzz.
A notification vibration buzzed from the phone in my pocket.
When I unlocked it, I saw a notification from Godflix for the first time in ages.
[ Executing update. ]
Leaving the busy assistant writers and Jung Taemi, Lim Seonghee, and the others behind—who were all still caught up in the online viewer reactions—I quietly slipped into my office and closed the door.
Then I immediately opened the Godflix app on my phone, pressed the button to check the update history, and was met with a series of unfamiliar notifications popping up on my screen.
-Godflix’s originals and
You have successfully remade both works.
A new category
The ‘Remake’ section is now open!
“Remake?”
Apparently, Godflix was acknowledging that I set the direction for the two works based on the Godflix originals, and that Jung Taemi and Lim Seonghee completed them—thus recognizing them as remakes.
[Your account information has been updated.]
Opening the new ‘New’ category, I saw that and , which I’d just watched on TV, were now uploaded on Godflix, each labeled as a remake.
‘What does it mean that my account information’s been updated?’
When I checked the work information, to my surprise, it included details on the cast and production written by Jung Taemi and Lim Seonghee.
Until now, I’d only ever upgraded my account from Bronze to Silver, never experienced an “update”—so I immediately went into ‘My Account Info.’
There, right beneath my current Silver badge, I spotted a new label: ‘Creator Account.’
With that, new entries had been added to the Godflix Q&A.
- Unlike regular viewer accounts, creator accounts can receive rewards according to content registered on Godflix.
- Rewards are paid based on the star rating given to the registered content, which is based on actual TV ratings and sales and will be collectively reflected when a series ends.
[Reward Info]
Star Rating 1: 1 billion won
Star Rating 2: 2 billion won
Star Rating 3: 5 billion won
Star Rating 4: 10 billion won
Star Rating 5: 20 billion won
The rewards were so jaw-dropping that my mind went blank for a moment.
I quickly pulled myself together and reread the notifications carefully.
‘Even a remake counts as registered content, and they upgraded me to a creator account...’
This was a change I’d never expected.
But, thinking about it, it made sense.
After all, foreign dramas are often remade in Korea, and vice versa—Korean dramas are remade abroad as well.
Viewers care about how closely an adaptation matches the source when it’s based on a book or comic, but if the source is another drama, they usually see it as a “different work” and just enjoy the drama itself.
‘So, it’s not the Godflix star rating, but the actual performance of those two works in Korea that determines the star rating.’
No matter how badly they perform, just registering means I’d get at least a 1-star rating—guaranteeing a minimum reward of 1 billion won for each, or 2 billion total.
“Nice!”
At this unexpected sweet reward, I couldn’t help but let out a cheer.
It was worth establishing a studio, forming a corporation, and hiring staff.
With just the minimum 2 billion won from Godflix, I could recover most of the investment costs already spent.
This wasn’t just a sailboat catching a favorable wind—it was more like a speedboat with a high-powered engine.
‘That means, from now on, I should pay even more attention to the scripts and direction for those two works.’
Even just a 2-star rating would double the reward to 4 billion won, so my goal was to at least match the Godflix original’s 2-star level.
At that moment, another notification appeared on my phone—not from Godflix this time, but from the Blue House Public Relations office, who had contacted me before.
After checking the message, I thought that at least for today, I should go back to my Yeouido The Sharp officetel and put on some proper clothes.
I gathered up my clothes and belongings that had been scattered around my office for ages and packed them in a bag.
With my bundle in hand, I left the office.
“Author, are you leaving already?”
“Yes, I’ve confirmed both your premieres went well. Time to head back to Yeouido.”
“Author, you didn’t even know today was our premiere!”
“Anyway, you all worked hard—here, take this.”
I pressed my personal card into Lim Seonghee’s hand as she tried to quibble with my heartfelt congratulations.
“You worked hard, so have a team dinner with the assistant writers on my card. I’ve tried all the places in the Mecenatpolis restaurant alley—there’s a good beef place here.”
“We love you, Author.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say love, but I trust you enough to hand you my card. See you.”
“You’ll come back here tomorrow, right? I’ll keep the card and give it back then.”
“Ah, no. I have other plans tomorrow.”
Jung Taemi, who already knew my schedule, tilted her head and asked what other plans I had.
I answered in an utterly casual tone, as if it was nothing special.
“I’ve been invited to a presidential dinner at the Blue House.”
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