Chapter 84: A Wise Ruler and Meat

A salary is like a drug for office workers.

It's a phrase that comes up often in self-help books or lectures, and it sounds quite arrogant.

But it might not be entirely wrong.

Office workers become addicted to their salaries without even realizing it.

No matter how much joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure they endure and experience, if they can just hold out for a month, they'll get paid by the company.

With that salary, they can treat themselves to fried chicken and cold draft beer, healing their psychological stress and gaining the strength to get through another month.

Famous lecturers claim that breaking free from this addiction is the first step toward success.

But escaping a salary, with its addiction and dependency comparable to a drug, is never easy, and no one should ever criticize ordinary office workers for not being able to escape that hold.

What right does a lucky orphaned drama writer who doesn't even go to an office have to pretend to understand the hard work and pain of these office workers?

Of course, that's because we writers have a drug just as potent as a salary.

In fact, the side effects are even more severe, and if you don't get it, bloodshed can ensue.

That drug is called 'Deadline.'

Deadline is a substance every writer who writes for money is addicted to.

No matter what reason or goal you start writing for, all your efforts and agony to capture something in your writing have to happen within the limited time of a deadline.

Especially for drama writers—if you miss a deadline, filming gets postponed, actors' and staff's schedules are wrecked, and additional delay costs are incurred and so on.

Just thinking about it gives me a headache.

A typical side effect of deadlines is something called a 'Rushed Script.'

A rushed script means writing the script on the day of shooting, filming with it that day, editing overnight, and airing it the next day, all in one breath.

In a rushed script, there’s no such thing as character emotion or logical flow.

But it's still a hundred times better to write a rushed script than to not meet the deadline at all.

That’s why in daily morning dramas, you see people getting slapped with kimchi, lovers turning out to be half-siblings, or main characters dying in tragic stair accidents.

No matter whether you rush a script or even plagiarize, once you hit that deadline, the pleasure that floods a writer’s body is incomparable to any salary.

The relief of finishing another episode and the liberation from the minute-by-minute pressure numbs the heart and brain.

A few extreme writers even confess that maybe the only reason they write is for that deadline high.

“Haaaaaaaah.”

Writer Jung Taemi, who was writing in the office with me, let out a long, wet sigh.

She’d just finished the final episode manuscript for  and surrendered herself to the pleasure of a completed deadline.

Next to her, writer Im Sunghee, who had finished her deadline half a day earlier, still gazed at Taemi with a mysterious look, unable to shake off her own afterglow.

“You did well, Taemi. How do you feel?”

“Ah, so this is how it feels. To finish the first drama’s deadline... It’s truly... ecstasy.”

Watching them, I shivered with envy.

“I—I’m going to hit my deadline, too.”

I hurriedly tried to whip my hands even faster on the keyboard to finish the 14th episode script for  and feel that same pleasure.

But just then, someone grabbed my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

“L-Let go! I need to hit my deadline too. I have to do it.”

“I can’t let go.”

Seeing Seo Sun-ae stubbornly refusing to release my hand, I protested loudly.

Seo Sun-ae spoke to me in a strict tone, like a nurse at an addiction center.

“Writer, no, CEO, it’s time for the year-end performance report.”

“You all can handle that without me, I need to finish my deadline. I’m a writer, you know.”

“Before you’re a writer, you’re the CEO who founded God Media. You have no right to neglect the year-end performance report we worked on all night.”

Forced up from my chair, I was dragged into a dark, dreary conference room.

There, half a dozen employees from the PR team and content business team were already seated.

As soon as I, reluctantly dragged in, took the seat of honor, Seo Sun-ae fired up the projector and pulled up a PPT screen on the wall.

“Since the CEO is here, we’ll start the performance report for 20XX.”

What followed was a long and boring stretch of time.

They listed all the product placements that went into  and , how much ad revenue was earned, and how negotiations for overseas rights were underway with Japanese and American OTT platforms, with projected earnings and so on...

And so on.

After selling what we could and collecting what we were owed, the total annual revenue came to—

“We made sales of 20.5 billion won.”

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive.”

“No, that’s just gross sales. Here’s the operating profit.”

My jaw almost dropped at the monstrous number—20.5 billion won—but the next slide made me shut it again.

[Net Operating Profit: 4.98 billion won]

After deducting production costs, salaries, and everything else, what was left was less than one-fifth of the total sales.

But, given that the Korean drama market is generally in a slump these days, that was an excellent operating margin.

Thanks to the size of our company, we got a good time slot, and for  we managed to produce it cost-effectively on a relatively small budget.

For  as well, we fully leveraged our infrastructure and secured product placements above the industry average, increasing our ad revenue.

And the only reason all this was possible with just eight team members wasn’t me—it was all thanks to our company’s true leader and pillar, Seo Sun-ae.

“You’ve all worked hard. The results are much better than I expected.”

At last, I saw a bit of life return to the faces of Sun-ae and the rest of the team.

Even if they didn’t show it, I knew better than anyone how hard it had been, suddenly joining a new company and spending a hectic year.

While the writers and I were pulling all-nighters chasing deadlines, I’d seen the office staff staying late into the night, diligently doing their jobs.

Honestly, I acted more like a writer than a CEO at the company.

So to brazenly sit at the head of the table at the year-end report and evaluate their work felt shameless.

Since ancient times, it’s been said that a wise ruler should lead by example, not just words.

Loyal retainers don’t need comforting words—they need drinks, meat, and gold coins.

“At next year’s salary negotiations, I promise raises for the PR and business teams based on performance.”

“How much?”

“At least a 20% increase.”

“Thank you.”

“Applause.”

Seo Sun-ae clapped with her usual expressionless face, and all the team members stood up, cheering and applauding.

***

A week passed.

Both  and  finished airing without a hitch.

To celebrate God Media’s first wrap party and hold the year-end gathering, all the writers and staff gathered at a famous barbecue restaurant in Mapo-gu.

Now that we had a decent number of staff, including assistant writers, our group was over twenty strong.

The menu chosen to reward everyone’s hard work was beef.

“Auntie, four orders of premium ribeye! No, actually, just bring eight to start.”

“I’ll have the tenderloin, please.”

“Oh, there’s lobster ramen on the side menu? Auntie! Bring that too!”

Seeing the owner beaming from ear to ear and the staff smiling like full moons, I soothed my burning stomach with cold water.

“Boss, how much meat do we have left?”

At Taesu’s innocent question, I glanced at the plates stacked on the table and almost tried to calculate the cost.

Well, if we’re the people who bring in 20 billion won in sales from a single drama, it’s only right to spend two million won or so tonight.

With that generous mindset, I picked up the tongs to grill some meat myself, but Seo Sun-ae, sitting beside me, leaned in and quietly asked,

“CEO, how much cash do you have in your wallet right now?”

“Hmm, let’s see, how much cash do I have...”

Inside my wallet, there were about five or six fifty-thousand-won bills.

After checking, Seo Sun-ae snatched the cash and, using a white envelope she’d prepared somewhere, stuffed the bills inside and handed it back to me.

“On nights like this, the CEO should hand out bonuses to boost staff morale.”

“That’s too much, giving both beef and cash bonuses!”

Ignoring me, Sun-ae stood up, raised a hand, and called out, “Attention!”

Everyone’s eyes turned to our table.

“The CEO has something to say.”

She gave me a look that clearly said, ‘Well? Aren’t you going to stand up?’

Awkwardly, I got up and glanced around, trying to sound like a proper company president.

“Ah... haha... To all the staff of God Media, thank you so much for your hard work this year.”

Seeing the staff silently staring at me, I managed to ask the typical small-business owner’s question.

“So, who’s the youngest in our company?”

A short-haired female employee with dyed blond hair sitting in the middle stood up.

“That’s me!”

“As the youngest, what was the hardest part for you?”

“Coming to work.”

“Oh, I see. So coming to work was tough. Then when were you happiest?”

“When I left work.”

I nodded as if I understood and led the group in applause.

“Let’s give our hardworking youngest a cash bonus.”

“Waaaaah!”

At last, a genuine smile bloomed on the blonde’s face as she checked the envelope.

“Thank you, CEO.”

“Yes, everyone, thank you for your hard work. Please eat as much as you like tonight!”

“Okaaaay!”

That night, I spent 500,000 won on cash bonuses and 2.8 million won on beef, a total outlay of 3 million won.

Over three million won vanished in about two hours, but for some reason, I didn’t feel as reluctant to spend it as I once might have.

Maybe it was thanks to Sun-ae’s experienced advice.

All throughout the party, the mood was great, and even the nameless youngest, who’d said she hated coming to work and loved leaving, genuinely seemed to be having a good time.

“CEO, the remaining staff are planning to go for round two nearby. What about you?”

“Uh, isn’t it customary for the CEO not to go to the after-party?”

“Of course.”

“That works for me. I don’t drink anyway, so I was planning to drive home soon.”

“I thought so, so I already gave the company card to writer Im Sunghee.”

“Hmm, Director Seo, are you not going to the after-party?”

Sun-ae nodded as if it were obvious.

“No, executives and above shouldn’t go to round two. The staff don’t like it.”

“Ah, I see.”

We chatted idly as we went down to the barbecue restaurant’s underground parking lot.

“Well, see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything today.”

I waved lightly at Sun-ae as I headed to my car.

Then I got into the driver’s seat, put in the key, and tried to start the engine.

Whirr. Whirrrr. Thump-thump-thump.

It didn’t start as smoothly as usual.

“Huh? What’s wrong with this?”

Tilting my head, I tried turning the key again, and finally, the engine started, albeit belatedly.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I slowly pressed the accelerator to leave, but Sun-ae was standing in front of my car.

Normally, she’d leave without a backward glance, but now she was staring intently at something, standing still. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out.

“Um, what’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Writer, your car. How old is it?”

Pointing at me—or rather, at my car—she asked.

“Not that old. Maybe six years?”

“It looks like it’s having issues. Six years is about time to replace it.”

“Hm, is that so?”

“Yes. It would be bad if you got in an accident.”

“Director Seo, are you worried about me?”

Sun-ae narrowed her brow and answered as if it was obvious.

“If you get in an accident, who’s going to write the scripts?”