Chapter 88: The Writer Award Loss

The image of 'year-end' inevitably differs for everyone.

For students, the year-end brings to mind the warmth of Christmas and winter vacation.

For the average office worker, it takes the form of a 7-to-3 soju-beer cocktail and a pair of tongs at a barbecue restaurant.

For soldiers, it evokes endlessly falling white trash and dog-cold weather.

Then what kind of image is the year-end imprinted as, for drama writers or people working in the broadcasting industry, who are worn out from fatigue?

For them, the year-end boils down to a single image.

The 'Acting Awards'.

Especially, the UBS Acting Awards, held every December 31 by the national broadcaster UBS, is the most prestigious and historically significant among the awards ceremonies hosted by the three major terrestrial networks.

If I wanted to win an award at such a ceremony, that would clearly be greed.

After my divorce, I subscribed to 'Godflix', a strange OTT platform that only I can see.

From there, I wrote scripts based on works I watched, and gained recognition as a writer.

I can’t deny that it was thanks to this that I achieved great profits and reached my current position as a so-called star writer.

According to the Constitution of the Republic of Korea, copying someone else's work is a clear violation of copyright and can result in imprisonment for up to five years or a fine of up to 50 million won.

However, the works on Godflix are not subject to the laws of the Republic of Korea.

Godflix is a platform that shows stories that do not exist on Earth—works that exist only in parallel universes—so how could Korean law apply to them?

But regardless of the legal issues, I couldn't shamelessly claim the works from Godflix as my own.

So, until now, whether it was the Acting Awards or any other award, I never wished for recognition, and I thought I shouldn’t.

My identity as a writer was closer to being a lucky Mun Ikjeom who brought scripts from a new continent that no one knows about and spread them in the Korean market, rather than a creator worthy of chasing honorable trophies.

However.

This time, to be honest, I felt a little greedy.

 and  were both influenced by Godflix, but they weren’t scripts copied word for word—they are proud original creations with my own originality.

Except for 'Maga Flower,' which is still in pre-production,  has garnered the best results and reactions among all my works released under my name.

Godflix definitely provided a solid foundation for me to get here, but it’s undeniable that my own talent and effort, even if only a little, contributed to my rise.

In that situation, even though I couldn’t blatantly show it, I decided to attend the UBS Acting Awards, hiding in the deepest part of my heart a 'greed' that only I knew about.

“Writer, are you really going like that?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

Well, I did pay a little more attention to my outfit than usual, but isn’t it only proper to show minimal courtesy if you’re attending such a prestigious ceremony?

After hearing my answer, Im Seong-hee nodded awkwardly, reluctantly accepting it.

“Uh… well. Hm. Okay. You look good.”

For the ceremony, I wore a velvet tuxedo with a hint of purple, an elegant black handkerchief, and a matching black bow tie.

“Ahem, I couldn’t just wear anything.”

“No, you did well. Anyway, let’s hurry up so we won’t be late.”

In any case, I got into the van that Seo Sun-ae had prepared in advance—a completely tinted vehicle celebrities usually take to events—and headed to the Yeouido UBS Hall, where the Acting Awards would be held.

When I got out of the van, I walked the red carpet under a barrage of camera flashes.

Having experienced this once at a previous ceremony, I walked with relative composure, occasionally waving naturally at the cameras.

When I reached the photo zone, I saw Cheon Na-young, whom I hadn’t seen in a while, posing with a bright smile for the reporters.

Then she spotted me, and with a delighted wave, beckoned me over.

It seemed that the agency had coordinated our entry times so that Cheon Na-young, one of the lead actors in , and I could be photographed together.

As I approached Cheon Na-young, one of the gathered reporters asked, “Please, could the two of you take a photo together?”

While facing the dazzling flashes head-on, I quietly greeted Cheon Na-young.

“It’s been a while. When did you come back to Korea?”

“I just arrived. Writer, how do I look right now?”

They say kids grow up in the blink of an eye—even though Cheon Na-young wasn’t a child, I couldn’t help but frown with a hint of pity at how much she’d matured in the time we hadn’t seen each other.

We continued our conversation in voices low enough for only the two of us to hear, all the while smiling.

“Are you eating properly these days?”

“I’ve only been drinking water and taking supplements for a week to fit into my awards dress.”

“Relentless. You’re a true actress now.”

“Wanna get samgyeopsal after this? I’m about to go crazy.”

As the two of us chatted, the reporters cheered, “Looking good!” and, “Strike a pose together, even more friendly. Good, good!”

Cheon Na-young responded to their requests, keeping a perfect poker face as if performing ventriloquism, while keeping up our conversation.

“I wanted to go to Ji-won unnie’s for Christmas, but I had to shoot late in Japan that day, so I couldn’t make it.”

“Are you disappointed you couldn’t come?”

“Nope? Of course work comes first. But the lasagna looked tasty. Ah, let me link arms, please.”

With a cheerful smile, she lightly hooked her arm around mine and waved, striking a pose. Watching her, I felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity.

The wounded girl who used to buy cup rice in the Noryangjin cram school alleys was gone, and in her place was the grown-up Cheon Na-young. Suddenly, I realized how reliably time had passed.

“Na-young, you’ve grown up a lot.”

“Huh, what are you saying? I’ve always been grown-up.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s go in.”

After taking photos at the photo zone, we made our way into the ceremony hall together.

Above us, the ceiling soared at least twenty meters high, with countless stage lights shining down, and the audience seats were filled with people who had come to see the many stars in attendance.

Inside the hall, decorated like a grand banquet room, round tables were neatly arranged at regular intervals, each with a nameplate bearing the title of a film or drama.

I made my way to the table labeled .

At the table, Jung Sung-woo and writer Park Eun-sook had already arrived.

As soon as our eyes met, Jung Sung-woo sprang to his feet and reached out his hand.

“Writer Lee Jung-hyuk, it’s been a while. Hahaha.”

“Yes, I should have visited the set more often, but I’ve been neglectful.”

“We know you’ve been even busier than us finishing scripts, writer. Please, have a seat here next to me.”

After exchanging brief greetings with Jung Sung-woo and Park Eun-sook, I took the seat beside him as he’d suggested.

Just like I felt when I last saw him on set, while Cheon Na-young had noticeably matured, Jung Sung-woo seemed to have gotten younger.

So much so that, despite being well past forty, there was still a boyish quality to his looks, which made me secretly worry that sitting next to him would make the comparison even starker.

At the  table, there were more empty seats than at other tables—the seats left empty due to the absence of Japanese production staff Kudo Kei and Sakura.

Japan doesn’t have year-end awards for drama or film actors like our Acting Awards, so participation would have made sense.

But due to a tight schedule in Japan, they’d notified us beforehand that they wouldn’t be able to attend.

I did get a strong impression that Sakura’s side was still sensitive about the incident before, but it was already over and there was no need to bring it up again.

At that moment, the voice of national MC Min Jae-seok, tonight’s host, rang out through the venue.

“Well then, let’s begin the 20XX UBS Acting Awards.”

I quickly turned my gaze away from the empty Japanese seats, clapped, and looked around.

As befits a gathering of star-studded faces recognizable to anyone, the atmosphere was hardly light.

As always, the opening act was a celebratory performance by singers.

After a slightly perplexing but refreshing performance by a male solo artist, the real awards began.

While clapping for an actor called up to the stage, I happened to make eye contact with Seo Ji-won across the room.

Seo Ji-won beamed, glanced around cautiously, and covered the camera-facing side of her face with her hand, mouthing words to me.

It was hard to catch everything, but I could tell she was asking, “Have you prepared your acceptance speech?”

I waved my hands in denial, grinning as if I hadn’t even considered it.

But in truth, I had already prepared one.

I would thank writer Park Eun-sook, who was working with me, and director Kudo Kei from Japan, as well as all the actors who helped me get here, especially Seo Ji-won, Ahn Yoo-seok, Jung Woo-sung...

I went over the names of everyone I’d met through my works as I organized my acceptance speech in my head.

And at last, after the awards for Drama Special and TV Cinema, the time came for the highly anticipated ‘Writer Award’ announcement.

As MC Min Jae-seok finished his cue, the giant screen doors at the front parted, and the two presenters for the Writer Award, a man and a woman, walked out calmly.

An actress in a red dress and a middle-aged man in a crisp suit took the stage together.

“Hello, I’m Jung Hyo-seong, head of the UBS Drama Center.”

“Hello, I’m actress Jo Yoo-jung.”

They both read from the cue card bearing the winner’s name, trading scripted lines.

“I believe it takes a tremendous effort from the production team for a project to be created and aired. Don’t you agree, Center Director?”

“Yes, I’m always grateful to the crew who create great dramas through unseen hardships. Especially, the role of the writers who create these characters and stories is very important.”

Even though it was all written in the script, their words didn’t feel insincere or hollow.

The nominees were myself and writer Park Eun-sook, who co-wrote , and Oh Hee-kyung, who wrote —three in total.

 had overwhelming ratings, and, exceptionally, was a Korean-Japanese co-production that contributed to cultural exchange between the two countries, so there was ample reason to expect an award.

I thought either I or Park Eun-sook, or perhaps both, had the highest chance.

At last, as someone who’d made writing my career, the moment when I might actually receive an award in the drama world was here.

“This award is given to the writer who moved viewers with laughter and emotion, stirring their empathy. Center Director, please announce the winner.”

“Yes, the winner of the 20XX UBS Acting Awards Writer Award is...”

My lips felt parched as I nervously waited for the announcement.

And finally, the winner was revealed.

“, writer Oh Hee-kyung! Congratulations!”