Glory Film Company

Episode 54. Identity (1)

These people are both audacious and sinister. So it seems Gu Bonjik used Grey Film’s CEO, Yoon Heesang—one of his loyal cronies—to connect with Hong Ingi.

Things were getting interesting.

This definitely stinks. They’re hiding something.

Youngkwang’s suspicions solidified further. Hong Ingi, a man who claimed to have worked as a producer in the U.S. for 12 years, was now introducing a writing position at Grey Film—a company that had been established for less than ten years and should have no connection to him.

Clearly, Hong had thought sending Na Sejeong directly to Stay Film would draw too much attention and decided to be more discreet. But his attempts at subtlety only made his actions seem more contrived and suspicious.

So he feels bad about how things turned out and wants to find her a good job? That kind of altruism is completely out of character for someone like Hong Ingi.

“So, are you going to take it?”

Youngkwang stopped laughing and asked.

“I agreed to meet with him, at least. But why?”

Na Sejeong looked skeptical, uneasy about the odd vibe surrounding Grey Film. On paper, it was a solid company with nearly ten years in the industry, fifteen commercial films to its name, and several box office hits. It seemed like a good fit for a writer. So why did Youngkwang seem wary?

“It’s a long story, but Hong PD and Grey Film—and Stay Film, for that matter—have some connections to us.”

“Hm.”

“Before that, though, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

Youngkwang’s expression turned serious.

“What is it?”

“Could I see your portfolio?”

“…My portfolio?”

“Yes. At My Way Pictures, we’re always looking for great talent to collaborate with on projects.”

“Really?”

For a moment, a mix of emotions flashed across Na Sejeong’s face.

Why is someone who just told me about the plagiarism rumors offering to scout me? Does that mean he believes in me? But why would he trust me when we barely know each other?

Her confusion was written all over her face.

Youngkwang responded with a confident smile.

There’s no way she plagiarized.

Youngkwang had already read one of Na Sejeong’s books, Second Birthday, which had won the grand prize in the Jeil Entertainment script competition.

The sheer energy of the writing was astounding. Even without Hong Ingi’s suspicious actions, the work itself was undeniable proof that the accusations were baseless. Every word and scene screamed originality.

While the story wasn’t without flaws, those imperfections made it all the more appealing to a producer like Youngkwang. A fully polished writer would leave little room for collaboration, but a talented yet developing one—now, that was exciting.

“Ha…”

Na Sejeong’s eyes wavered. She looked conflicted, unsure of what to make of the situation.

Grey Film was objectively larger than My Way Pictures in scale, with more films under its belt and a more established system. While she was grateful for Youngkwang’s offer, it also felt overwhelming.

“What matters most to you?”

Cutting through her doubts, Youngkwang asked directly.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s most important to you when it comes to your work? From what I can see, it’s having your books turned into films. Am I wrong?”

“Well… yeah, of course.”

“The two films I’ve worked on so far will both be released in theaters.”

“…Okay.”

“And another film planned by My Way Pictures this year will be released next year as well.”

“…You’re working on other films, too?”

“It’s not just me making movies at My Way Pictures. In any case, I can show you how we’ve managed to make this happen.”

Deputy Yang Hyesoo, sensing that the proposal was solid, joined in to support the pitch.

“She’s right. Don’t rush into a decision, but think it over carefully. My Way Pictures is one of the hottest production companies this year. Even Jeil Entertainment has high expectations for them.”

Hyesoo even brought up 300 Days After We Break Up, the movie she was overseeing, to add weight to the argument.

As she spoke, Youngkwang allowed her to have the floor before adding one final remark.

“Your competition-winning work is publicly available, so I’ve read it.”

“You did?”

“It’s a promising piece. Aren’t you curious why it hasn’t been adapted into a movie yet?”

“It has artistic value, but it doesn’t fit with domestic sensibilities, and thriller genres are hard to produce”—that’s the kind of feedback I kept hearing. I kind of agree with some of it.”

Na Sejeong shrugged as she answered. While partially correct, her response fell short of capturing the whole picture. Thrillers weren’t hard to produce; they were in high demand. The real issue was the lack of quality stories, not the absence of an audience.

“It was the ending,” Youngkwang said, pinpointing the problem without hesitation.

“The ending? What’s wrong with it?”

“You tried too hard to showcase the world-building. It diluted the impact of the brilliant setup in the first half.”

“…What?”

Sejeong flushed with embarrassment, caught off guard by the criticism.

“Viewers don’t need to understand all the complicated details at that level. The scientific explanations you crammed in aren’t even digestible, and from a producer or director’s perspective, those scenes are inefficient and better left out.”

“But without those explanations, the major events don’t make sense.”

“Even if that was the intention, it’s overdone. Those details could have been hinted at through a few lines of dialogue.”

“……”

Sejeong fell silent, deep in thought.

****

Second Birthday.

The story begins from the perspective of Lee Dongmin, an elderly man living in a cramped room in the last slum of Seoul.

The first scene is Dongmin’s trembling hands reaching for a pile of overdue notices stuffed into his mailbox: medical insurance bills, city gas, electricity—reminders of unpaid dues. Frustrated, he crumples the notices in his hands and retreats into the dim room.

Clink, clink.

The sound of him turning on the faucet in the freezing apartment is met with a disappointing gush of muddy water instead of hot water. With a grimace, Dongmin shuts it off and rummages through his wardrobe for a wrinkled shirt to change into.

What time is it? Five, maybe?

His broken clock offers no answers, so Dongmin glances out the window to judge the time by the position of the sun. He retrieves a battered suitcase, packing a few belongings, ready to leave for somewhere unknown.

At the corner of the alley stands a food truck distributing meals. Dongmin sighs and joins the end of the long line. This is how he regularly gets by. Around him, other elderly men with similarly haggard appearances argue and jostle for position. Watching them, Dongmin mutters with disdain.

“Worms.”

Despite his ragged exterior, Dongmin clearly considers himself above the others.

His face lights up as his turn comes, and he sees an unusually extravagant meal: braised chicken, glass noodles glistening with oil, sesame-seasoned spinach, seafood pancakes, nutty perilla soup, and pristine white rice.

Is it a festival today?

Wow, a feast! Haven’t had one like this in ages.

Dongmin eagerly piles food onto his plate and devours it in a corner seat.

“Enjoy your meal, sir,” says a voice.

Dongmin looks up to see a middle-aged man who was serving soup at the end of the line. His overly polite tone and artificial smile feel strangely unsettling.

“Thank you. It was delicious,” Dongmin replies, shrinking back.

“I’m Kang Suho, just starting as a volunteer here. I hope we’ll meet often, sir,” the man says with a grin as he takes Dongmin’s empty tray.

The encounter is brief, but something about Kang Suho feels off. However, Dongmin has no time to dwell on it. That night, he plans to flee his home to avoid his landlord, who is pounding on the door, demanding overdue rent.

As night falls, Dongmin waits for total darkness. However, he accidentally falls asleep, only to wake up startled at dawn.

“Damn it.”

Grabbing his suitcase, Dongmin rushes out of the house and into the alley.

Tack, tack, tack.

His quick footsteps echo in the narrow streets.

But then, he suddenly stops. Looking around, he realizes he’s back in the same spot he started.

What the hell? Why is the path like this?

The familiar neighborhood seemed to swirl around Lee Dongmin, disorienting him. Just as panic began to set in, a voice rang out from behind.

“Where are you going at this hour, sir?”

It was Kang Suho, the man who had taken Dongmin’s meal tray earlier.

Suho didn’t ask why Dongmin was leaving in the dead of night. Instead, he offered to drive him to his destination, pointing out that it was too early for the first bus to run.

Clutching just enough money for a single express bus ticket, Dongmin swallowed hard and nodded.

Inside the car, Suho casually revealed that he knew about Dongmin’s circumstances. Instead of returning to a hometown where he had no connections, Suho suggested Dongmin consider a nursing home where food and lodging were provided.

Dongmin reacted sharply, snapping that nothing in life came for free. Suho, unfazed, smiled calmly.

“Of course, nothing’s free, sir. The nursing home has a research facility attached. They’re developing new drugs for seniors. If you take the medication they provide daily and report any changes, they’ll cover your food and lodging.”

The mention of financial compensation for participating in clinical trials made Dongmin’s chest tighten with conflicted emotions. It was humiliating, but at his age, it seemed like a rare opportunity.

“Fine. Let’s go there,” he finally agreed.

Dongmin entered the suspicious nursing home, and a month later, an extraordinary event occurred.

“Ahhhhh! What’s happening? What is this?!”

One morning, Dongmin woke up to find his body transformed into that of a man in his twenties.

The story was gripping up to this point, with every episode at the nursing home full of intrigue. However, as the plot progressed, Na Sejeong’s over-immersion in the mysterious backstory caused the narrative to lose focus.

The excessive emphasis on the nursing home’s hidden agenda, the purpose behind the experimental drugs, and the shadowy elite funding it all diluted the core appeal of the story.

Youngkwang honed in on this weakness like a razor.

“The audience’s focus on the protagonist gets scattered. The charm of the main story diminishes as the narrative shifts from events and characters to world-building. It’s not an issue of genre or budget—it’s structural.”

“Hah. I guess it could be seen that way,” Na Sejeong admitted, initially defensive but gradually looking as though she had realized something.

“And you stacked all the ‘money shots’ at the back. Instead of prioritizing scenes involving the protagonist, you funneled the budget into explaining the antagonistic forces behind his struggles. That throws the balance off.”

“…I didn’t think of it that way.”

“That’s why the ending feels weak. Dongmin’s motivation to return to his original age doesn’t feel convincing. Instead of focusing on the coherence of the world, wouldn’t it have been better to make the protagonist’s actions and motivations more compelling?”

Na Sejeong’s eyes wavered.

She had been so engrossed in crafting the story that she hadn’t fully considered how to manage production logistics, allocate resources effectively, or tailor scenes for dramatic impact. If she restructured the latter half of the story as Youngkwang suggested, could it become significantly better?

“That said, your sense of imagination, skill in creating characters, and the natural flow of dialogue were all exceptional—far beyond what you’d expect from a newcomer.”

“Hm.”

Though Youngkwang’s praise was genuine, Na wasn’t the type to be satisfied with simple compliments.

“That’s not enough. Audiences don’t care whether the writer or director is a rookie or a veteran when they buy tickets.”

“Exactly. Audiences only care if it’s entertaining. So why not rewrite it with that in mind?”

Na sighed, her gaze locking onto Youngkwang.

“So, what you’re saying is, My Way Pictures has the ability to analyze and help me fix my shortcomings? You have the production skills and execution to back that up? And if I show you my portfolio—or write something new—you can actually turn it into a movie?”

Finally, some honesty.

Reading the desperate determination in her eyes, Youngkwang nodded silently.

It was time to deliver the decisive blow.