Return of the Genius PD

There’s a saying I like.

People never change.

But… 

People can change in an instant.

Because sometimes, a single decision can alter the course of their entire life.

Therefore, the idea that people can change entirely in an instant is true.

…

“T-Team Leader. I didn’t hear that wrong, did I?”

I stared blankly at the leader of Production Team 3, my voice barely holding steady.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my composure, the tremble in my facial muscles betrayed me.

“You heard correctly.”

The words that had just left his mouth were a gut punch I hadn’t been prepared for.

“Next week, during the reorganization, you’ll be transferred to the Strategic Planning Team.”

“But… I’ve been doing well in Production for the last four years, haven’t I? Why all of a sudden…?”

This had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding.

I’d joined the broadcasting company to chase my dream of becoming a drama director. I had worked harder than anyone, proving myself again and again, waiting for my chance to debut.

And on top of that—

I hadn’t missed an ‘S grade’ on my annual performance evaluations for the last four years.

This wasn’t just competence; it was near-perfect performance.

None of this made sense.

“Do Ji-won,” the team leader said, his voice soft, as if he was trying to soothe me.

“It’s just how things turned out. You know how much I like you. Do you think I wanted to let you go?”

He paused, his expression awkward.

“Remember the proposal you submitted last month? The Joseon Tax Accountant one?”

“Of course. You said you liked it, called it sharp.”

“Right, it surprised me. But it seems I wasn’t the only one caught off guard.”

The Production Team 3 Leader continued, leaning in slightly.

“Apparently, someone higher up saw your proposal. Do Ji-won, they specifically asked for you to join the Strategic Planning Team.”

This was beyond anything I could’ve imagined.

“I wrote that proposal to showcase my directing skills!”

“I know, but the problem is, it also showed a planner’s eye.”

He went on.

“Turns out, they were more impressed with your planning abilities than your directing.”

“Team Leader! You know I joined the Drama Department to be a director!”
My voice was rising, frustration tightening in my chest.

“Hey, Do Ji-won!” He snapped, then sighed heavily before continuing. “Think about it. You’re at a critical juncture. The higher-ups want to groom you. Do you realize what that means?”

I did.

“This is like having a highway paved straight for your career! Are you really going to dig in your heels and insist on debuting as a director? Get a grip!”

A golden opportunity dangled in front of me; a chance to join the ranks of those who could shape the company’s future, those who wielded influence over promotions and decisions.

“But still…” I muttered.

The team leader, visibly exasperated, took a long breath and spoke more calmly.

“I get it. I do. But what can we do? We’re just salaried employees. When the higher-ups make a decision, it’s our job to follow, isn’t it?”

He spoke with a measured seriousness now.

“This isn’t some small local station. This is JTVN. Remember how tough it was to even get here? How fierce the competition was?”

“Yes…”

“You beat impossible odds to land this job, and now the top brass wants to push you forward. Are you really going to throw that away for a dream? Do you think that’s smart?”

His voice softened.

“Ji-won, think carefully. This is a position people would beg for, a chance most will never have, no matter how hard they try. You can say yes, keep doing what you’re doing, and be on the fast track to promotion. You’ll be in a line that almost guarantees an executive seat one day.”

I know that, too.

In company life, having a strong “line” is everything. Connections can make or break a career.

But

Is it right to latch onto an opportunity just because it’s there?

I came to this station with a dream of being a director, and now they’re telling me to abandon that dream as easily as flipping a switch?

“…”

Sensing my hesitation, the Production Team 3 Leader patted my shoulder. His tone softened.

“Ji-won, you can succeed there, too. Let’s just agree and make the move. After that, we’ll keep doing what we’ve always done, right?”

He pressed gently. “Okay?”

“Yes…” I murmured.

The Team Leader was right. This was a coveted position, an opportunity others could only dream of.

Even if it was a different department, it was still the same broadcasting company, wasn’t it?

Whatever…

Since it had come to this, I just needed to climb higher than anyone else.

Maybe there’s a view up there that I can’t even imagine from where I am now.

If I climb fast enough, I might have more influence than a directing PD ever could.

Right.

It’s not like I need to shoot the work myself to call it mine, right?

I can still claim it, even if I’m involved only in the planning. Can’t I?

Let’s close my eyes and go for it.

It’s a path where success is practically guaranteed, isn’t it?

I’ll go higher and further than anyone else.

…

━That’s what I thought back then.

“Director Do Ji-won?”

The chauffeur’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. I blinked, realizing how deeply I’d been lost in thought. The young driver was glancing at me repeatedly through the rearview mirror, trying to gauge my expression.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your complexion doesn’t look good…”

“Don’t worry.”

And so, 20 years have passed.

I’ve become an executive director.

I, who finally reached this title…

I should have been more stubborn back then.

I regret the choice I made 20 years ago.

* * *

“Director, it’s almost time for the executive meeting.”

As I walked down the hallway, something caught my eye, an announcement on the bulletin board. A personnel notice.

I stopped for a moment, staring at it when… 

“Um, Director?”

“Ah, yes, let’s go.”

It’s just a routine personnel announcement, the kind that comes out several times a year.

But today… for some reason, it stood out. Why?

Maybe…

It was the name of an employee being transferred to an isolated team. It reminded me too much of myself, back then.

20 years.

A staggering 20 years have slipped by in the blink of an eye.

When I first joined the Strategic Planning Team, I overheard something.

They say being an adult means knowing when to give up on your dreams.

Was it because that sentiment mirrored my own path?

That saying…

It curled up and settled in a quiet corner of my mind.

Back then, I wanted to become an adult.

Maybe it was because I had chosen a path that required me to abandon my dream.

I worked obsessively, so much that it amazed everyone around me. 

My first job in the Strategic Planning Team was script review.

-There are three things you need to create something great:

-First is the story, second is the story, and third is the story.

I took that advice to heart, diving into scripts like a man possessed.

At least one a day, sometimes five or six on busy days.

There wasn’t a single day when I didn’t have a script in my hands.

For a full 20 years.

My relentless pursuit of perfection quickly turned into recognition.

Before long, whenever people talked about planners with sharp instincts, my name was always mentioned.

From employee to assistant manager.

From assistant manager to manager.

From manager to deputy general manager.

From deputy general manager to general manager.

I rose steadily, never missing a single promotion.

And finally, the day I was promoted to executive director and head of the Strategic Planning Division, I realized something.

This was the peak. The pinnacle of success for someone in a company like mine.

But around that time, a deep, quiet emptiness started to settle in a corner of my heart.

Something hollow.

Isn’t this a good enough life?

That thought would creep in. But then, every so often, a question would follow.

Is this really okay?

-Tok, tok.

Sitting in the back seat of a luxury sedan, stopped at a traffic light on a wide eight-lane road near Gangnam Station, I stared out the window at an electronic billboard on a nearby building.

[My life was a failure in itself. But I couldn’t give up on my dream.]

Those were the words of Director Kim Hyeong-seok during his acceptance speech for the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival.

[Because it was my dream.]

His face was so familiar.

He was… 

A colleague who had joined the company with me, long ago.

[There were times when I trembled with anxiety, wondering if I was digging my own grave rather than digging a well.]

[“So what?”]

[I repeated that phrase like a mantra. Whether it became a well or a grave, most people never even hold a shovel.]

He smiled; calm, confident, free.

[At least I was holding a shovel. That’s what I told myself, and I thought that was enough.]

This was the man who had quit after just three years, saying he was going to pursue his dream.

After that, all I’d heard about him was the disappointing news of his financial struggles.

I…

I took comfort in those stories.

I told myself he should have stayed in the company, like me.

His dream?

It couldn’t even buy him a meal. What was the point?

I often reassured myself by comparing his life to mine, convincing myself my choice had been the right one.

And now, here he was.

Standing before the whole world, holding the Palme d’Or trophy.

It felt like a blow to the head.

I had to meet him.

* * *

-A shabby pojangmacha(1) near the broadcasting station.-

Despite my sudden call after all these years, Kim Hyeong-seok made time for me, using the same old number. 

Though we’d occasionally kept in touch, it had been a long time since we’d met face to face like this.

“It must’ve been a surprise, but thanks for coming,” I said, feeling awkward.

“If it’s your call, I’ll make time even if I don’t have any.”

I decided to speak honestly.

“Congratulations, sincerely. You finally did it.”

He gave a bittersweet smile, one I couldn’t quite place.

“You might not think so, but I don’t believe I could have done this without you.”

I almost dismissed it as a polite, meaningless comment, murmuring, “Don’t be silly,” when-

“Are you still writing scripts?”

His question stopped me cold.

“At my age? What are you talking about.”

“…”

“I gave that up a long time ago.”

I lied, without thinking.

I’d never stopped writing.

I just never showed anyone.

“I’ve always envied your talent.”

He said it earnestly, his voice steady.

“Remember when we were buried under mountains of scripts in the production team?”

“Of course.”

“Back then, I was frustrated so many times because of you. Your talent… really, so many times…”

He trailed off, then added softly,

“Maybe that’s why I left the company like I was running away. I thought, no matter what I did, I could never beat you.”

The only person in the world.

Hearing that sincere confession from an old friend who had just won the Palme d’Or stirred something indescribable within me.

This same friend, whom I had secretly pitied.

When he called years ago, asking to borrow money because he had no living expenses, I sent it without hesitation.

While part of me truly hoped he would succeed, another part of me… felt relieved.

Relieved that I had stayed.

Relieved that I hadn’t ruined my life chasing childish dreams.

And now, here he was.

A world-renowned director, looking at me with those same, clear eyes.

“Ji-won, start writing again. Too late? Who says it’s too late? It’s not.”

“…”

“I’m telling you this because even now, I’ve never seen anyone with talent as brilliant as yours.”

…

Was it because I hadn’t drunk this much in so long?

The moment I lay down in the back seat of the taxi, the alcohol hit me full force. I reached into my coat pocket and felt something cool; a USB.

The USB holding all the scripts I had written over the last 20 years.

I had set up the meeting intending to ask him to take a look at them.

But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to mention it. Not until we parted ways.

“…”

When I was young, I dreamed of being a director.

Not a data expert.

Not a meticulous strategist.

Not a successful planner.

Not an executive at a prestigious company.

I was a creator.

My dream was to show my work to the world.

It’s not too late.

How many scripts have I written in these 20 years, with no real purpose, just in my spare time?

Scripts I studied, refined, and wrote late into the night, cutting into my own leisure.

There must be dozens – no, far more than dozens.

Right, let’s try again, even now.

Through my hazy vision, I watched the back of the taxi driver’s head.

Martin Scorsese, who made the immortal classic Taxi Driver, still creates masterpieces even in his eighties.

Almost as if possessed, I took out my phone and made a call.

“It’s me.”

I exhaled a breath I’d been holding for years.

“I’m sorry for calling so late, but I have to decline the offer for the vice president position. I truly appreciate it, but… I can’t.”

After hanging up, I closed my eyes, the weight of that decision slowly lifting.

Right, let’s try again.

I have the scripts I’ve written all this time.

20 years’ worth.

I have the instincts of a planner, honed through years of work.

But now, instead of being the planner applauding from behind,

I want to stand on stage.

As a creator, one everyone looks up to.

With a sense of anticipation that the second half of my life was about to begin, I gripped the USB tightly in my hand.

And so…

I surrendered to the overwhelming drowsiness.

In the haze of my fading consciousness, I heard the taxi driver faintly exclaim.

“Oh, oh oh! -“

-Beep, beep, beeeeep-!

The blare of a car horn grew louder, closer. But it wasn’t enough to fight off the alcohol or the fatigue pulling me under.

I drifted into a dream.

In the dream, manuscript papers fluttered wildly around me.

I could tell at a glance, they were all mine.

Not a single sentence from these writings had ever been shown to the world.

A coward pretending to be a realist.

Maybe that describes me best.

Among the fluttering manuscripts, one stood out, clear and vivid.

It was from my tenth year in the company.

The day I heard how Haruki Murakami became a writer.

Sitting in a baseball stadium, drinking beer, watching a home run sail through the sky, he decided, just like that, to become a writer.

That decision changed his life.

After hearing that story, I’d gone home and, as if possessed, began writing my own manuscript right after work.

Looking back now, it felt foolish.

Even then, it wasn’t too late for me…

But I had convinced myself that I’d come too far.

Maybe that’s why- 

I reached out toward that manuscript.

It hovered just out of reach, but I stretched further until it finally landed in my hand.

* * *

“Do Ji-won!”

A sharp ringing pierced my ears.

-Beeep, beeeep-.

“Hey, Do Ji-won!”

The sound grew louder, clearer.

As my vision sharpened, a face I knew well, both nostalgic and irritating, came into view.

Is this a dream?

It seemed so.

“Ji-won, you can do well there too, can’t you? Just close your eyes, say you agree, and move over. After that, we’ll keep doing what we’ve been doing, just like now.”

It was that exact moment, 20 years ago.

The moment my life…

Changed completely.

Back then.

20 years ago, I had answered obediently.

Yes, I understand.

But now…

“No.”

A phrase I’d liked in my youth surfaced in my mind.

People never change.

And yet.

People can change in an instant.

Because a single decision can alter a life completely.

Right now.

This was my moment to make a decision that would change everything.

“Then, I’ll just…”

Even in a dream, I refused to remain a coward.

But something felt strange.

I realized I was holding something, a small, cool plastic object clenched tightly in my fist.

It was the USB.

The USB containing all the manuscripts I’d written over 20 years.

What is this?

I wondered for a moment, confused.

But then I remembered, it was just a dream.

So,

I made my decision and finished the words I had once hesitated to say.

“Then, I’ll just resign.”

(1) Pojangmacha – In Korea, Pojangmacha means ‘tented’ or ‘covered’ wagon/cart, so it actually means all the plastic and tarpaulin covered food carts, as well as what many of us call soju tents when they show up in Kdramas.