Glory Film Company

Episode 19: Reunion (2)

Ssssss…
The clams on the charcoal grill sizzled as they began to open, their juices bubbling under the heat.

When the cheese and sauce atop the pen shells started to melt and simmer, Youngkwang involuntarily swallowed hard.

“Wow. This really is a legendary spot,” he murmured.

“Ahem, ahem,” Jang Hyunmin interjected, pouring soju generously into everyone’s glasses while Lee Deokjae fidgeted like a nervous puppy.

Choi Suhyeon, meanwhile, appeared physically present but mentally adrift, her face blank as if her thoughts were scattered across the universe.

Even after five years, seeing an ex suddenly reappear, cradling a child, was bound to be a shock.

The scene unfolding felt like an early-morning drama, complete with sudden revelations. Sensing the awkwardness, Youngkwang gulped down his first glass of soju in one go.

“The mussel soup is fantastic. And the corn cheese too. Did Director Joo always have a knack for cooking?”
“Oh, he was great at it. Always going on about how he’d live a life full of love. Nothing new there.”

Choi Suhyeon, halfway through her second glass of soju, replied coolly, a frosty smile tugging at his lips.

“Ah, ha ha, right. But where is the director, though?” Lee Deokjae said, trying to steer the conversation.

“Who knows? Maybe he misunderstood why we’re here. Should I excuse myself? Am I ruining the mood here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

What is this nonsense?

While Choi Suhyeon’s youthful appearance—blemish-free skin and a calm demeanor—belied her age of 48, the atmosphere felt absurdly childish.

Joo Kanghyuk, now 50, had bolted to the kitchen after spotting the My Way Pictures crew, clutching a child. And yet, here they were, talking around the elephant in the room, with passive-aggressive remarks flying.

People can date and break up—it’s normal. But if you’re going to act like this, just stay apart forever. This is business; at least keep up appearances!

Watching the situation deteriorate, Youngkwang fumed internally.

“Wow, look at this photo. Did Director Joo take it?”
Lee Deokjae pointed to a framed picture on the wall, drawing everyone’s attention.

It was a large black-and-white photograph of a mudflat and the dark sea, spanning an entire wall.

“The composition is so dynamic. But also poetic,” he remarked.

“That’s Joo Kanghyuk’s style—masculine and rugged, yet delicate. Watching him shoot handheld scenes is mesmerizing. Every frame’s a keeper,” Lee added, openly praising Joo.

Even Choi Suhyeon, who had been tossing barbs earlier, remained silent. It seemed he, too, couldn’t deny Joo’s undeniable talent.

“Long time no see, everyone.”

And there he was—Joo Kanghyuk.

“Director Joo!”
“Wow, it’s been ages. Actor Jang, Representative Lee, and Director Choi—long time no see.”

Joo appeared calmer, his face composed as he dragged over a chair and sat at the round table, directly across from Choi Suhyeon.

“So, are you married?”

Jang Hyunmin wasted no time diving straight into the question on everyone’s mind.

“Married?”

“Oh, earlier, we saw you holding a little girl. Is she your daughter?”

Gesturing with his hand to approximate the child’s height, Jang asked directly.

“Ah, ha ha. Minhee! No, she’s my niece,” Joo replied, laughing.

“A niece! I see!”

A collective sense of relief washed over the table, evident in the deeper sighs and the way drinks flowed more easily. The tension dissipated, leaving only sheepish laughter behind.

“So, the restaurant is a family business then?”

“It was originally run by my parents. They weren’t doing well health-wise, so I took over. And recently, my older sister joined in to help.”

“Well, with business booming like this, it makes sense the whole family would get involved. But are your parents okay? Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“They’re getting older, and they’ve had chronic illnesses,” Joo replied, his tone steady.

“Wait, was that why you retired?”

Jang smoothly transitioned into what felt like an impromptu interview. Joo answered earnestly, his demeanor consistent, though Choi Suhyeon’s pupils quivered ever so slightly with each response.

Well, diving straight into work talk lacks a bit of human touch, doesn’t it? Nothing like some casual chit-chat to ease the tension.
Youngkwang observed Joo Kanghyuk closely, pondering the best approach to win him over.

His abilities are a given; no need for further verification. His personality doesn’t seem difficult either. Seems sociable enough.
But his face… just shaving off that beard would make him look quite dashing, wouldn’t it? He could even pass as an actor. He’s kept himself in good shape too. So this is Choi Suhyeon’s taste in men?

As Youngkwang thought they might’ve made a fitting pair, he couldn’t help but wonder if their past would serve as a help or a hindrance in this negotiation.

“Well, everyone’s got a story, don’t they? But what brings you all here? You didn’t come thinking this place was mine, did you?”
Joo Kanghyuk asked, slicing through a juicy clam with a large set of tongs and scissors.

“I proposed a project to Director Kwak Junghoon, but he said he’d only do it if you came onboard,” Lee Deokjae admitted candidly.

“Director Kwak said that?”
Joo Kanghyuk frowned.

“You can take your time to think it over after reading the script. It’s a Korean-style fantasy, and according to Director Kwak, no one but you can bring the story to life.”

Did he really say that? Youngkwang found himself intrigued by Lee Deokjae’s exaggerated relay of Kwak’s words.
He might’ve mentioned it would suit your style or that you’re good at it, but not quite to that extent.

“Of course, I know you’ve been avoiding working with Director Kwak and staying tied to Stay Film…”

“Lee.”
Kanghyuk interrupted, distributing neatly cut clam pieces onto everyone’s plates.

“It’s been five years since I left the film scene. I’m no longer attached to the camera.”

A soft yet firm refusal.
But his next words lingered with a strange nuance.

“…I’m not even sure I could assemble a team anymore.”

Not attached to the camera but concerned about gathering a team? The contradiction hinted at an opening.

Film production teams typically consist of a cinematographer, a first assistant, a second assistant, a third assistant, and an apprentice. Renowned cinematographers often have their own crews they work with consistently. Naturally, Kanghyuk must have had one too—a dream team of his own. Though they were likely scattered by now.

Does that mean reassembling his old team might change his mind?

Youngkwang considered the practical challenges.

“If it’s been five years, then some of your former team members might’ve moved on to roles like operators by now, right?”

He tested the waters cautiously.
If they’d started as apprentices on big projects, they’d likely have become seconds on smaller films by now. Those who’d been first or second assistants might now be heads on other sets—awkward positions to lure back into Kanghyuk’s team.

“Yeah, probably. Director Donghyun is still alternating between first and second assistant positions, taking it slow. Seongsik became head on Cheerful Seasons,” Lee Deokjae explained, glancing at Kanghyuk for confirmation.

So, he did have a team.
And apparently, Deokjae knew their history well.

“But why leave out the apprentice and Suhyeon?” Jang Hyunmin teased with a mischievous grin.

Choi Suhyeon shot him a sharp glare and downed another shot of soju.

She’s going to get drunk again, just like at that whiskey bar. And this time, in front of her ex? Her tongue might slip for sure.

“Well, Director Choi is practically the face of My Way now. Everyone here knows that,” Deokjae smoothed things over again. “By the way, that apprentice must’ve grown a lot by now, right?”

Kanghyuk nodded.
“He contacted me recently to say he’d moved up to second assistant. Everyone’s doing well.”

Oh, so Choi Suhyeon was part of Kanghyuk’s team too?

Youngkwang’s eyes gleamed as he pieced together the scattered bits of information.
Judging from the current positions of Kanghyuk’s former team, Suhyeon must’ve been his first assistant back then.

So, they managed to juggle work and romance at the same time?

As admiration crept in, Youngkwang tilted his head in thought.

But the timeline doesn’t quite add up.

They’d first met in 2006, and Suhyeon had transitioned from being a PD to a cinematographer that same year.

Was it not that she was fed up with her PD work, but rather that she changed paths because she fell in love?

Like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place, a hidden truth began to emerge.

Come to think of it, Choi Suhyeon’s cinematography has a certain resemblance to Joo Kanghyuk’s. It’s even more suspicious how Kanghyuk’s rough early style gradually became more refined over time.

Had they influenced each other, growing together?

Youngkwang shifted his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Bringing the whole team back together might be unrealistic, but what if you managed to get two of the four? Would that make it easier to pick up the camera again?”

“…What?”

“Ah, I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I’m Lee Youngkwang, the new PD at My Way Pictures,” he said, keeping it brief before diving straight back into the main topic.
“The only reason we came all the way here was to ask you to join Director Kwak Junghoon’s new project.”

“Well, that’s…”

“No need to give us an answer right away. You’ve all reunited after a long time, so take your time catching up.”

Youngkwang smiled, glancing between Joo Kanghyuk and Choi Suhyeon.

The dynamics were clear now.

Joo Kanghyuk kept stealing glances at Suhyeon, while Suhyeon’s expression shifted with every word he spoke, particularly since learning that the child in the conversation was his niece. There were unresolved emotions between them, tinged with lingering affection.

Is that why Director Kwak reached out to Suhyeon despite the backlash?

Youngkwang began to understand Kwak’s intentions. Perhaps Kwak thought that if Kanghyuk and Suhyeon could settle their unresolved feelings during this opportunity, Kanghyuk might swap the tongs for a camera again.

In that case, all I need to do is keep stoking the fire at the right moments.

“So, how did you end up working with Director Kwak?”

The drinking session, which started in the early afternoon, carried on well into the evening, flowing at a comfortable pace neither too fast nor too slow.

The group, once core figures of the Chungmuro Renaissance era, where they drank almost eight times a week—day drinking included—didn’t shy away from the alcohol, their laughter bubbling over old stories that somehow never got old.

By the time a spectacular sunset unfolded outside, Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin finally broached the question they’d been holding back.

“So, your family really went bankrupt back then?”

While Suhyeon was in the restroom, the two asked the question cautiously.

“Yeah. My father collapsed from the shock, my mother’s chronic illness worsened, and the store was about to go under. In an instant, we were millions in debt.”

“Still, you should’ve told Suhyeon nuna.”

“Yeah, ghosting her like that? Isn’t that what people call a ‘disappearing breakup’ these days? That’s the worst.”

“After dating seriously for ten years, saving up for a wedding, and then losing everything and falling into debt? I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I couldn’t even bring myself to break things off properly. I know I was wrong. I should’ve let her go the right way.”

“Come on. Suhyeon nuna was what, 41 or 42 back then? You can’t just ‘let someone go’ at that age. There’s a right time for everything.”

“Ugh, just thinking about how she must’ve felt back then…”

A disappearing breakup? It sounded terrible, but considering the threats, violence, and chaos from loan sharks and shady figures, it was hard to imagine him making any sound decisions at the time. Apparently, the situation had even spilled into the film industry by the end.

“What about now?”

“What about what?”

“The debt. Did you pay it off? This place is supposedly a smash hit seafood barbecue joint.”

“I finished paying it off recently. After switching businesses and seeing some success in the first couple of years, COVID hit.”

“Ah, yeah, that must’ve been tough.”

“Still, with things picking up again this year, I managed to clear it all. Finally, I can breathe again.”

“Well, then. It’s settled. With the restaurant in good hands thanks to Suhyeon nuna’s family, you’ve got someone to take care of it. Time to get back to making movies.”

“You know Director Kwak isn’t exactly thrilled with Stay Film either. That guy’s hungry for projects, and he’s only stuck with them because no other studio can support him the way they have. But things aren’t as rosy there as they used to be, and he’s ready to take a leap.”

Was it the alcohol? The encouragement of old friends who knew the struggles?

Despite his earlier claims of being done with the camera, Joo Kanghyuk looked conflicted, his head bowed under the weight of repeated suggestions.

“Well…”

“Well” my foot. He’s almost there.

Youngkwang checked his watch with a sly smile. 8 PM. The drinking session had stretched for nearly eight hours. His stomach was starting to ache, and it was time to wrap things up with a decisive blow.

“Director, I realize we’ve been terribly rude. We came to ask for your help but didn’t properly lay out the terms first.”

Youngkwang spoke clearly, locking eyes with Joo Kanghyuk. He was ready to present an offer so irresistible that Kanghyuk wouldn’t be able to refuse it on the spot.