Glory Film Company

Chapter 28: The First Investor

“What the hell, 1.5 billion? Yesterday, you said 1 billion!”

So transparent.

Bae Youngho’s attempt at playing hardball was immediately exposed.

“Ahem, it’s not that I don’t have the money…” He awkwardly cleared his throat, clearly realizing his slip-up.

“But where did 1.5 billion suddenly come from?” He gave Youngkwang a pointed look, as if to say, You were trying to gauge me too, weren’t you?

“After returning to the office, we ran the budget numbers again,” Youngkwang replied smoothly, “and it depends—are we showcasing the first 20 minutes sequentially, or strategically highlighting key scenes? The cost varies based on that. You know how it is.”

Youngkwang wasn’t about to retract his statement. It was, after all, the truth.

“Hmm. Well, that does make sense.”

Faced with a reasonable explanation, Bae had no choice but to nod in reluctant agreement.

“Still… 1.5 billion is a lot.”

He clicked his tongue, his discomfort evident. While 1 billion seemed manageable, 1.5 billion felt daunting.

His calculation was simple: he’d planned to invest half of the initial 1 billion and reap the same benefits as a larger investor. To him, timing mattered more than the amount. But if the total rose to 1.5 billion, his half-share would jump to 750 million.

Did Youngkwang mean they’d go with just one investor if they found someone to cover the full amount?

The situation wasn’t impossible for Bae. He had enough liquid funds to make it work. The real issue was confidence—could this investment deliver the results he hoped for without losses? It was a lot to stake on fan loyalty and gut feelings.

“Do you know President Park Mujin of World Theater?”

Sensing Bae’s internal struggle, Youngkwang casually dropped a name.

“Huh? Of course, I do. He invested in one of my films back in the day.”

“Well, if all else fails, I was considering reaching out to him.”

“What?”

Youngkwang wasn’t entirely bluffing. Park Mujin had once made a verbal promise to invest if Youngkwang achieved meaningful results as a producer. While the terms were vague, Youngkwang was confident that packaging the project and securing 3 billion in seed money for My Way Pictures could be compelling enough to remind Park of his promise.

“Hahaha!”

Unaware of this context, Bae burst out laughing, bending over with mirth.

“Where’d you hear that name? That guy doesn’t do personal investments anymore—it’s been ages. Besides, he’s not someone you can just meet willy-nilly.”

Bae seemed ready to launch into another “back in my day” story when—

“Hello? President Park Mujin? Hi, this is Youngkwang,” Youngkwang said loudly, pulling out his phone and dialing the number.

Park Mujin, a man of his word, was someone Youngkwang had been diligent about staying in touch with. He made regular courtesy calls, fully aware that nurturing the relationship might one day open doors to tens of billions in investment. A little effort now was a small price to pay for such a future.

“Yes, we’ve just wrapped up packaging and are preparing for investment meetings. The script is ready as well. I think you’ll be quite pleased with it. I’ll make sure you get a chance to see it.”

Bae froze.

No way… this has to be a bluff. Right?

But as he stared at Youngkwang’s phone screen, he caught a glimpse of the name “President Park Mujin” displayed on the call history.

He’s serious?

“What the hell? Who are you?” Bae finally stammered.

Back when Youngkwang had leaped from the fire-ravaged set into the year 2022, Park Mujin had appeared like destiny itself. The two had bonded over their shared passion for cinema, and Park had promised to invest if Youngkwang could deliver something truly compelling.

It was a rare opportunity, one too precious to squander. To use this card carelessly could jeopardize future projects. But if securing investment for Ha Pilsung’s project was the only way forward, then now was the time to play it.

This was why Youngkwang had deliberately mentioned Park’s name to Bae—to stir up the tension and show that he wasn’t bluffing.

“I ran into him by chance. I recognized him and introduced myself. While chatting, he mentioned that he didn’t find recent movies appealing to his taste. His preferences are, well…”
“A bit unique, right?”
“Exactly.”

Youngkwang briefly recounted his encounter with Park Mujin and then explained, concisely and to the point, that he was working on a project targeting a niche-buster concept, elaborating why his film was perfectly suited for this category.

‘It’d be ideal if Bae Youngho became an early investor, but even if he doesn’t, I’ve got a Plan B.’
Perhaps this thought brought him confidence. His tone remained calm and assured, delivering a well-structured presentation.

“So, Park Mujin agreed to invest?”

However, it seemed only one sentence truly registered in Bae Youngho’s ears.

Though many dismissed Park Mujin as an old relic, Youngho knew better. Mujin was still a sharp-toothed tiger. And now, this legendary figure might return to the field? Just from the words of this greenhorn producer?

It was hard to believe.

Through his ventures into the whiskey business, Bae Youngho had discovered his innate flair and intuition as a businessman. It wasn’t something he could easily articulate, but a gut feeling always told him when it was the right time to invest.

When his nose itched, his fingers trembled slightly, and a thrilling excitement buzzed in his chest—those were the signals.

And now, that moment had arrived.

Still… a final confirmation was necessary.

“So, if I put in 500 million won, and Park Mujin invests 1 billion, wouldn’t that work out?”

“Why bother? From my perspective, there’s no need to waste cards. If one person covers the whole amount, I can approach others with different investment opportunities.”

…As expected, no room for negotiation. Youngkwang was audaciously transparent, showing his cards openly.

“Hah. Fine then.”

Bae Youngho swallowed hard.

“I’ll just take the entire deal myself.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll invest the full 1.5 billion. But let’s add one more benefit.”

With a determined expression and sharp glint in his eyes, Bae Youngho made it clear he wouldn’t back down on this additional condition.

*****

Everything progressed smoothly.

The benefit Bae Youngho requested wasn’t something Youngkwang had anticipated, but in hindsight, it turned out to be a win-win scenario. It posed no disadvantage to My Way Pictures.

Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, and Jang Hyunmin—My Way Pictures’ team—readily agreed, and the contract was swiftly finalized. The investment was transferred the same day the paperwork was signed: half the total, 750 million won.

With this, preparations for pre-production rapidly began. Ha Pilsung’s team was assembled, sets were constructed, and equipment brought in.

“Location permits have been approved!”
“We can start on the 30th, right?”
“Yes, up to the eighth shooting schedule is confirmed.”

The 97th scene, unanimously deemed essential by Ha Pilsung, the actors, and the crew for the 20-minute edit, was the money shot of 300 Days After We Break Up—the scene demanding the highest investment.

In Scene 92, the male protagonist Minwook accepts his final goodbye with Yeonsu after confronting the truth about her. Resolving to let go of his obsession, he decides to completely vanish from the world they shared.

Without a clear destination, he buys a bus ticket to the farthest place from the terminal. Due to financial constraints, he settles for a ticket to Mokpo. But as the bus speeds down the highway, it gets caught in an accident with a drowsy truck driver and teeters precariously on the edge of a cliff.

A bus on the brink of falling.

Confronted with the boundary between life and death for the first time, Minwook realizes his strongest attachment isn’t love or anything else—it’s his own life.

To capture his psychological shift, they needed to film the accident itself, the passengers on the bus, and the moment the bus teetered. The question was whether to rely on CGI or practical effects for the key sequences.

Ha Pilsung was adamant about going practical for authenticity.

“For a scene where the bus overturns, the vehicle’s weight makes it hard for most pistons to generate the necessary effect.”

As the experts shook their heads, an experienced cinematographer calmly analyzed the situation.

“You’re saying the pistons have to hit the ground simultaneously when the explosives go off, right? Timing and angles will be critical.”

“Once it starts rolling, it’ll be nearly impossible to adjust the bus’s angle. Reshoots won’t be easy either.”

“In that case, let’s approach it this way. We worked on something similar for Director Kang’s movie. The details should still be around… Ah, here they are. Looking at the storyboard, you’ll understand why we designed it this way.”

“Oh, if we set the movement like this, it might be doable. But how will we manage rehearsals?”
“We’ll probably need several vehicles of the same model.”
“Then, for the buses, let’s go with used ones nearing retirement. How many should we look for?”
“Director, we should secure at least three or four. What do you think?”
“You’re suggesting splitting the shoot? That might be more efficient.”

Experts from cinematography, lighting, special effects, stunts, vehicles, directing, and production teams gathered, discussing for days how to shoot the scene.

As each department head shared their opinions, Ha Pilsung outlined the purpose and vision for the scene, leading to the creation of the storyboard.

“The construction site outside the road is too exposed; we’ll need a green screen for those shots.”
“Ugh. How much will that add to the budget?”
“The bus has to fall, right?”
“Absolutely. The accident is a turning point for Minwook’s life, so it has to be vivid until the very end.”
“Hmm, it won’t be possible to shoot on location. Judging by the angle, we might need a large water tank. We could lift the bus with a crane and drop it to capture the desired effect.”
“Where can we even build a tank that size?”
“We’ll also need the right water effects. When the bus falls, the splash has to be intense. We’ll need specialized equipment for that.”
“Can’t we achieve it with the actual weight of the bus?”
“It won’t look dramatic enough. Director Kim Kanghoon’s last movie used auto cannons for every car crash to generate splash effects.”

No matter how much preparation went into it, unforeseen variables and accidents were inevitable on set.

While Ha Pilsung was quick-witted and adept at solving problems on location, it was clear from his tense expression that he was out of his comfort zone with a shoot of this scale. Thankfully, the cinematographer filled that gap.

With extensive experience on big projects, the cinematographer tackled challenges like a fish in water or a warrior on a mighty steed. His solutions often turned seemingly impossible situations into workable plans.

“The storyboard’s been converted into a video format.”
“Share the concept with everyone and review the schedule to ensure we can execute without delays.”
“Got it.”

Since the scene demanded a significant budget, everyone worked carefully to avoid major mistakes or deviations. The budget adhered closely to Youngkwang’s original estimates, and any overruns on certain scenes were offset by scaling back effects or props in others.

“How about this style for Yeonsu’s outfit?”
“The hair and makeup samples are ready.”
“For the dawn scenes, how about using a garbage truck for lighting? I heard Director Choi Sanghoon did that during the poster shoot for Crimson Streets.”
“Ah, who’s handling the stills? Shouldn’t we assign someone specifically for behind-the-scenes footage as well?”

Although the set seemed chaotic, with staff multiplying and tasks progressing simultaneously, there was a method to the madness.

The art and production teams included staff Ha Pilsung had worked with before, ensuring smooth collaboration. Even the newly joined members quickly adapted, seeming to appreciate Ha Pilsung’s working style. This fostered a positive team atmosphere.

The start of filming—the crank-in—was drawing near.

The schedule began with lighter scenes, such as the first meeting and budding romance of the two protagonists. Following these were the emotionally charged Scene 65, showcasing the protagonists’ conflict, Scene 92, focusing on the male lead’s psychological transformation, and finally Scene 97, the most ambitious and meticulously crafted scene.

“Today is the first day of filming for 300 Days After We Break Up. Let’s stick to what we’ve prepared. Fighting!”

And so, a few days later, the historic crank-in began. Late autumn’s chilly winds swept through the set as Ha Pilsung’s trembling voice signaled the start of filming.

As expected for a first day, the set was riddled with hiccups.