Glory Film Company

Episode 51: Alliances

When Youngkwang arrived in response to Yang Hyesoo’s urgent summons, he found her sitting with an unexpected companion.

“Oh, Writer Na, you’re here too?”

It was Na Sejeong, whom he had last seen at the year-end party. But something was wrong—Na looked utterly drained, barely acknowledging his greeting.

“What’s going on?” Youngkwang asked in a hushed tone, sensing the tense atmosphere.

Yang Hyesoo’s expression was bitter as she let out a frustrated sigh.

“Hey, Youngkwang, you’re close with Director Ahn Junseok, right?”

“Director Ahn? I wouldn’t say we’re super close, but we get along fine. Why?”

“Writer Na’s been kicked off his project team.”

“What?”

The news was shocking. Just two days ago, he had seen the two agree to meet for a synopsis discussion. Now, suddenly, she was out?

“What’s the reason?”

Youngkwang couldn’t help but suspect that Hong Ingi might have meddled after their previous encounter.

“All Ahn said was that she wasn’t the right fit. No clear explanation or anything.”

Apparently, it wasn’t even Hong Ingi who delivered the decision—it had come straight from Ahn Junseok.

“Did nothing stand out?”

“The only thing that happened was her showing him the synopsis.”

“What about the synopsis?”

Yang Hyesoo sighed and glanced at Na Sejeong.

“Writer Na, since this is going to be scrapped anyway, would it be okay to show it to Youngkwang for his opinion?”

Na Sejeong gave a faint nod, and Yang carefully pulled a clear file folder from her bag and handed it to Youngkwang.

“This is it.”

Her meticulousness was clear—despite asking for advice, she had chosen to bring a printed copy instead of risking misunderstandings by sending files via email or messenger.

Youngkwang skimmed through the synopsis.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said.

“Exactly! I even checked if the first letters of each line formed a hidden message or if reading it diagonally revealed a secret code, but there’s nothing!”

“…What kind of conspiracy theory nonsense is that?”

“That’s how desperate I was!”

In short, Yang Hyesoo was asking Youngkwang to directly ask Ahn Junseok about the real reason for Writer Na’s removal. She wanted clarity—was it some unknown issue with the writer, or had she somehow upset the director?

“I strongly recommended Writer Na. Her award-winning script at our competition was fantastic. Sure, the subject wasn’t easy to produce in the Korean market, and COVID didn’t help, but it was impressive enough that Director Ahn himself decided to give her a chance despite her being a rookie. Then this sudden turnaround—it’s driving me crazy trying to figure it out.”

A one-day flip? That wasn’t like Ahn Junseok.

From what Youngkwang knew, Ahn was methodical, always investing in the groundwork to maximize his chances of success. For someone so particular to abruptly cut a writer he had carefully chosen—it was too rushed, too out of character.

Youngkwang found himself equally curious.

“Sure, I’ll ask. I’m sorry things turned out this way, Writer Na,” he said, nodding to Hyesoo and offering some brief words of comfort to Sejeong.

“They said I don’t need to return the contract fee, but they also won’t use anything I’ve written so far. I just… don’t get it,” Na said, letting out a heavy sigh.

*****

Youngkwang called Ahn Junseok shortly after parting ways with Hyesoo and Sejeong and found himself visiting the director’s office for the first time.

“This is your first time here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You haven’t exactly invited people over yet.”

“True. Once the interior’s finished, I’ll throw a proper party,” Ahn said, looking cheerful—nothing like someone who had just let go of a writer the day before.

“I’ve got something I need to ask you,” Youngkwang said, getting straight to the point.

“What is it?”

“Writer Na Sejeong. She’s off your project now, right?”

“Ah.”

Ahn Junseok’s expression stiffened slightly.

“It just wasn’t going to work. It’s a long-term project.”

“Why not?”

“Well…” Ahn hesitated before speaking with a hint of frustration in his tone. “There’s a plagiarism issue.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t just one or two things. Nearly all the portfolio work I reviewed overlaps with other writers’ work.”

“…Seriously?”

This was entirely outside Youngkwang’s expectations. Before siding with anyone, he needed to piece together the full story.

“But she didn’t seem to have any idea why she was let go,” Youngkwang said.

“She said that?”

“Yeah. She didn’t seem to suspect anything.”

“…You’ve spoken to her?”

“I saw her earlier with Assistant Manager Yang. She didn’t know why she was dropped.”

“Hmm. Well, I never let on that I knew. So, she might not realize I’m aware, but she must know the truth herself. Don’t you think?”

Ahn Junseok had already decided that Na Sejeong was guilty of plagiarism.

Apparently, someone claiming to be the original author of the screenplay Na had submitted to the competition had contacted Ahn’s company. This person provided evidence and context to back their claims, delivered via the company’s main email.

“Is this credible?”

When Youngkwang suggested it might be a malicious accusation, Ahn frowned.

“There was a group chat for aspiring writers. Na was part of it, and apparently, she took someone else’s shared work, made some changes, and passed it off as her own. That’s the story.”

“But shouldn’t this be verified properly?”

Ahn fell silent for a moment before replying coldly.

“Why should I?”

His expression was icy.

“I’m not a forensic investigator. I don’t have the tools to determine whether the so-called evidence is real or fake. And even if it turns out she’s innocent, the fact that someone went to the lengths of accusing her maliciously is a headache in itself, don’t you think?”

“…I see your point,” Youngkwang conceded.

This was another clear insight into Ahn Junseok’s character. He was ambitious, focused on the global market, and unwilling to risk disruption to his franchise project.

He doesn’t want noise at such a critical stage. He’d rather cut ties quietly than allow the situation to escalate, even if it means sacrificing someone potentially innocent.

For Ahn, protecting his project was more important than uncovering the truth. Spending energy to determine whether the accusations were valid wasn’t worth it when he could simply find a new writer without controversy.

It made sense in its own way, though it was a pragmatic, not empathetic, decision.

“By the way, PD Youngkwang, do you know any good screenwriters?”

“What?”

“Among the people you’ve met or any promising rookies, I mean. I need to find someone new. This time, I’ll make sure to vet them thoroughly myself.”

“Hah. I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head.”

“Well, let me know if anyone comes to mind. I trust your judgment, Youngkwang.”

Ahn added that he’d prefer someone calm and easygoing this time. Apparently, beyond the plagiarism issue, there had been personality clashes between him and Na Sejeong as well.

With a polite nod to the somewhat awkwardly smiling Ahn Junseok, Youngkwang left and headed back to My Way Pictures.

*****

“That guy. How did he even think about coming back?”

Jang Hyunmin, Choi Suhyeon, and Lee Deokjae were deep in conversation about none other than Hong Ingi.

“It’s been over ten years since we last saw his face in this industry, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. That scandal back then was huge. It was an era when a lot of things could get swept under the rug, but even then, the rumors were massive.”

“Man, the moment Director Ahn said Hong Ingi’s name that day, I felt lightheaded. I thought, ‘No way, that Hong Ingi?’ And then the guy walked right in. Ugh, gave me chills.”

“When he walked in and hugged Ahn like they were childhood friends, I was so creeped out I got goosebumps.”

“Same. Watching him act so familiar with Ahn—it was nauseating.”

“So, yeah… this industry can be suffocatingly small,” said Lee Deokjae, letting out a sigh.

“Haha, but does Director Ahn Junseok even know what kind of person Hong Ingi really is?”

“If he doesn’t, don’t you go telling him. Jang, stay out of it. That guy holds grudges for life and pays them back a hundredfold. The best approach is to avoid him altogether.”

It was 2010 when Hong Ingi disappeared from the Chungmuro scene in disgrace.

Embezzlement? Fraud? Those were common enough to be overlooked. But Hong’s list of alleged crimes included stalking, grooming, bribery, prostitution, and other unspeakable offenses.

When a brave whistleblower came forward, his misdeeds surfaced and caused chaos that couldn’t be contained. Dozens of victims, including some well-known names, allegedly came forward. The perpetrators allegedly linked to the crimes were also prominent figures.

Yet, the truth behind the rumors and allegations was never verified. The case never progressed to an official investigation.

Instead, Hong reached a mutual settlement with the whistleblower, leading to the withdrawal of the accusations. The sensational scandal that had rocked Chungmuro fizzled out, unresolved.

“Misunderstandings, all of it. You know how relationships are. You can be madly in love, but once it ends, it’s all about tearing each other apart. Haha. Hong Ingi is a victim too,” said CEO Gu at the time, wrapping the case up as a mere lovers’ quarrel.

While many were disgusted by the blatant whitewashing, they took solace in the fact that a toxic figure had left the industry.

But now, like some kind of “return of the king,” Hong Ingi was back—this time, dazzling Chungmuro with his appointment as the lead producer for Director Ahn Junseok’s franchise film.

Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, and Jang Hyunmin, knowing the truth about Hong, wore bitter expressions.

“Will we have to deal with him again?”

“It’s not like we cross paths with Director Ahn that often.”

“But we’re still tied to Jeil Entertainment. Whether we like it or not, we’ll hear updates.”

Annoyed but reluctant to get involved, the trio fell into a resigned silence.

“Still, it’s curious,” said Lee Deokjae, breaking the pause with a thoughtful frown. As someone skilled at spotting inconsistencies, he had clearly sniffed out something odd about Hong’s return.

“What’s curious?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Hong and CEO Gu had a lot in common. One of those things was that neither could handle overseas business.”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hong couldn’t even speak basic English. It was to the point that people wondered how he managed to get into university. And now you’re telling me that guy went to Hollywood, became a producer, built a career, and returned to work on a franchise film? It doesn’t add up.”

“Sure, a lot can change in ten years, but that’s a stretch.”

“Exactly. Hollywood isn’t some easy playground.”

“That’s the thing. There are some people in this industry who are jerks but undeniably talented. But Hong isn’t one of those people. How could someone as incompetent as him build a career in Hollywood?”

“Maybe he bought his way in? That guy was loaded, wasn’t he? His father’s influence was the reason he even got into Chungmuro in the first place.”

“Even so, Hollywood’s a whole different ballgame. His money wouldn’t have been enough to make a dent there.”

“And above all, he hasn’t shared what movies he supposedly worked on. Do you think someone like him, who loves bragging, would suddenly become humble?”

“Still, when he joined Ahn’s company, wouldn’t they have checked his credentials? They’re not idiots. Ugh, I don’t know. It’s weird, but I just don’t get it.”

Jang Hyunmin shook his head in confusion, and Lee Deokjae let out a deep sigh.

“…It feels like I’m making assumptions, but you know, Hong Ingi was always great at laundering.”

“Laundering?”

“Money laundering, academic laundering. Not just for himself—he helped others do it too. CEO Gu was one of his prime beneficiaries.”

“So, the career he supposedly built in the U.S.…?”

“Could be entirely fabricated.”

A heavy silence followed this remark.

Twelve years after disappearing from the scene, Hong Ingi had resurfaced in Chungmuro. Though he had yet to directly harm anyone, Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, and Jang Hyunmin, knowing his true nature, could vividly imagine the dark future his reappearance could bring.