[Right. I heard it with my own ears! He said, “You’ve got plenty of scripts—just hand one over.” Tell me that’s not pure madness!]
The tiny droplet fizzes, bubbles burbling as its anger rises.
“I figured he wouldn’t confess easily, but… wow. Brazen doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
[Know what’s even more outrageous? He begged me to keep quiet—said he’d lose his livelihood if the truth came out, so could we please pretend nothing happened!]
“He really said that?”
[Shocking, isn’t it? That such a lunatic walks the earth!]
Bubbles pop restlessly above Cheong-hwa’s head.
[A man like that ought to be smitten by heaven! Had my powers been whole, a single thunderbolt would’ve taken care of him!]
With that, the water-spirit whips straight toward Rowoon.
[You must stack up virtue, child—understand?]
Cheong-hwa suddenly burns with resolve: time to accept every quest going.
Rowoon feels the same.
[Current quest completion: 97 %]
First, finish this commission properly.
Just as the returning Cheong-hwa fumed over Cho Seung-wan’s shamelessness, the director himself still refused to surrender even with irrefutable evidence hanging over his head.
“Would’ve thought he’d give up by now…”
Rowoon clicked his tongue, skimming Cho’s latest spin-doctor article.
Cho never tires. He keeps planting puff pieces.
The one consolation:
“Relax. Won’t last. Word is everyone’s already cutting him off,” Kang Chaheon said, lips sleekly curved. “I hear damage suits are incoming. He’ll be too busy scrambling to beg the director.”
A welcome relief for Rowoon’s life-or-death quest, and for Director Kim on the verge of vindication.
Good news indeed, though—
“So…why are you here, Mr. Kang Chaheon?”
Rowoon honestly can’t tell why this man keeps showing up.
“Forgot? I’m the lead actor, too. Director called. We’re about to hit eight million.”
True. Way Back is stalking the 8-million mark (800 만 admissions). Not just scandal—real word-of-mouth. Kim’s sweat-and-blood masterpiece created a perfect virtuous cycle.
“They think the final tally will settle around eight hundred, so the director wants something special.”
Makes sense. Ten million is out of reach, nine looks far. The time’s passed and momentum will level at eight million.
Just then—
“Oh, Chaheon! Didn’t expect you. You must be busy. Still, thanks for coming.”
Director Kim returned from outside.
“…?”
Rowoon glanced at Chaheon who sipped his coffee like a commercial star and met Rowoon’s eyes with blatant nonchalance.
Yes. That kind of man.
Uninvited yet brazen. Chaheon replied, “Thought you were stuck, so I drafted a few ideas…”
Responsible as a lead, he actually pitched decent suggestions.
“ ‘Live-stream’—thirty-minute event? I like it.”
“Exactly. We’ve only posted short greetings; a thirty-minute live on the YouTube channel could boost subs, too.”
“Great. Even with extended stage-greetings, we never met everyone—we were always short.”
Actors now juggled schedules; the hotter the film, the busier the calls. Even Director Kim barely found time.
Funny. Seems I’m the only idle one, Rowoon thought, though that’s hardly today’s issue.
A notification flashed on his phone:
Hyung: “ROWOON—Cho Seung-wan’s press conference is starting right now!!!”
[To all who once trusted me, I offer deepest apologies… As a public figure I shall suspend every activity and enter self-reflection…]
On screen, Cho Seung-wan bowed, face grave.
Rowoon’s first reaction: What on earth is he saying?
Reporters feel the same; one asked a blunt question:
[So you deny stealing the work?]
[What I can say is: the laptop containing the script is my personal property.]
[Meaning you wrote the draft yourself?]
[The draft was written using that laptop.]
[Director Kim claims that laptop was originally his.]
[The purchase itself was made solely by me.]
[Laptop disclosure? You’d promised to release the contents—why the sudden change?]
[It’s an old model—currently in for repair.]
A chorus of disbelief rippled through the production office gathered around the big monitor.
“Total circus.”
“Sounds like, ‘I drank but didn’t drink.’ ”
“Not one straight answer—just word salad.”
Someone snorted. “Press conference, my foot. Why’s he holding one?”
Staff glanced at Director Kim.
“We did talk,” the director sighed, “but I never thought he’d pull this.”
Clearly Cho tried to strike first—pre-empt any evidence Kim might release.
The live tag counted down toward the finale—and, unsurprisingly, chaos erupted.
[Director Cho, vague replies aren’t answers!]
[I feel deep responsibility… therefore I shall retreat from the public eye…]
[So you’re announcing retirement—does that confirm theft?]
…He replied like an answering machine with less soul.
The moderator attempted order; reporters pressed harder:
[Laptop disclosure—why was it postponed? Did you write the first draft?]
Cho stuck to a looping apology, then bolted from the podium. Cameras scrambled; the feed showed pandemonium, baffled shouts—
[Director Cho? What is—]
Cut. Broadcast ended.
“…?”
“…?”
A press conference as abrupt as it began.
“Lucky it’s online—network TV would call that a broadcast accident.”
“Already is an accident.”
“Tsk. Looks like he tried every angle to squirm out—after this, he’s done.”
Anyone still on the fence? Gone.
If he were truly innocent, he’d produce every shred of proof. Instead, he ran, announcing retreat.
Feet that itch are bound to flee, Rowoon thought.
The petty finale of a thoroughly selfish man.
Leave a Reply