Pen and Paper Translations

“They’ve got loyalty. Shooting one ad doesn’t end it. Ever heard people call it a lifetime job in the ad world?”

“No….”

It’s the first he’d heard of it.

“You’ll find out, Rowoon. Why? Because you’re about to start working at that lifetime job!”

The manager let out that odd, satisfied groan again.

“For the past few years, they haven’t swapped in any new models. It’s a company that, once it picks you, sticks with you to the end. They’ve already got established, proven talent. Why take a risk and try someone new? And Taewoon is picky as hell.”

There were hordes of people who wanted a Taewoon commercial.

Once you landed one, it became a “trust-and-watch” seal of approval. Naturally.

“Why do you think celebrities turn down loan-shark ads no matter how much they pay? Which company, which product, which campaign approaches you—those things practically determine your tier.”

Assigning tiers to sort people is something you’d rather avoid.

But in market logic, in capitalism, people end up with a price tag in reality.

“And now our Rowoon is Taewoon. Heh. Heh-heh-heh. All those punks who called me pathetic—this is gonna kill them with envy. Serves them right. Heh. Heh-heh. Serves ’em.”

So much must have piled up that this usually gentle man was now chuckling with a shadowed face.

So it helps my image, bottom line.

Rowoon relaxed.

It was a far better outcome than being handed a company out of the blue.

After that—

“Rowoon, tell me I’m not dreaming. We’re really shooting a Taewoon ad, right?”

He kept answering “yes” whenever the manager asked.

“How’s that? Where did you say? Taewoon? Huh? Yes. Yes-yes! Got it. Yep!”

After taking a call from somewhere, the manager turned to Rowoon beaming.

“Rowoon! They set the shoot date!”

---

—“To pledge to repay a favor and then drag your feet, that’s for petty men! I’ll coordinate immediately and get everything to your manager.”

Just as Chairman Seo had said, the pace was astonishingly fast.

Normally, when an offer comes in, you review the proposal and the fee.

There can be several rounds of back-and-forth in that process, and the staff on both sides go through multiple layers of approval.

If all items line up after various adjustments and checks, great.

But if anything misaligns or agreement doesn’t come easily, the timeline can stretch out indefinitely.

And yet—

They’re roasting beans on lightning.

Not even three days from first meeting to shoot prep.

Fast, it was too fast.

Does that mean they matched every condition to our side? No, more than that, can an ad even be prepped this quickly?

He was no expert, but even Rowoon knew commercials don’t just appear with a snap.

Shooting them isn’t the whole story.

And concepts don’t spring up that easily either.

Which is why…

…I didn’t just take someone’s slot, did I?

A chill ran down his back.

If so, this isn’t repaying a favor, this is a blunder that adds to the original body’s karma score.

The chairman’s “repayment” would turn into the chairman’s revenge.

How bitter would the resentment be from someone who suddenly lost a Taewoon ad?

He couldn’t even imagine how much his score might spike.

While belated worries churned, he found himself—no getting out of it—arriving at the meeting spot.

It’ll be fine… right?

Carrying that sliver of worry, Rowoon carefully headed in.

Thanks to a few days of diligent upkeep, his face was clearer and fairer than usual, now stiff with nerves.

And then…

“…”

“…”

His gaze locked straight on.

A sharply sensitive, scowling man who looked thoroughly displeased.

---

The man, Lee Jinmyeong, was a creative director with a serious name in the field.

As the job title suggests, what he mainly did was handle advertising in every sense.

The difference from most art directors, though, was that he was already a branded force unto himself: “Lee Jinmyeong.”

Where other art directors watched the client’s face, clients watched his.

That was the biggest difference.

[Advertising at the level of art: “Lee Jin-myeong”]

[A media magician who knows how to deliver messages that cross boundaries and touch everyone: Lee Jin-myeong]

[That mesmerizing minute that seized you—who is Lee Jin-myeong?]

Praise like this overflowed.

And with reason: he had a solid stack of credible awards from major international art and ad festivals.

He’d been nominated for, and won, the awards people called the Oscars of advertising multiple times.

A comet of a newcomer who had first distinguished himself overseas naturally drew attention at home.

Of course:

—“An art junkie who forgets what advertising is and obsesses over his own ego.”

—“Doing art on someone else’s dime is so easy, right?”

—“This culture of blind praise because someone’s big abroad—time to change that, no?”

The slander was inevitable.

Whenever that happened, Lee Jinmyeong thought:

Who cares?

No matter how the fools barked, he didn’t lend it a single ear.

Look.

The results said everything, didn’t they?

In truth, he brimmed with pride in his work.

One minute—no, thirty seconds is enough.

His ads changed public perception and nudged the current of the world in a positive direction.

They revived forgotten values and helped people remember what’s precious.

A mere thirty seconds or so.

That was enough time to change a person’s mind.

And when minds change, the world can’t help but change.

A person who directs the world to change, why shouldn’t I be proud?

With a single ad of his, remote mountain villages in Africa got clean water, and children could receive an education.

He exposed environmental destruction and raised awareness, creating momentum for restoration.

He made the plight of oppressed minorities known, helping hands reach them.

And that’s not all.

[Magic Hands]

Even in the strictly commercial realm, those in the industry who knew him sometimes used that cringe-worthy epithet.

Thanks to the way he balanced commerce and art to blend them exquisitely.

People who worked with Lee Jinmyeong often experienced a rare magic: their market value doubled after the ad.

Some even lived off the image he’d crafted for them to this day.

At one point an unsourced rumor went around that you had to contact him three years in advance to work with him.

Not rumor. Fact.

He was in such demand, worldwide, that the calendar was beyond full.

The sole reason he kept working with Taewoon was simple.

—So you’re Lee Jinmyeong.

Back when he’d just begun to hold a camera, he’d already drawn envy with his overflowing talent.

But at that time he lacked self-assurance.

—Talent like yours is a dime a dozen in this game. Don’t get cocky.

He nearly fell for that nonsense gaslighting.

If the Taewoon-run contest he’d entered, shrunk into himself, hadn’t called him…

—Someone with your kind of talent is welcome here anytime.

Money had been tight, and the gear he used was hard-won.

Meeting Taewoon turned his life 180 degrees.

They were the only ones who recognized him when he was nobody, saw his potential, and even invested in him.

There were love calls from global giants, but the only schedule he’d clear was for Taewoon.

Places that recognize talent deserve to thrive.

Only then will a second and third “Lee Jinmyeong” appear to benefit the world.

So lately, he’d been pouring meticulous care into Taewoon’s branding.

Branding.

Simply put, giving an image to a company.

Think of the feelings that come to mind when you picture the company with the bitten apple—that’s the example.

Creative, innovative, hip. That’s the product of branding.

He aimed for something similar.

Amplify and concretize Taewoon’s image. Its unique sensibility and feel.

Build the company’s identity and imprint it on consumers.

That imprinted image becomes favor toward the company, and favor ultimately becomes sales.

It’s about time our country produced a company with global recognition on par with the apple.

He believed he could shape that company with his own hands.

Which is why, whenever he had a moment, he refined ideas, sketched, and built out stories.

Even in the thick of busyness, he’d finished the boards—including the storyboard—and secured Taewoon’s approval.

The problem is there was no suitable model.

The current Taewoon models were all excellent, yes.

But there was one downside: because they’d been with Taewoon so long, they lacked freshness.

I want someone fresh and crisp and instantly eye-catching… Preferably not overexposed to the public yet. But I also can’t have that rookie awkwardness.

It sounded like asking for a “hot iced Americano,” but so what?

In a big wide world, there had to be one person like that.

…Turns out, there wasn’t.

Because it was a treasured project, he and Taewoon had agreed to put it on hold.

Left incomplete, a single missing puzzle piece away.

A week ago, just after he’d returned from serving as a judge at an overseas biennale, he got word that the final piece had been found.

“…He saved someone, you say?”

It was a wildly out-of-left-field message.

Saved someone? How?

No short list. Just decided? Confirmed?

Question marks bobbed over his head.

The chairman isn’t the type to do that…

Seo Yangcheol was a man who trusted his own eye and respected others’ abilities.

Even while investing huge sums, he gave Lee Jinmyeong total freedom.

Unwavering trust and support. That was the chairman’s trademark.

And now, suddenly, he’d shoved a model in without so much as a heads-up?

Strange.

Especially since, from what he could gather, the person Seo recommended didn’t have the best rumors floating around.

Sure, the latest film seemed to have done decently…

But wasn’t it too soon for a hatchling to front Taewoon’s main?

I’ll just check for myself.

Jet-lagged and swamped, he still booked a meeting with Chairman Seo and went.

When they met, the chairman let out a big laugh and said:

“Lee Rowoon, that lad—he’s the real deal. I promise he won’t disappoint you.”