Glory Film Company - Chapter 10

Episode 10. False Accusation (3)

The night reminded Youngkwang of a scene from The Tale of Chunhyang.
The part where Lee Mongryong, disguised as a commoner, is given a meager seat at the birthday feast of the corrupt governor Byun. Despite his shabby attire, his noble status grants him a place, and after drinking a single cup of wine, he recites a poem denouncing the governor’s corruption. Then comes the triumphant reveal of his true identity as a secret royal inspector.

“Kreeek.”

The only difference here was that the corrupt officials—Gu Bonjik, Yoon Heesang, and their cronies—showed no interest in Chunhyang, or in this case, Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon.

But now that Youngkwang knew he had been framed, he was determined to play the role of Lee Mongryong to perfection.
And he planned to drop a bomb just as powerful as that secret inspector’s badge.

“One email is all it’ll take to clear up this mess.”

The thought made the soju taste even sweeter.

“Wow, Youngkwang, you drink well,” Choi Suhyeon said, pouring him another shot.

“You know, we were so shocked during your interview,” she continued.

“Exactly. Not just the name—you’ve got this similar attitude, confidence, and way of speaking…”

The conversation drifted back to Producer Lee Youngkwang’s accomplishments, the tragic fire that had claimed his life, and the chain of events that had followed, until it returned to the younger Youngkwang’s interview at My Way Pictures just a few days ago.

The three agreed that the young man sitting before them bore an uncanny resemblance to the Lee Youngkwang they missed.

“Did you see him roast Gu Bonjik earlier? I couldn’t help but think, ‘This guy’s no ordinary rookie.’ The resemblance is almost eerie.”

“For me, it was when he read the book and calculated the budget in seconds. He nailed it so perfectly, I got chills. For a moment, I wondered if the old PD had reincarnated. But then again, the age doesn’t add up. Ha-ha.”

Not reincarnation—just possession.

Youngkwang silently watched the three loosen up under the influence of alcohol, a trace of pity in his gaze.

“How can you laugh after being screwed over like this?”

Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin were probably too immersed in the creative side of things to handle contracts and administration effectively. Choi Suhyeon hadn’t been privy to the tasks that Youngkwang had taken care of alone. They had no chance against con artists who had set their sights on them.

From the disjointed snippets of conversation over the next hour, Youngkwang pieced together what had happened after his death.

Gu Bonjik had shown up with some thugs, claiming they had contributed to Youngkwang’s projects as co-investors and thus had rights. They demanded compensation for the losses they supposedly incurred due to Youngkwang’s death.

As part of the settlement, they took possession of Kwak’s next project, which had hit 10 million viewers, and secured an exclusive contract with Lee Deokjae.

It wasn’t like today, where accounting systems were robust. Back then, verbal agreements were common, and expense tracking was a mess. It wasn’t unusual for several investors to be involved in Youngkwang’s numerous projects, nor was it surprising that Gu’s money had been mixed in. In the film industry, yesterday’s enemy often became today’s ally.

With a series of crises piling up, what could 29-year-old Choi Suhyeon, then a seven-year PD, have done?

“She held out well enough.”

Looking at the deep circles under Suhyeon’s eyes, Youngkwang could read the toll the years had taken.

While it was heartbreaking, it was also commendable. He felt an urge to pat her shoulder in gratitude.

Despite the company’s dissolution, Suhyeon had spent three years tirelessly introducing Youngkwang’s directors and projects to others, ensuring they found opportunities. She also made sure that the copyrights and licenses secured by Youngkwang’s production house went to reputable studios that could make good films.

But perhaps the ordeal had been too much.
Afterward, Suhyeon switched careers, becoming a cinematographer and leaving production work entirely. Though it wasn’t intentional, Youngkwang’s sudden absence had played a major role in that decision.

Youngkwang vowed to make sure she received proper compensation once everything was set right.

“Anyway, there were so many questions but no way to get answers. Not just for me—directors and staff who were close to him used to gather almost every night to drink and rant. Eventually, though, we had to ask ourselves if we were going to keep wasting our lives or just let it go,” Lee Deokjae said, the alcohol loosening his tongue.

He hung his head, muttering to himself for a while, then suddenly lifted his face and blinked at Youngkwang.

“Youngkwang—no, PD Lee. You kept asking me if I’d written any other books, right?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t any. Not a single one.”

“…What?”

“All five of those books that Gu Bonjik took—they were my core themes. After that, I felt I had to either completely escape them or surpass them. You know what I mean, don’t you? Ha-ha.”

Was his spirit completely broken?
It would’ve been understandable.

At the time, Lee Deokjae had been on fire, completing five screenplays in a burst of inspiration, three of which he had envisioned as a series to be released within ten years. Even Youngkwang had high hopes for them.

“My instincts were right—this guy is a genius.”
Just closing those scripts had sent chills down his spine.

The young and brilliant Lee Deokjae had been nothing short of dazzling back then.

“But PD Lee,” Deokjae said, rubbing his nose absently. “About the movie we saw today—how did you know it was different from the original?”

“Pardon?”

“Back there, when you were arguing with Director Gu, you said they butchered the work without the original author’s consent. How could you tell what the original was like to say that?”

Sharp as ever.

Youngkwang glanced at his phone, swiping to check the time. It was already past midnight, approaching 1 a.m. He was expecting a message soon.

“I could read it from your expression… and it felt familiar somehow,” he said with a laugh.

“Familiar? From where?”

The sleepy-eyed Choi Suhyeon, who had been nodding off, suddenly snapped awake.

It was still a bit early to reveal anything.

While Youngkwang hesitated, an opportune distraction arrived.

“Did you enjoy your meal?”

Gray Film’s CEO Yoon Heesang approached, dragging debut director Lee Changyoon along to the My Way Pictures table.

“Oh, have a seat,” Deokjae said reluctantly, sliding over with a stiff expression.

Earlier at the screening, Yoon had acted as though he’d resolve the credit issue immediately. Yet two hours had passed with nothing but inaction. By now, Hyunmin’s friends had gone home, and most journalists had left to prepare for the next day.

Did they even intend to have this conversation? The resigned attitude of the two newcomers sitting across from them didn’t sit well with Youngkwang.

“Let’s start with a drink,” Yoon said, shedding his leather jacket to reveal a loud, fitted shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and back. He theatrically rotated his shoulders and stretched his neck, clearly aware of the attention he was drawing. The display was childish and ridiculous.

“That earlier issue? It was our mistake,” Yoon said with a hearty laugh.

“I scolded my PD. No matter how busy we are, how can you forget to credit the person who provided the ‘original idea’?”

The way he phrased it immediately felt off.

“Original idea?”

Film terminology is often used loosely, but “original idea” typically refers to a rudimentary concept, not a developed work.

“Original idea?” Deokjae echoed, clearly bothered by the term.

“Oh, our director here—Lee Changyoon—never even saw your screenplay,” Yoon said shamelessly, passing the baton to the younger man.

“I got a version that had already been heavily reworked by various people, and honestly, it was really difficult to make sense of. The structure was just too complex,” Changyoon said, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and whining. “So I had to change not just the themes but most of the content as well. You, of all people, would understand, wouldn’t you? It’s my debut, so I put everything into this project. I spent two years revising and rewriting it.”

He slurred slightly, suggesting he’d had more than a few drinks, which only made his tone sound more pitiful.

Was he hoping to earn sympathy by appealing to Deokjae’s generosity? Or was he just being a nuisance?

Youngkwang narrowed his eyes.

For a debut director, owning the “screenplay” title is a big deal—it’s a key measure of their capability. If this film succeeded, it would make it easier for Changyoon to land his next project. In the process of obsessing over the script, it was possible he had convinced himself it was his own creation rather than the work of someone else.

Such delusions weren’t uncommon in the industry.

But that didn’t mean it could be overlooked.

Youngkwang glanced at Deokjae across the table. The power to act lay with him.

“How curious,” Deokjae said, his face wearing a genuine look of intrigue.

“…What’s curious?”

“You claim you’ve never seen the original screenplay, yet you’re certain that most of its content was changed. How do you know that?”

Just as he had done with Youngkwang earlier, Lee Deokjae pointed out the inconsistency in Lee Changyoon’s statements.

It could be exhausting at times, but this tenacity and meticulous nature were the very qualities that allowed Deokjae to build such intricate worlds in his work.

The question seemed to snap Changyoon out of his drunken haze. He straightened his posture, trying to regain composure.

“I didn’t actually see the original…”

Liar.

Youngkwang stifled a smirk just as his phone vibrated on the table.

Drdrdrdr.

A notification popped up—the email he had been waiting for had arrived.

“As for your letter dated Jul. 28, 2022.”

The subject line from Richard caught Youngkwang’s eye. Despite being American, Richard was as quick and efficient as any Korean when it came to work. As soon as he got to the office at the LA agency, he had responded to Youngkwang’s request.

Would the records from 19 years ago still be intact?

Tuning out the chatter around the table, Youngkwang opened the email.

“…We have verified five works authored by Mr. Lee Deokjae. If you wish to reissue the copyright certificates, please choose between online or international mail to submit your application…”

It’s all intact and legitimate.

That was all he needed. A weapon no one could have anticipated was now in his hands.

Relief washed over him, and an odd laugh escaped his lips.

“Why are you laughing?”

The question came from none other than Gu Bonjik, who was now glaring at Youngkwang with a flushed face, clearly irritated.

“Director, would it be alright if I handled this situation?” Youngkwang asked, ignoring Gu and turning to Deokjae.

“…What?”

“I’m confident. I’ll stake my position as a PD on it.”

Deokjae hesitated but ultimately nodded, trusting that Youngkwang must have had a plan if he was willing to wager so much.

“Mr. Gu? And Mr. Yoon?”

Youngkwang addressed Gu Bonjik and Yoon Heesang in turn.

“Forget about the ‘original idea’ nonsense. Just remove Director Lee Deokjae’s name entirely from That Night.”

His bold demand hung in the air.

“What?”
“This kid—what did you just say?”

Though irritated by Youngkwang’s tone, neither Gu nor Yoon outright dismissed the demand. Their uneasy expressions didn’t escape Youngkwang’s notice.

So, Gu Bonjik, you schemed to invade my company, forge contracts, and steal my projects?
And you’ve been fattening your wallet with the likes of Yoon Heesang ever since.

A fiery anger flared in Youngkwang’s chest as he inhaled deeply.

“Our investigation found no evidence that Director Lee Deokjae ever transferred the copyrights to Mr. Gu Bonjik of Stay Film,” he declared.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gu growled, but before his expletives could form a coherent sentence, Youngkwang drove his point home.

“You claim you received the copyrights from Producer Lee Youngkwang. Unfortunately for you, Producer Lee didn’t hold the copyrights to begin with. They were registered under Director Lee Deokjae’s name. And, for your information, those works were part of contracts with other production companies, with advance payments already made.”

“…What?”
“…Excuse me??”

Everyone around the table was dumbfounded, their eyes wide with shock.

“Curious, aren’t you? How all of this happened?”

A smirk spread across Youngkwang’s face.

“My Way Pictures will be filing an injunction at dawn to halt the screening of That Night. You’ll get the rest of the story in court.”

“You—!”

Gu Bonjik’s temper exploded. He slammed the table and shot to his feet, unable to contain his rage.

“You little bastard!”

But Youngkwang only laughed, just as he had 19 years ago, his voice loud and unbothered.

“Oh, by the way, the evidence and witnesses will all require English communication. Mr. Gu, can you speak English?”