Glory Film Company - Chapter 11

Episode 11: The Reward of Dawn

“PD Lee, can I have a word with you?”
A tense, explosive moment.

If he had spoken one more word in English, CEO Gu would have undoubtedly landed a brutal punch square on Youngkwang’s face.

Unable to contain his bubbling rage, CEO Gu barely held onto his last shred of composure when Lee Deokjae intervened. After all, it was the person at the center of the storm who needed to swallow their anger, wasn’t it?

“You should’ve trained the rookie better,” Gu muttered, even as he growled at the backs of Lee Deokjae and Youngkwang leaving the restaurant.

Youngkwang scoffed. It was like watching a frightened dog bark loudly to save face.

“What’s this about? A provisional injunction to ban screenings? Copyright issues, too?”

Once they were safely distanced from the restaurant, Lee Deokjae spun around abruptly and asked.

“Take a look.”

Youngkwang handed over his phone. The screen displayed an email that Richard had sent.

“…What is this?”

“A gift,” Youngkwang answered silently to himself.

Nineteen years ago, it had been prepared as a surprise, but it was only now, much later, that it was finally delivered. He hadn’t anticipated shocking Lee Deokjae to this extent.

“The scripts at the company weren’t great, so I looked into other screenplay markets. I even checked Hollywood, curious about whether there were any Korean works. Then I found your name. It seemed important, so I double-checked.”

He smoothly let the pre-constructed lie spill out.

Lee Deokjae stared blankly at the phone, as if struggling to discern whether this was a dream or reality.

“So, what you said earlier about it seeming familiar… was that it? PD Youngkwang—no, not you, the executive—registered the copyright under my name back then?”

Exhaling a hollow laugh, Lee Deokjae dropped his hand holding the phone and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, offering one to Youngkwang.

What’s with his cigarette choice?

Youngkwang winced as he took a puff from the slim cigarette Lee Deokjae lit for him. He grimaced. Lee Deokjae, who never even glanced at anything but Reds, was now smoking something that tasted like yogurt? Is this the toll of time? Or perhaps just a hormonal phase?

“There’s a lot to prepare if we’re going to take this to court… ha…”

Taking Youngkwang’s words at face value, Lee Deokjae exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, contemplating his next move.

Youngkwang coughed and interjected.

“No, we can’t go to court.”

“What?”

Lee Deokjae’s face questioned the absurdity of the statement. The evidence was clear, and the damage undeniable—why not?

“Uncovering the truth will take time, and they’ll manipulate the media in the meantime. You saw earlier how the director outright denied any overlap with the original work. They’ll stall, eventually proposing a small consolation payment to settle things. And it’s been 19 years. Statutes of limitations for fraud are short, so legally, there’s almost nothing we can do.”

“…Haa…”

Lee Deokjae’s hand trembled as he held the cigarette.

“Of course, we could explore indirect approaches. We could incite the American production company that licensed the original work to sue for massive damages. But even then, what does My Way Pictures gain?”

Restoring honor and exposing injustice were important, sure. But what tangible benefit would they achieve?

If the fight centered on the American production company and Gu’s Gray Film, My Way Pictures would just end up as a witness, relegated to a corner office, drowning their sorrows in midday drinks again.

Even if they sued separately, it would be difficult to quantify the damages for a script shelved for 19 years. And the truth? It wouldn’t pay the bills.

“Think practically. How can you achieve the maximum benefit? Approach this from a business perspective.”

Youngkwang flicked the long ash from his cigarette and spoke coldly. That should have been enough for Lee Deokjae to understand.

“…So, you’re saying we take a large settlement and avoid publicizing this?”

“It’s unfortunate for Director Lee Deokjae, but right now, shouldn’t you make decisions as Producer Lee Deokjae?”

If the company was no joke, and if Lee had learned anything from building it up, he’d know the right call.

Youngkwang stared intently at Lee Deokjae. The man deliberated for a moment, his expression dark, before nodding slowly.

“You’re right, PD Lee.”

“Then start negotiating immediately.”

There was no time to waste.

Right now, Gu and Yoon might be in shock, but give them a few days, and they’d regroup, scheming to strike again. They had to press their advantage and push for favorable terms before their opponents regrouped. The first punch wins the fight.

“The evidence is solid. They can’t completely back down, though they’ll certainly spout nonsense.”

Youngkwang calmly laid out the negotiation points.

At the negotiating table, it was almost certain that the sole representatives would be Lee Deokjae, Gu Bonjik, and Yoon Heesang.

Thanks to Youngkwang’s deliberate provocation, which had escalated tensions like a madman, Lee Deokjae had to capitalize on this momentum decisively and effectively.

“Thankfully, both sides have deviated significantly from your original screenplay for this film. Even if your name is removed from That Night, there’s still a chance it could be properly produced in Hollywood someday,” Youngkwang remarked, sprinkling just the right amount of fact-based reassurance and advice.

Tonight, instead of exposing Gu and Yoon’s fraudulent schemes, Lee Deokjae needed to end this by securing compensation through unofficial channels and undoing the flawed contract.

Even if That Night, which had heavily plagiarized Lee’s screenplay, was released, they couldn’t afford to challenge it. Maintaining ties with the Hollywood production company that held the original rights was crucial for My Way Pictures to seize new opportunities.

“Boiling emotions? That’s a luxury.”

My Way Pictures was in no position to afford even the bare minimum of operating expenses. They were barely scraping by, relying on petty subcontracting jobs or promotional videos to generate paltry income. Such earnings amounted to nothing more than crumbs. The compensation—whether it was settlement money or damages—had to be substantial. Knowing one’s limits and recognizing the situation were essential.

It wasn’t money that was dirty—it was people. And with that money, they could plan an even bigger revenge.

Youngkwang clenched his teeth.

Forget about That Night. His instincts told him the movie would barely break even, even with aggressive promotion. It was destined to be a forgettable film, one that wouldn’t leave a lasting impression. There was no great honor to be gained from it, and it would be forgotten within months.

There was another reason to stay calm despite the surging anger.

“The statute of limitations has already expired.”

With no legal recourse available, there was no need to resurface old grievances prematurely. This one incident involving Lee Deokjae’s contract wasn’t enough to reveal their hand.

Youngkwang planned to meticulously unearth every scheme Gu had been involved in, aiming for a proper reckoning. Revenge, they say, isn’t too late even after ten years. He would gather evidence step by step and strike at the perfect moment, taking down every piece—tail, body, and head—without missing a single detail.

As he mapped out his next steps in his mind, Youngkwang asked, “Shall we go in?”

Lee Deokjae, having resolved himself to the next step, looked at Youngkwang with a determined expression.

“Let’s go.”

Youngkwang smiled politely.

****

“It’s been deposited.”

Lee Deokjae smirked faintly as he checked his account balance.

“Wow, it’s real?”

Choi Suhyeon rushed to the monitor to confirm the payment. The promised compensation from Gu’s Stay Film and Yoon’s Gray Film had been deposited.

How much did they get?

Youngkwang was dying of curiosity.

That dawn meeting had seen the three representatives relocate to a separate room. The next afternoon, Lee Deokjae had returned to the office, nodding in satisfaction and announcing that they had reached an agreement. However, he had frustratingly glossed over the details, leaving everyone exasperated.

“Three hundred million won?”

Thankfully, Choi Suhyeon’s spoiler broke the suspense.

Youngkwang whipped his head toward Lee Deokjae, glaring.

This idiot. Three billion? That’s it?

“…Ha…”

By Youngkwang’s standards, the amount was laughably insufficient.

“Is this guy even trying? I knew he was cautious, but this is his best? Wow. Hah. Aha-ha-ha.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, followed by a deep sigh. It wasn’t even his money, yet he felt a deep sense of regret over how little had been secured.

If the Hollywood production company had been informed and taken the matter to court, the settlement could have ballooned to astronomical figures. Even by casually hinting at the potential damages, they could have easily extracted far more money.

“…No, there are upsides too,” Youngkwang consoled himself.

In today’s tightly regulated financial landscape, demanding more could have complicated the procedures. This might have delayed the payout.

And who could guarantee that other issues wouldn’t have surfaced in the meantime? Perhaps it was better to have resolved this quickly. Yes, let’s think of it as buying time.

“…Still, the amount feels a little disappointing.”

Youngkwang forced a smile and lifted a few books that had been shoved into a corner.

“Shall I dispose of these now?”

“Oh, yeah. Go ahead,” Lee Deokjae replied, nodding with clear eyes.

The fraudulent contract claiming Stay Film’s ownership of Lee Deokjae’s five scripts had been nullified. It was officially invalidated and destroyed. However, the compensation process remained discreet.

Neither Gu nor Yoon wanted to openly hand over settlement money, and Gu even proposed signing a contract that left no room for further disputes.

That much was within Youngkwang’s expectations. Using the polished responses Youngkwang had prepared for him, Lee Deokjae navigated the negotiations with ease. As a result…

• Love Forbidden by Heaven
• My First Love’s First Love
• In Need of a Reset

Good riddance.

Youngkwang tossed the worthless scripts from My Way Pictures’ catalog into the trash bin. These subpar screenplays, barely worth flipping through, were now the property of Gu and Yoon.

As part of the deal, My Way Pictures had signed a contract to transfer these projects in exchange for 300 million won in planning and development funds.

Two birds with one stone.

The sheer satisfaction was palpable. Youngkwang dusted his hands off with a faint smile, feeling triumphant for making such excellent use of these otherwise useless assets.

The rookie writers who were so thrilled that their projects had been picked up by a larger production company would likely learn some hard lessons under Gu and Yoon’s scrutiny. At the very least, they would understand just how miraculous it was to see even one film through to completion. Perhaps the film industry might even progress a bit as a result.

“Director, are you ready to get started properly now?”

Youngkwang asked, his voice tinged with hope, as he glanced at Lee Deokjae’s dreamy expression.

“…Huh?”

“You found a book that reflects your life’s theme, you’ve received the funds. It’s a good time to begin again.”

More than the money, the biggest win from this ordeal was the possibility of breaking Lee Deokjae’s long slump.

“Well, I’ll have to think about it… slowly.”

Lee Deokjae smiled shyly.

Slowly? After 19 years of doing nothing?

Youngkwang was momentarily at a loss for words, but he understood. This was a turning point, a moment that likely evoked a mix of emotions. When the time came, a few nudges would suffice to spur him into action.

“PD Lee.”

As Youngkwang stood deep in thought, Lee Deokjae gently called out to him.

From now on, everyone at My Way Pictures referred to Youngkwang as “PD.” Whether by coincidence or not, it was thanks to him discovering Lee’s screenplay in the market and verifying the copyright and contract details that the company had reached this pivotal turning point.

There was no reason not to acknowledge him.

“Yes?”

“This whole ordeal made me think a lot. PD Youngkwang, you’re incredibly capable, bold, and sharp. You have all the qualities a producer needs. You know, I debuted as a director at twenty-five. That’s a year younger than you are now.”

Lost in nostalgia, Lee Deokjae gazed at Youngkwang with a fond expression.

“We’re going to pour all 300 million won into planning and development. We’ll treat this as our last opportunity.”

Choi Suhyeon, nodding in agreement, added, “And we hope you’ll approach this with the same mindset as us, PD Lee. To make sure you feel equally invested, we’re planning some proper motivation.”

The two exchanged knowing smiles, exuding a parental warmth.

Motivation?

Youngkwang’s eyebrow twitched.

It seemed the two had reached some kind of touching agreement behind his back.