Glory Film Company - Chapter 9

Episode 9. False Accusation (2)

One by one, people began rising from their seats.
The theater buzzed with belated greetings and conversations, but an oppressive silence hung over the section where the My Way Pictures group sat.

“Am I the only one who didn’t see it?”
Jang Hyunmin whispered incredulously to the actors sitting nearby, careful to lower his voice out of consideration for Lee Deokjae.

They all shook their heads, their expressions a mix of disbelief.

“Who do we ask about this?” Youngkwang asked openly.
“Is this Director Gu’s fault for selling out? Or Gray Film’s oversight? I doubt the investors meddled in this.”

Not a single credit in the film’s creative roles—original work, story, screenplay, or adaptation—bore Lee Deokjae’s name.
In the film industry, even those who contributed the smallest amount of help during production usually had their names in the credits as a sign of gratitude. That Night had followed this tradition, listing even the extras cut in editing. But for the original author’s name to be omitted? This wasn’t mere negligence; it was deliberate.

“That over there is Yoon Heesang, Gray Film’s CEO,” Hyunmin said, smirking as he nodded toward a man in a leather jacket.

In this sweltering summer heat, who wears a leather jacket?

If physiognomy were scientific, that man looked like he’d betray anyone or anything for convenience.

“And next to him, that must be the director, right?” Youngkwang asked, narrowing his eyes.

Beside Yoon was a stocky man in thick-rimmed glasses, his face glowing with excitement as he greeted people.
Flushed cheeks, eyes brimming with unrestrained joy, and a smile so wide it seemed to split his face—all signs that he believed he’d achieved a successful debut.

The man appeared to be in his early forties, judging by his face.

Well, it’s his debut; he has every right to be thrilled. But this is the wrong way to start.

Gray Film’s Yoon Heesang and rookie director Lee Changyoon were names Youngkwang didn’t recognize.
Changyoon had been too young to overlap with Youngkwang’s active years in the industry, while Yoon Heesang was a latecomer, entering the scene in the mid-to-late 2010s when small production companies began springing up like mushrooms.

“Let’s go,” Deokjae said, already on his feet.

Youngkwang glanced up at him. He could understand wanting to escape the humiliation, but leaving like this wasn’t the answer.

Just as he debated whether to intervene—

“Well, if it isn’t Director Lee! Long time no see!”

A familiar voice, one greasier and more boisterous than Youngkwang remembered, called out, halting Deokjae in his tracks.

How delightful.

It was none other than Gu Bonjik, CEO of Stay Film.

“Oh, hello, Director Gu.”

“Wow! It’s been ages! Still running your studio?”

Gu thrust out his thick hand, grabbing Deokjae’s frail one and shaking it vigorously while letting out a hearty laugh.

Short, stocky, and unimpressive as ever, Gu hadn’t changed much over the years. The only thing new was his ostentatious display of wealth—clad in expensive clothes and reeking of strong perfume that was almost suffocating.

Youngkwang furrowed his brow slightly. The perfume was overpowering, but what really annoyed him was the thick gold necklace hanging around Gu’s short neck. What kind of taste is that?

“How’d you like the movie? Pretty good, huh? Got a nice vibe to it. It’s gonna sell well.”

Gu’s delivery was as terrible as ever—a performance too absurd not to appreciate.

Though his words sounded like he was giving credit to Deokjae as the original author, anyone could tell he was mocking him. The film had strayed so far from the original that Gu’s praise was nothing short of an insult.

“The total production budget was around 8 billion won, wasn’t it? That means the break-even point is somewhere between 2.2 and 2.4 million tickets, right?”

Youngkwang raised his voice, cutting through the conversation with a casual, almost playful tone.

Gu turned sharply, his face twisting into a scowl at the audacity of someone interrupting him. But when he saw that Youngkwang wasn’t even looking his way and kept speaking, Gu’s expression shifted to one of shock and confusion. Who the hell is this guy?

“Oh, senior, you didn’t hear anything about this?” Youngkwang feigned ignorance and turned toward Jang Hyunmin.

“Production budget? Yeah, I think I heard it was around 8 billion,” Hyunmin replied, leaning into his acting chops and delivering his lines smoothly.

“Why? Does something seem off to you?” he added, tossing in a perfect follow-up.

“Ah… a problem, you say.”

It was a situation where Youngkwang wanted to create a problem even if one didn’t exist. But there was no need for that—the film was already teetering on the edge of trouble as far as he was concerned.

“At best, this movie will last three days. With a push, maybe a week. But after that, the decline will be steep. It’ll barely scrape by the break-even point. Without strong backing, even hitting 1 million tickets would be a stretch.”

“Hey, PD Lee, lower your voice,” Choi Suhyeon said sternly, though it was clearly a calculated move to match the flow of the situation.

Look at this teamwork. Even Suhyeon, who had once told Youngkwang he’d have to prove himself on set before earning the title of PD, was now calling him “PD” in an effort to play along.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I got carried away,” Youngkwang replied, feigning humility.

“A PD? Must be new,” Gu Bonjik interjected, sliding into the conversation.

“Oh, he’s sharp,” Hyunmin chimed in, projecting his voice like he was on stage. “No matter the movie, he can figure out the production budget, audience numbers, and break-even point after one viewing. He’s got a great eye for projects. His intuition is just incredible.”

“So, is that how he judged this film as well?”

Gu couldn’t leave the scene with everyone’s attention focused on them, but he looked like he was about to snap, unwilling to tolerate any more insolence from a young upstart.

“All the producers, industry veterans, and experts are here, and you’re telling me this kid sees more than they do? You don’t come to someone’s celebration and dump sewage on it. That’s just rude,” Gu growled, his tone low and threatening—exactly what Youngkwang had been waiting for.

“Oh, I thought being rude was just an unspoken understanding around here?” Youngkwang replied with a sly smile.

“…What did you just say?”

“I mean, you butcher a piece of work without consulting the original author, and then you don’t even credit him in the film? Even if you’re tempted by a good project, theft is still theft. Director Lee Deokjae isn’t some clueless rookie writer. What kind of nonsense is this?”

“What?!”

“The real shame is, if you’re going to do that, at least make the movie well. But you smeared filth all over the original. Ugh, it’s maddening. Ah, but, of course, this isn’t something I should bring up with Director Gu. I’m just a newbie who doesn’t know any better. Ha-ha. Anyway, Gray Film is the production company, so we’ll hear soon enough whether this was intentional or just poor management.”

Youngkwang spoke in a calm, measured tone, his diction so precise that even those unfamiliar with the situation could follow every word. His voice drew people in like an actor’s performance.

“What? They left out the original author?”
“Wow. That’s Director Lee Deokjae, right?”
“And what’s this about theft?”

The screening had been attended by journalists, making this the perfect storm for a brewing controversy. If someone didn’t step in to contain it now, things would escalate out of control.

“Director!”

Panting and disheveled, a man in a leather jacket approached. It was Yoon Heesang, the CEO of Gray Film.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry for the late introduction!” Yoon said, his delicate voice at odds with his rough exterior. He gave Gu Bonjik a polite bow before turning to Lee Deokjae and clasping his arm lightly.

“Did you enjoy the movie?”

“Uh… yes. Hello,” Deokjae replied stiffly, his discomfort evident.

This is why he’s not cut out for this.

Youngkwang sighed quietly.

Deokjae, transitioning from director to producer, was still too introverted and awkward. He couldn’t hide his emotions, nor could he handle the social intricacies required to rally staff and actors, persuade investors, and sometimes tell white lies to get things done.

“As you know, there’s so much to deal with when releasing a film—distribution, marketing, especially with COVID disrupting everything. It’s been nonstop,” Yoon rattled off, his tone overly cheerful as he made eye contact with everyone in the group, from Gu to Choi Suhyeon, Jang Hyunmin, and even Youngkwang.

“Why don’t we move to a different venue? We’ve reserved a place nearby for the afterparty.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Deokjae finally agreed, perhaps deciding to confront the matter properly now that things had reached this point.

Youngkwang stepped back, choosing to observe for now.

The screening, which had begun at 8 p.m., had lasted about two hours. With all the conversations that followed, the clock now read 10:30 p.m. By the time the key players gathered at a nearby barbecue restaurant, it was nearly 11 p.m.

“Cheers!”
“Congratulations!”
“To That Night! Fighting!”

“Let’s make it big, That Night! A million viewers, That Night!”

The over-the-top toast brought faint chuckles as glasses clinked.
It seemed that aside from the My Way Pictures team, everyone here was firmly on Gray Film’s side. Their enthusiastic cheers reflected confidence in the production and its future success.

From a pragmatic perspective, Gray Film had a more polished filmography and better prospects for growth. Even if the situation was morally clear-cut, no one wanted to take a stand against the winning side.

Sizzle.

Youngkwang didn’t mind.
“After all, someone else will reveal the truth. The necessary steps have already been taken.”

For now, his focus was on the sizzling pork belly before him.

Having returned to 2022 and faced skyrocketing prices, this was the first time he had laid eyes on meat since coming back. Each table was loaded with a platter of pork cuts—belly, neck, shoulder, jowl, and rib meat—all of visibly high quality.

As the pork belly crackled and browned on the grill, Youngkwang swallowed hard multiple times, mesmerized by its golden sheen.

“Shouldn’t we have a drink too?” Choi Suhyeon suggested, taking the lead.

“I was wondering when we’d throw Youngkwang a proper welcome party. Let’s keep the drinks flowing tonight,” Jang Hyunmin added jokingly.

Lee Deokjae remained silent, downing a shot of soju with a faint smile.

“I’ve got a question,” Youngkwang said, munching on a piece of perfectly cooked pork belly before turning to Deokjae.

“Me? Ha-ha. Why does this feel so nerve-wracking?” Deokjae shrugged and laughed lightly, meeting Youngkwang’s gaze.

“What’s up?”

“That contract—was it really written by you, Director?”

It was a question that had nagged at Youngkwang since the start of this ordeal.

He had never handled Deokjae’s works in such a binding manner. His style was to win trust, not trap people. Though he had secretly prepared some documents, they weren’t toxic contracts but ones designed to propel Deokjae forward.

“Well…”

Deokjae poured himself another glass of soju and drank in silence before replying.

“I didn’t sign it myself, but there was a contract, and I did receive the advance payment specified in it. But… was it really the director? I don’t know. Suhyeon, what do you think? Hyunmin? Do you think the PD secretly drew up such a contract? Maybe even slipped me the money?”

Choi Suhyeon and Jang Hyunmin quietly sipped their soju, avoiding direct eye contact.

“In my memory, that money wasn’t an advance—it was an incentive paid upfront. That’s how the senior explained it at the time. But all those hidden contracts… I still don’t understand what they were about,” Suhyeon said, shaking her head, visibly confused.

“Wait, hidden contracts? Who created those?” Youngkwang demanded, his face flushing red.

“Hyung, noona, let’s stay rational here,” Hyunmin interjected, his tone unusually serious as he met Youngkwang’s fiery gaze.

“All we’ve got are claims from others. Even if all the evidence points in one direction, we never heard it directly from the director’s mouth. I can’t accept it as fact.”

Hyunmin continued, his voice steady yet somber.

“Back in the day, during the renaissance of Chungmuro in the ’90s and early 2000s, there was a legendary producer. A superstar of Chungmuro! This person was the one who took Korean cinema to the global stage. Funny thing is, they had the same name as you. Lee. Young. Kwang. We haven’t seen a producer of that caliber in 20 years.”

It wasn’t 20 years ago—it was 19.
And not just a star, but the undisputed top dog.

And what else? They produced the first Korean movie to hit 10 million viewers, took Lee Deokjae to Cannes, and had the clout to dominate the global stage. Investment deals were already in place.

“If you’re going to introduce me, at least get it right.”

Youngkwang frowned at Hyunmin’s theatrics but bit his lower lip to suppress a retort.

“But why do I have credit for things I didn’t even do?”

Hidden contracts? It was nonsense. If this was some elaborate prank, it was time to overturn the game.

It wouldn’t be hard.

The dead might be silent, but the returned Youngkwang had both a voice and evidence.

Now, it was time to find the culprit and clear his name.