WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Potter
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ The Genius Writer Who Will Never Fall Again ◈
Chapter 3: Coming Back (2)
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The first scene went like this.
『Scene #001.
Abandoned construction site / Rainy night
Yeongho bleeds as he slumps against a pillar.
Baeksang stands opposite him, looking down at him.
Burly men in black suits stand in formation behind Baeksang.
The gangsters look down at Yeongho.』
It was a common setup.
But that was not a weakness in a drama. Familiar openings generally made for easy viewing.
What mattered was how it was put together.
Jae-kyung's answer was flawless.
『Baeksang: (lighting a cigarette) You know the difference between a dog and a wolf?
Yeongho: (glares at him in silence)
Baeksang: (smiles coldly) There's just one. You can tame a dog, but you can't tame a wolf.
Yeongho: (breathes heavily in silence)
Baeksang: (clicks his tongue) That's why you're dying. Because you're a wolf cub. I can't tame you, no matter what, so I'm putting you down.』
The opening line was excellent at setting the tone of the scene.
It raised a question through metaphor, making the viewer focus on what came next.
Immersion.
Seong-hun liked this particular way Jae-kyung drove a situation straight into the audience's mind.
To Seong-hun, the scene was no longer words on a script.
Though a rookie, Seong-hun was a director. That made it all the easier to vividly imagine it.
Before his eyes was an abandoned construction site in the rain.
Baeksang was speaking to Yeongho.
[“Why'd it come to this?”]
Seong-hun heard regret in those words.
[“Couldn't you have just lived as a dog? Did you have to live as a wolf?”]
The dialogue sparked understanding.
‘Yeongho is one of his men. Betrayal? But Baeksang regrets it, which means Yeongho must have been exceptional.’
As though confirming that thought, Yeongho answered.
[“Boss.”]
He smiled crookedly, but his resolve had not broken.
[“I know full well you killed our boys. How could I follow you after that? If I'm busy wiping your ass, who's going to pray for my boys' souls?”]
[“Their lives were worth three billion won. Three billion. Can't you do the math?”]
[“I don't know about that. I only know one thing. Our boys died unfairly.”]
Without another scene, everything became clear.
‘Ah. Baeksang sacrificed his men for profit. Yeongho, the leader of the group, rebelled against him, and that led to this.’
It fit together perfectly.
The characterization established by the metaphor of dogs and wolves was completed through that dialogue.
‘He's a wolf. The alpha wolf who protects his pack. A romantic gangster who values loyalty over money.’
By then, Seong-hun could roughly estimate the runtime.
‘Three minutes? Five?’
In such a short time, the protagonist had already been perfectly designed.
‘It's incredibly compressed. No matter how I look at it, it would work as a film too.’
In any case, the setup was in place. The question now was how it would be used.
[“What an idiot.”]
[“If I had brains, I would've gone to school instead of becoming a gangster.”]
[“That's why it's a shame. But what can I do?”]
Baeksang flicked his cigarette onto the floor.
Another bold transition followed.
[“Did you know? They say nomads up north raise wolf cubs, then snap their necks once they grow up.”]
Baeksang turned away.
[“You've worked hard. Rest easy.”]
Zoom out.
His men drew their knives in unison.
Yeongho was already so battered that he could not move even a finger, yet the men could not easily let their guard down.
It was nonverbal expression.
Their actions and the mood revealed just how formidable Yeongho had been to them.
It was the wet, solemn end of an underworld enforcer.
Even before death, Yeongho showed not the slightest fear. That too established the tone of his character.
[“Make it one clean stab. Don't make a mess of it.”]
[“...Yes, boss.”]
And so the wolf died.
He offered his throat to the teeth of the dogs who had once looked up to him.
There was only one thing to understand amid the densely compressed information of the scene.
What kind of person was the protagonist?
That, at least, had been made unmistakably clear.
Then the scene changed.
Seong-hun let out a hollow laugh.
“Joseon.”
“A time-slip story.”
“The reign of King Yeongjo. Is the title Sword Pact, One Lord?”
“You know what the Sword Brotherhood is, right?”
“Joseon gangsters. Not modern gangsters. Real bastards who robbed people after cutting them down.”
The title and the story so far made the concept obvious.
Its directness.
“A lord among the Sword Brotherhood. One lord within the Sword Brotherhood.”
In other words.
“A twenty-first-century gangster living as a Joseon-era gangster. But one fundamentally different from those men.”
“A romantic noir boss. It has to be the reign of King Yeongjo because the Sword Brotherhood's gang culture needs to be in its twilight for the story to shine.”
“So the protagonist operates like a modern corporate gangster?”
“Well, to start with.”
He understood everything.
Only the protagonist stood clearly within the rough sketch of the story.
Seong-hun asked without thinking.
“What happens next?”
Jae-kyung grinned.
“You know it's over the moment that question comes out, right?”
That teasing answer was the trigger.
Seong-hun burst into loud laughter.
“Ha ha ha!”
It was true.
The heart of a drama was making viewers carry the question, “What happens next?” in their hearts.
A writer's ability lay in making the viewer instinctively anticipate what came next.
That was why Seong-hun saw potential.
To some people, this script might not feel special.
But let him state one obvious truth.
Specialness was not that important in a drama.
This was a commercial drama.
Before artistic quality or merit, commercial entertainment existed for the enjoyment of the overwhelming majority.
And what was most important in the phrase “the enjoyment of the overwhelming majority”?
He could say it firmly.
“Enjoyment” did not come first.
“The overwhelming majority” did.
Only when the majority wanted it did enjoyment gain monetary value. That was commerce.
Jae-kyung's script was faithful to that value.
Seong-hun acknowledged it.
“You chose the genre well.”
“Historical dramas are a traditional powerhouse.”
“A genre watched by ten-year-old kids and seventy-year-old grandfathers. It has the fewest inherent likes and dislikes.”
“Noir is the same.”
“Right. The moment you combine the two, you secure absolute mass appeal. There's easy-to-understand catharsis too. But there haven't been many attempts to combine those two genres. At least not in Korea.”
“You just have to make it familiar.”
“Exactly. That's what you were aiming for, right? Blending the unfamiliar Sword Brotherhood with noir, compressing the audience's understanding of the era that way.”
“You saw it right.”
Seong-hun was newly impressed by Jae-kyung.
It was not merely that the content was good.
Though Jae-kyung did not have much experience yet, Seong-hun could see things as a director.
There were clear signs that the placement of scenes had been carefully planned for visual adaptation, that thought had gone into how much budget each scene would require and how it should be built.
The concept of production costs was beautifully embedded in the writing.
‘They're unbelievably smart. They haven't even entered the commercial field yet, but they instinctively understand that.’
What word but talent could describe that?
Of course, the actual result mattered most.
But this was Han Jae-kyung.
‘There's no way they can't do it. Not Han Jae-kyung.’
How could he not be fond of them?
If he had to choose someone as a running mate for his dream, someone to make the greatest work with one day, not a single person came to Seong-hun's mind who could surpass Jae-kyung.
Even now, it was clear.
At a glance, they looked drenched in exhaustion.
Yet Jae-kyung looked more alive than ever.
Like firewood blazing fiercely and sending flames high into the sky.
They even looked like a star, their resolve unmistakably clear: even if they had to burn everything they had, they would see their creation properly made.
By then, Seong-hun's anger had completely vanished.
All that remained was boundless delight.
Grab!
Seong-hun seized Jae-kyung's arm.
Beaming, he said,
“Okay, I get it. I get it.”
How could he not?
“How can you sign another project when you've got this in your head? You have to do this one!”
“...Mm. Sure. Let's go with that.”
The answer was unenthusiastic, but Seong-hun did not care.
Of course, The People of Star Cluster Island had also been a shocking drama.
It differed from anything Seong-hun had seen before, yet it still contained the grammar of entertaining drama.
But it could not overcome this overwhelming mass appeal.
This was the victory of genre.
His body burned.
He was not even going to participate in the project directly, but the thought that he was the first person to recognize the writer of this work filled him with excitement.
Certainty that his choice had not been wrong.
And the public acclaim that would pour in when this work was released.
“Let's take this to Director Jo! Manners or no manners, the second he sees this, he'll practically fall prostrate and beg to do it!”
Right. What was an apology compared to this?
No, he still had to apologize, but if they added this early script, the treatment, and a little of the synopsis, Director Jo would have no choice.
Unless he had knots for eyes, he would recognize it.
‘He'll know this is the high point of his career and cling to it.’
Just as Seong-hun's eyes sparkled and he tried to drag Jae-kyung outside,
Brush!
“?”
Jae-kyung shook him off.
“What are you talking about? Why would I work with that guy?”
“?”
Seong-hun was at a loss for words.
* * *
That night, Seong-hun drank heavily.
‘Why?’
Jae-kyung had offered what passed for an explanation.
He could accept half of it. The other half made no sense.
- First, Director Jo is good at romantic comedies. He does thrillers fairly well too. But noir? Historical dramas? Does he even have either on his resume? Hell, even when he did thrillers, didn't people say his action scenes sucked?
- And do you think he'd gladly take on the work of someone who already bailed on him once? You know how directors treat rookie writers. Especially directors with egos like Director Jo. He'll try to force in his own directing ambitions somehow and ruin the composition. It's an error. An error.
Seong-hun understood.
No matter what anyone said, Jae-kyung was still a rookie writer. But apart from that, they were exceptionally skilled and had a strong ego.
They would not stand by and watch someone casually ruin their work.
‘I understand that, but...!’
What the hell were those last two reasons?
- His face gives me the creeps. He looks like a poisonous toad with an STD. I don't want to shake his hand. Feels like I'll catch something.
- I'll bet my hand that guy gets caught in a scandal within a few years. You're trying to force me to work with him? Go ahead. Then I'll quit writing.
Physiognomy? Bad energy?
Had they received a shamanic calling or something?
‘If they had, they would've gone into the mountains.’
In the end, the plan remained unclear.
Regardless of whether the reasoning made sense, it was sad that, considering Jae-kyung's social skills, those really did sound like plausible reasons.
Common sense said that someone who had committed an offense should apologize.
An offense in business required compensation sufficient to make it disappear.
Whatever the case, Director Jo was a director with a respectable career.
It would be easy for him to ruin the industry image of Jae-kyung, a rookie writer with nothing to their name.
‘Why are they so carefree about this...?’
Taking such a serious concern over something that had little to do with him was one of Seong-hun's strengths.
That it brought him worries was another matter.
‘What the hell is Jae-kyung thinking?’
No, perhaps they were not thinking at all.
Right!
They thought of nothing but writing!
Even among writers, a group with below-average social skills to begin with, they occupied the very bottom!
Grinding his teeth, he poured down more alcohol.
He decided to go home once his vision became unsteady.
Late at night, in a dark house.
Still unable to put down the script he had kept in his arms, Seong-hun fell asleep on the living-room sofa.
Then morning came.
“Ugh...”
He woke with pain as though his head were splitting apart.
But the sight before him was strange.
“...Father?”
His father was there.
And he was seriously reading Jae-kyung's script, the one Seong-hun had brought home the day before.
Seong-hun hurriedly rose from the sofa.
Only then did he realize that, in his drunken state, he had come all the way to his family home instead of his own place and passed out. His face went pale.
‘Ah...!’
A twenty-eight-year-old son who had gulped down alcohol, become a complete mess, and crawled home.
If Seong-hun were a parent, he would not look kindly on that either...
“Seong-hun.”
“Yes, Father!”
“Is this that kid's script? Jae-kyung, the one you mention every time you open your mouth.”
“Pardon?”
“It is, right?”
“Yes... it is.”
“I see.”
Seong-hun swallowed dryly.
The authority this man possessed when it came to scripts created that tension.
His name was Park Tae-jin.
At home, he was the father Seong-hun had seen all his life. Outside, however, he was different.
“Hmm...”
A bureau chief at WBS, one of the three terrestrial broadcast networks.
He had started as an ordinary employee and clawed his way up to bureau chief through results alone, becoming a legend in the industry.
And such a man was reading Jae-kyung's script again and again, completely absorbed.
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