Chapter 3 Part 7: The Home of Stars

The experience of filming a short movie was wonderful.
There were so many things he learned through firsthand experiences on set—things he’d never known before.

To be honest, until now, Yejun had never really known why they clapped the slate right before rolling on set.
He’d assumed it was simply to make editing easier for the director, but he learned that since film sound and video are worked on separately, the initial slate sound is used to synchronize audio and video.

After learning that even short film sets prepared simple gimbap once filming began, he started arriving without eating beforehand.

Through conversations over drinks, he also learned about how short film screenings worked.
The short film The Killer’s Diary would be screened at a Hongdae venue called Space—an independent and short film–exclusive theater with 186 seats.

Tickets cost 10,000 won for general audiences.
Students, seniors, people with disabilities, and national merit recipients paid 6,000 won.
Early-morning screenings were discounted to 6,000 won, and group tickets were 9,000 won.

At an average price of 8,000 won, a single sold-out screening would generate 1,488,000 won in revenue.

The screening period lasted two months, totaling sixty days, but since short film theaters only operated three days a week, there were only twenty-four screening days in total.
If all twenty-four days sold out, the total revenue would be 35,712,000 won.

The theater rental fee was one million won per two-hour slot.
That meant total rental costs alone reached 24 million won.
Subtracting that left an actual revenue of 11,712,000 won.

After deducting the production cost of eight million won, the final profit came out to 3,712,000 won.
Even with every screening sold out, the profit barely reached around 3.7 million won.

Of course, short film producers were sensitive about profits.
Even if they didn’t make money, they at least had to recover production costs to have the strength to make another film.

Director Jang Young-ho said his only hope was to break even.
But even that was incredibly difficult, and most short films ended up operating at a loss.

Film was an industry.
Some might say, “It’s only an eight-million-won movie—how much could you really lose?”
But to them, that eight million won was everything they had.

To them, that money wasn’t just paper bills with numbers on them.
It was the weight of their dreams.

***

“Cut! Oh—this is really good!”

Young-ho’s cut signal rang out.
The cinematographer raised his thumb approvingly and turned toward Young-ho.

“Director Jang, who’s that actor?”

“Actor Yejun?”

“No, the one playing the victim.”

“Oh, he’s a theater actor.
An unpaid actor who applied after seeing a filmmakers’ mutual-aid casting notice.”

“Really? His acting is insane.
That terrified expression was unreal—he looked like he was actually dying.”

“He specializes in horror theater.”

“Actor Yejun too, and him as well.
Even Minju, who’s still a student.
The actors in this film are no joke.
Why are they all so good?”

“Haha. We got lucky.”

As filming ended, the script supervisor rushed over and handed a towel to the actor who’d just been murdered in the Jonggak public parking lot restroom scene.
The actor’s face was smeared with fake blood props, soaked through.

“Here, actor-nim. A towel.”

“…..”

But something was wrong with the actor’s condition.

Even though filming was over, he was still thrashing, desperately trying to press himself further against the wall.
His face was pale, and he looked like he hadn’t escaped the role yet.

Sensing this immediately, the script supervisor grabbed his hand.

“It’s over. Snap out of it.”

“…..”

The actor continued staring at a single spot, his face frozen in terror.

When the script supervisor turned her head, she saw Yejun looking their way, holding a prop knife.
The actor playing the victim stared into Yejun’s eyes, his hands shaking violently as he screamed internally.

‘That’s insane—he’s a real killer!’

When they filmed the scene of entering the restroom, with Go Youngcheol washing his hands inside, it had been fine.

But the moment he looked into the mirror while washing his hands—
the moment he met Go Youngcheol’s eyes standing behind him—
everything began.

The instant he saw those empty eyes that reflected nothing, he knew this man would truly kill him.

‘That wasn’t acting!’

No actor could perform like that.
That expression was only possible for someone who’d actually killed.
Not an impulsive murder—but a true serial killer.

From that moment on, he heard nothing.
He just ran, desperate to survive.

‘What are you doing?! You’ll die too! Run!’

The woman bringing him a towel was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it.
His mind was in complete chaos.

Then, Go Youngcheol—the one staring at him with a bloodstained knife—looked away.
At the same time, the tension crushing his entire body snapped and vanished.

“Phoo—!”

Air burst out of his lungs.
His narrowed field of vision recovered instantly, and the sounds around him finally returned.

“Actor-nim? Are you okay? We got the O.K.!”

Huh?

What just passed by?

Right.
This was a filming set.
He’d been shooting a scene where he was brutally murdered by a killer who followed him into a restroom.

Still unable to take his eyes off Yejun—who was handing the prop knife back to the staff—the actor swallowed hard and muttered,

“Is… is it over?”

“Yes. The director is very satisfied.
Your acting was excellent.”

“…..”

That wasn’t acting, you idiot.
I was genuinely terrified.
Actually… did I kind of pee myself?

His throat bobbing, the actor pointed at Yejun and asked,

“Th-that person… who is he?”

The script supervisor smiled.

“Amazing actor, right?”

“…..”

“He’s Actor Ma Yejun, a theater actor from Daehakro.”

“Ma… Yejun?”

“Yes. He’s currently performing a play called The Mountain Lodge of Scars with the Daehakro troupe Ma.”

“…..”

The Scarred Mountain Lodge.
He’d heard of it.

No—he’d been hearing that name quite often lately.
There were many small theater productions in Daehakro, but word about truly good plays spread surprisingly fast among actors.

A play that sold out night after night despite being staged in an off-main-street theater naturally drew attention.

If it hadn’t conflicted with his own rehearsal schedule, he would’ve gone to see it at least once.
But the timing never worked, so he still hadn’t seen it.

‘I—I have to make time to see it.’
‘An actor like that won’t stay in Daehakro for long.’

***

A small subcontracted production company in Apgujeong-dong—Studio Jinhon.

This company had primarily produced genre dramas for cable TV.
Lately, keeping up with trends, it had been consistently pitching scripts to OTT platforms, hoping for opportunities.

In an industry so depressed that several production companies went under every day, Studio Jinhon was barely scraping by.

Even if a drama production company combined broadcast scheduling revenue, airing rights, advertising, and sponsorship income, losses were still possible unless IP rights were sold.

Typically, 60–70% of production costs were recovered through those channels, with the remaining 30–40% relying on IP sales.

After lunch, the production manager—picking his teeth with a toothpick—opened the small office door and asked the female employee working at her PC,

“Give me the margin numbers for the Mister King project we produced last time.”

“Yes, Manager. I’ll email them to you.”

Mister King was a drama Studio Jinhon had produced and delivered three years ago.
Looking at the spreadsheet she sent, the manager muttered,

“Production cost 32 billion won.
TV broadcast revenue 14.4 billion.
PPL, OST, and miscellaneous revenue 6.4 billion.
OTT IP rights 20.4 billion.
Domestic IPTV 1.632 billion…
What was the project margin again?”

The employee looked up.

“33.9%.”

Total production cost: 32 billion won.
Total revenue: 42.832 billion won.
Profit: 10.832 billion won.

Considering that typical drama production margins hovered around 20%, this drama had been a major success.

Even so, if they hadn’t secured the additional 20.4 billion won from OTT IP sales, it would’ve ended in the red.

Clicking his tongue, the manager flopped back in his chair.

“Damn… why doesn’t a drama like that just fall into our laps?”

Of course, it wouldn’t.
The era when multiple hit dramas came out every year was long gone.
Now, even a single hit per year was a blessing.

With countless production companies competing, there was no guarantee their company would produce the next hit.

Smacking his lips, the manager asked,

“What’s Director Kim planning to do?”

“He’s in pre-production, as far as I know.
There hasn’t been a separate report.”

“He said he’s submitting to BIFF, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh. There’s barely any profitable work as it is, and now a short film?
How much is the production cost this time?”

“Thirty million won.”

“Ha… that’s money down the drain.”

Despite his words, short film projects were important.

Especially for a production company, having a film submitted to international film festivals was a critical strategic point.

Even without winning awards, the fact that the company consistently produced short films for international festivals demonstrated that it viewed cinema as art.

That kind of reputation attracted good actors.

Large dramas and films weren’t produced often—especially now, when securing investors was so difficult.
So companies made short films instead.

With some luck, winning awards could lead to financial support from the ACF (Asian Cinema Fund), meetings with investors, IP sales, or one-on-one business meetings during market periods.

With so many benefits, mid-sized companies like theirs had no choice but to chase these opportunities.

“Man, big companies really have it easy.
They only go after profitable projects.
So what about the assistant director?
Didn’t he say he’d try to fill that role internally?”

The employee shook her head.

“No. Director Kim said there’s a junior from his university who’s currently directing a short film, and he plans to bring him in.”

“Another outsider?
I told him that all of that costs money—he never listens.”

“This industry values academic connections.
Apparently, they’re from the same school.”

“Tch. What’s his name?”

“Director Jang Young-ho.
This short film is his debut.”

“So he’s a complete rookie?”

“Yes.”

“Well, everyone starts somewhere.
So where’s Director Kim now?”

“He went to Jonggak to meet Director Jang.
They’re filming right now.”

“Tsk.”

“Manager, the CEO asked us to organize actor profiles by today.”

“Oh, right.”

The manager stared at the mountain of actor profiles left behind by visiting actors and sighed deeply.

“Man… when am I supposed to go through all of these?”

“What about the audition videos sent from acting academies?”

“What about them?
Don’t watch them.
Trash.”

“Yes, Manager.”

Some acting academies recruited students by lying that they would send audition videos to production companies.
They were sent—just never watched.
So technically, it wasn’t a complete lie.

As he flipped through profiles and grumbled, the manager’s voice echoed through the office.

“What is this person even thinking, printing a profile photo captured from SNS?
No sincerity at all.”

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