Chapter 7 Part 9: Fear Is Stronger Than Any Weapon

A tripe restaurant near the filming location.

 

After quickly downing about half a bottle of soju while sizzling tripe cooked on the grill, Yejun slowly lifted his head as his mind began to clear.

 

Sitting beside him was Assistant Director Jang Young-ho, and across from him were CEO Park Jung-woo and Wooju.

 

‘What happened again…?’

 

Now that his head was clearing, Yejun retraced what had happened earlier.

 

‘Right.’

 

‘Those two came to the set, and they asked to talk after the shoot.’

 

‘They said they’d wait at a café, but Assistant Director Jang told us to come to the tripe place instead.’

 

When Yejun met Jang Young-ho’s eyes, he saw a faint smile on the man’s face.

 

Yejun gave a small nod in gratitude.

 

Only then did Jang Young-ho start speaking lightly to the two of them.

 

“Alright, you three can talk now.”

“I still have cleanup to take care of, so I’ll head back.”

 

CEO Park asked in mild surprise,

“You’re leaving already?”

 

“Haha.”

“I only came along because I was hungry in the first place.”

“I planned to eat just a few bites and head back.”

“From the look of things, this is about a contract.”

“Not really something I should be listening in on.”

“I don’t want to sit here and be tactless.”

 

CEO Park smiled faintly and offered his hand.

 

“You’re a good man.”

 

“Not at all.”

“I’ll be going, then.”

 

Assistant Director Jang really was a good person.

 

“Thank you, Director.”

 

Jang Young-ho smiled back and turned to leave, but then paused.

 

He glanced at the two guests before looking back at Yejun.

 

“Yejun.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“If you’re going to sign, be honest about what you’re dealing with right now.”

“And ask for help.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“If you’re going to work together, that’s better.”

 

He was right.

 

Yejun couldn’t keep imposing on the assistant director forever.

 

If he had a manager and a standby vehicle, Jang Young-ho wouldn’t have to hustle him away every time the director called cut.

 

Yejun gave a slight nod.

 

Jang Young-ho waved and left.

 

CEO Park watched him go for a moment, then asked,

“What kind of problem are you dealing with?”

“…..”

 

Should he wait until after the contract was finalized to talk about it?

 

Or should he say it beforehand?

 

Yejun hesitated, then looked at the two of them.

 

CEO Park looked ready to help with anything.

 

Wooju was smiling brightly, as always.

 

‘They’ve already come looking for me twice.’

‘Lying feels wrong.’

 

Alright.

 

He’d say it.

 

It wasn’t like he’d committed a crime.

 

“I’ll be honest.”

“Other than Director Kim Minsu and Director Jang Young-ho, no one knows about this.”

“I’m telling you now so that you won’t be disappointed later if you find out I have a flaw after signing.”

 

At his serious tone, both of them adjusted how they were sitting.

 

“I have a problem with becoming overly immersed in my roles.”

“…..”
“…..”

 

Both of them tilted their heads in confusion.

 

Wooju, who had been silent, asked,

“That’s it?”

 

Ah.

 

It didn’t come across properly.

 

“To be precise, once I get immersed, I don’t come back to myself unless I drink.”

“Even now.”

 

Only then did CEO Park seem to understand, his brow furrowing.

 

“I see.”

“To what extent do you get immersed?”

 

“I barely manage to keep hold of my rationality.”

“But inside, the character keeps provoking me nonstop.”

“…Don’t tell me.”

 

CEO Park’s mouth fell open as he recalled the roles Yejun had played so far.

 

“Y-You don’t feel urges to kill, do you?”

“…..”

 

Silence.

 

No one here was unaware that silence meant yes.

 

Wooju wiped the smile from her face and asked,

“So have there ever been incidents?”

“Not murder, but violence?”

 

Yejun glanced briefly toward the door Jang Young-ho had just exited and shook his head.

 

“As you know, I was lucky enough to work with Director Jang on both films.”

“He protected me, like today.”

 

“Oh.”

“So that’s why he told us to come here.”

 

CEO Park asked,

“How much do you need to drink before you come back to yourself?”

 

“If I drink quickly, half a bottle.”

“If slowly, about one bottle.”

“In other words, I need to feel a bit drunk.”

 

“Hm.”

“So you do have a method that works immediately.”

 

Wooju nodded, then smiled.

 

“You’re like Chwihwaseon.”

[Chwihwaseon (醉畵仙): “The Drunken Master Painter,” referring to the Joseon painter Jang Seung-eop, who was said to paint best while drunk.]

That was oddly accurate.

 

Jang Seung-eop needed alcohol to paint.

 

I need alcohol to come back to my senses.

 

If I drank before acting like he did, though, it’d be a disaster.

 

I’d ruin the entire scene.

 

CEO Park asked again,

“Is that everything you wanted to tell us?”

 

What else could there be?

 

This alone was already a headache.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Very well.”

“I appreciate that you were honest about what you consider a flaw before signing.”

“Most people try to hide their weaknesses.”

“In that case, we’ll make a corresponding offer on our end.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He didn’t seem overly concerned about it.

 

With proper management, it was something that could be controlled.

 

The original contract had been for thirty million won, right?

 

CEO Park continued.

 

“First, the profit split will be fifty-fifty.”

 

Yejun’s eyes widened.

 

“Fifty-fifty?”

 

CEO Park smiled and nodded.

 

“You caught that right away.”

“You’ve been in the industry a long time.”

 

At Dialogue Entertainment, Yejun’s contracts had been 8:2.

 

With him getting the 2.

 

Unfair?

 

Not really.

 

Rookie actors cost money.

 

Promotion, hair, makeup, managers, greetings to PDs, directors, staff—everything costs money.

 

It’s hard for a rookie actor to earn even 100 million won a year.

 

Even if they somehow do, under a 5:5 split, the agency takes 50 million.

 

From that, they pay a year’s worth of salaries for everyone involved.

 

In the end, the agency’s actual profit often drops below 5%, or even becomes a loss.

 

And then there are taxes.

 

That’s why rookies usually start with 8:2 or 7:3 and gradually renegotiate.

 

Once an actor becomes a guaranteed hit, agencies won’t hesitate to go 9:1.

 

Why?

 

Because those actors bring in tens of billions of won annually.

 

He didn’t need to ask, but Wooju was probably on a 9:1 contract too.

 

There was no point even questioning this.

 

If senior Su-il were here, he’d probably ask why Yejun hadn’t signed already.

 

Still, even if he was unknown, Yejun had survived nine years in this industry.

 

He couldn’t look desperate.

 

He tried to remain calm, but he’d already shown surprise.

 

It was too late.

 

CEO Park smiled at Yejun’s poor attempt at composure.

 

“There are many types of contracts.”

“Per-project pay, annual salary, monthly salary.”

“I apologize, but we looked into your current situation before making this offer.”

 

That was expected.

 

Agency information networks were thorough.

 

“You’re working part-time at an amusement park right now, correct?”

 

“Yes.”

“Actually, it keeps conflicting with the drama schedule.”

“I was thinking of quitting and finding a night-shift convenience store job.”

 

“If we temporarily adjust the split to 6:4,”
“we can provide a monthly salary equivalent to what you earn from part-time work.”

 

Yejun’s eyes widened again.

 

‘Six-four is already amazing.’

‘And a salary on top of that?’

 

He ran the numbers in his head.

 

If that was true, he could quit part-time work entirely.

 

CEO Park added casually,

“You live alone, so you only need one job.”

“But married rookie actors often juggle three or four jobs.”

“That’s why we created this policy.”

 

Back at Daehwa Entertainment, Yejun had seen many actors sign contracts.

 

The terms were confidential, but in smoking rooms, you sometimes overheard things.

 

He’d listened carefully, just in case.

 

‘Good terms.’

‘No, the best terms.’

 

Let’s sign.

 

Senior Su-il had said CEO Park was a decent person.

 

Nothing like Song Minsu, who sucked his actors dry.

 

And Wooju was here too.

 

As long as she was around, this company would never fail.

 

He’d seen news articles about her earnings.

 

‘Over 80 billion won a year.’

‘Probably.’

 

A Hallyu star who held concerts all over Europe—of course.

 

As Yejun stared down at the table, lost in thought, Wooju lightly kicked CEO Park’s leg under it.

 

‘Say it now!’

 

CEO Park gave a subtle nod and spoke.

 

“Additionally, we’ve set your signing bonus at 100 million won.”

“…..?”

 

He hadn’t processed that correctly.

 

Was he hearing things?

 

Still staring at CEO Park’s face, Yejun dug at his ear and asked,

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

 

CEO Park smiled.

 

“The signing bonus is 100 million won.”

“If you sign, it’ll be deposited that same week.”

“…..”

 

His mouth watered.

 

He almost drooled.

 

The semi-basement studio he lived in Jongno cost 2 million won deposit and 250,000 won rent.

 

How much?

 

One hundred million?

 

Wooju leaned in, grinning.

 

“You’re signing, right, oppa?”

 

The “oppa” made him flinch, but that wasn’t the issue right now.

 

He’d just heard a number he’d never encountered in his life.

 

He didn’t want to sound provincial and ask, “Is that really true?”

 

Still, he wanted to hear it one more time.

 

Wooju laughed.

 

“No company can offer a 100 million won signing bonus at this point.”

 

One hundred million.

 

So he’d heard it right.

 

But what did “at this point” mean?

 

He pretended to think it over, not wanting to seem overeager.

 

In truth, his heart was already set.

 

After about two minutes of deliberation, Yejun nodded.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

“Yay!”

 

Wooju threw her hands up and high-fived CEO Park.

 

Why was she so happy just to sign one rookie actor?

 

Maybe she was just happy for him.

 

CEO Park asked cheerfully,

“What does your schedule look like tomorrow?”

 

“I still have part-time work until tomorrow.”

“My drama schedule is the day after, so I’m free after 3 p.m. tomorrow.”

 

“Perfect.”

“Then please come to SU E&M after work.”

“Our office is in Nonhyeon-dong, not far from your place.”

 

“I will.”

 

“We’ll have all the contracts ready by then.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Well then,”
“shall we have a proper late dinner?”

“Don’t worry, this one’s on me.”

 

Free food.

 

Nice.

 

They hadn’t even signed yet, and he was already buying dinner.

 

Wooju, apparently hungry, grabbed a piece of tripe and ate it, then met Yejun’s eyes and smiled.

 

Then she turned to CEO Park.

 

“Oh, by the way.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Change my car.”

 

“Why?”

“That one hasn’t even hit twenty thousand kilometers yet.”

 

“I have too many outfits when I go to music shows.”

“I need a bigger car.”

“My stylist has to squeeze into the back seat right now.”

 

“Really?”

“Alright, I’ll look into it.”

 

Wooju glanced at Yejun.

 

“Then let’s give my current car to Yejun.”

 

CEO Park looked at her quietly, then smiled and nodded.

 

“So that was your plan.”

 

“Hehe.”

 

Whatever they were talking about, Yejun’s mind had already drifted elsewhere.

 

‘Heh.’

 

‘One hundred million.’

 

‘One hundred million.’

 

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