"Good morning. I'm Cho Mi-young, CEO of Square Film."
Seoul City Hall, a mid-sized conference room.
On one side sat the staff of Square Film, the company contracted to produce a promotional web drama.
On the other, several civil servants from the City's Public Relations Department.
This meeting was meant to finalize everything before production began.
"Let's just keep this casual, shall we? I looked over your proposal—it looked fine to me. Can't we just go with that?"
The department head flipped through the report carelessly, clearly bored.
No wonder—he'd outsourced the entire project to them so he wouldn't have to think about it, yet they kept calling him back in for meetings.
"There are a few details we'd like to adjust."
To Square Film, however, this wasn't just any client—it was the government.
One of the biggest contracts they'd ever landed. They couldn't afford to be sloppy.
"Details, huh? What kind?"
Cho Mi-young brought up the draft title on the screen:
"Hanbam Pocha."
A small street bar that opened each night in a quiet alley—that was the setting.
The story revolved around the owner, an ordinary person, and the people who stopped by seeking warmth and comfort.
"Have you had a chance to check the PPL (product placement) list?"
In this project, the food featured on-screen was crucial.
The so-called 'K-food'—the city's chosen target for promotion.
Korean dishes, snacks, and trendy items popular on "MeTube" would all make appearances.
"Oh yeah, there were a lot. Let's see—Dakbul Spicy Ramen, Bibyeo Dumplings, Ottogi Curry, Mirak Rice Punch… what else? Those big ones, right?"
The manager nodded to his aide, who pulled up the spreadsheet: over nine product names in total.
"If we include the Korean dishes requested by the city, that brings us to twelve food items—excluding drinks and snacks."
"So?"
"As you know, the base contract is for seven episodes."
If the show performed well—measured by view counts—they'd extend it to ten. That was the deal.
The manager frowned, still not seeing the issue.
"That's too many food types for the runtime."
"Then just put two per episode."
Crack.
The staff standing behind the CEO could hear her teeth grinding.
But the officials remained utterly indifferent.
"The sponsors won't agree to that. Each brand wants exclusive screen time. And since the runtime is capped at 15 to 20 minutes per episode, cramming too much in will ruin the pacing."
"Hah! You people sure are picky!"
The manager barked a laugh, and the air in the room froze.
He quickly waved his hands in mock apology.
"Not you, ma'am! I meant the companies, not you. Don't take it the wrong way."
Cho Mi-young smiled sweetly.
Client and contractor. Power and dependence.
She repeated the words silently to keep from snapping.
"So you're saying the number of dishes doesn't fit the episode count. That's the issue, right?"
"Yes. So if possible, we'd like to omit the traditional Korean dishes the city requested—"
"No way! That's the main thing! We're promoting bibimbap, bulgogi, and… what was the other one?"
His aide jumped in. "Cup-bap, sir."
"Right! Cup-bap! That's the whole reason we're doing this!"
He waved his hands as if she'd suggested something outrageous. The other officials nodded in agreement.
Of course, Mi-young had seen this coming.
"Then how about reducing the PPL count instead?"
"Who's paying for your set builds? You can't just waste taxpayer money! What if the views flop? You expect us to fund that risk?"
To them, sponsorship meant free money.
If there were production issues, that was the studio's problem.
"We'll find a suitable alley and minimize costs through location shooting."
"Now, now, Ms. Cho. Don't sound like an amateur."
He chuckled, gesturing toward her as if she were naïve.
Ten years in the industry, and he was calling her an amateur.
Her smile deepened—but so did the tension around her jaw.
"You said each episode takes about three days to shoot, right? Seven episodes, that's twenty-one days. You're really going to light up an alley every night for three weeks straight? The residents will love that. These aren't apartment blocks—they're multi-family houses. You'll get complaints before you finish the first week."
Annoying as he was, he wasn't entirely wrong.
Even if the city didn't mind, local complaints could shut down filming entirely.
He scratched his chin, pretending to think, then spoke magnanimously.
"Alright then. Twelve food items, right?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Fine. Let's expand the contract. Keep the same terms, but make it ten—no, twelve episodes. That should solve your problem, yeah?"
You've got to be kidding me.
Mi-young's smile stayed bright, but inside her head, she was screaming every curse she knew.
"Of course, if you can't manage that, I'm sure you'll figure something out. You folks at Square Film are good, right? I've seen your stuff on MeTube—pretty popular lately, huh? Ha ha ha!"
The other officials joined in with forced laughter.
In short: Do whatever it takes.
Make the sponsors happy, make the city happy—and take the fall for everything else.
"Ah, look at the time."
"Shall we go grab lunch?"
"Ms. Cho, you haven't eaten yet, have you? Care to join us?"
They were already half out the door, unwilling to waste even a minute of their break.
"No, thank you. We still have things to wrap up."
"Suit yourself! Anyway, let's all do a great job, yeah? Make it spectacular! Ha-ha!"
With the manager leading the way, the city staff left in a noisy group.
Silence settled over the room.
The CEO braced herself against the table and lowered her head.
"Unbelievable…"
Her team leader rushed in, checking the hallway to make sure it was clear.
"Those pathetic pieces of—!"
"Keep your voice down. We're still inside City Hall."
"Steel rice bowls, my ass! Their heads are rice bowls!"
Cho Mi-young dropped into a chair, seething.
Her head throbbed. Sure, the customer's always right—but there were limits.
"This is a poisoned chalice."
The team leader sighed, rubbing his temples.
Square Film had only just begun to establish its name.
Landing a project with a client as big as Seoul City was supposed to be a milestone—
a badge of legitimacy.
Instead, it had turned into a minefield.
"Now what do we do?"
At the staffer's question, the team leader stacked the paperwork neatly.
"What else? We start begging the sponsors tomorrow."
"So… two products per episode?"
"If we can manage that. But honestly, it's easier to assume there won't be an extension. Keeps the expectations realistic, right, ma'am?"
If they planned for ten episodes and only got to shoot seven, the entire schedule would implode.
It was safer to finish everything within the base contract.
"…How far along is the script?"
"The synopsis is done. But if we add more food items, the plot and direction will have to change accordingly."
The team leader rubbed his chin.
"Up to episode two."
"Walk me through the synopsis."
"Oh, right. Uh, give me a sec."
He moved over to sit beside the CEO. The others followed quietly, realizing lunch was officially a lost cause.
"Episode 1. The protagonist, who'd been living away from home, hears of his father's passing. All that's left behind is a small food cart—and a note: 'Son, I hope you'll keep the cart going. There are people who'll be sad if it disappears.' Reluctantly, the son starts running the stall."
"Skip the fluff. Who's the customer?"
"For episode 1, we chose a retired father figure."
Each episode had its own guest character—different walks of life, different burdens.
Mi-young closed her eyes for a few seconds, thinking, then said calmly:
"Change it."
"Sorry? Change to what?"
"Who's the main viewer demographic for web dramas—especially on MeTube?"
"Young people, mostly. Students, especially."
"Then we start there. Make episode one about a student instead of a middle-aged man. Didn't we have a high schooler episode?"
"Yes, the third one. The entrance exam story."
Perfect.
A lost, exhausted senior—barely eighteen, crushed by the system, with no time to dream.
Nothing would hit young viewers harder than seeing themselves reflected on screen.
"Move that to the front. Keep the existing draft for later, but this one goes first. And—"
The CEO tapped her fingers on the table.
They needed a hook.
If they didn't grab attention fast, there'd be no chance for an extension. Seven episodes to prove themselves meant the first one had to explode.
"Make sure we cast someone with presence."
"Any specific direction?"
"Someone who has both—looks and talent."
"Uh… not to rain on your parade, ma'am, but if it's a high school role, they'll all be around the same age. Kids with both looks and skills are already under big agencies. And this is, well… a twenty-minute promotional web drama."
He didn't need to say the rest. Those kids wouldn't touch a city-funded one-off with a ten-foot pole.
"If we're being realistic, I'd suggest prioritizing acting. A little weak performance, and Enbin will already be a handful."
Enbin—the idol-turned-actor cast as the male lead, the "Hanbam Pocha" owner.
Gorgeous face, unfortunately paired with a brick-like performance.
"No. Keep looking. They're still accepting first-round submissions."
"Oh, we'll look, sure—but if there's no one suitable, I'm the one getting torn apart first!"
Mi-young waved her hand dismissively, eyes sharp with conviction.
"There will be someone. I'm sure of it."
Someone who could grab the project by the throat and carry it through this mess.
A dark horse—an unknown with real fire.
"Muyeong, straighten your back."
"Like this?"
"Yeah, better. Don't slouch on camera."
Yuchan adjusted the focus on the DSLR, stepping back a little. Muyeong blinked at the lens awkwardly, then gave a small laugh and cleared his throat.
"This feels weird. Usually, first-round auditions are just paperwork."
"Acting's different. You gotta show it. Now turn your body a little. Left side—that's your better angle."
Yuchan had a knack for the camera because he knew his own face.
He understood how to present himself, how to emphasize what worked.
"Like this?"
"Perfect. Let's start like that."
"Alright. Give me a 'ready.'"
"Ready—action!"
The red light blinked on.
Muyeong gave a polite bow and began his introduction.
"Hello, my name is Ha Muyeong. I graduated high school this year, and I'm about to start university."
He had no idea what kind of project this was.
The casting notice had been vague—no gender preference, no specific traits, no clear role. Even Director Oh Seok had been confused.
"Since I haven't been acting long, I don't have any previous credits. But—"
He paused, glanced at the paper taped next to the camera, and continued.
"As for my personal concerns… well, they're still pretty recent. In my senior year, I didn't know what to do or who to become. All I ever did was study. But then, I stumbled into acting—and now, it's become my dream."
Muyeong smiled faintly.
Yuchan, watching from behind the viewfinder, gave a big thumbs-up. The camera loved him.
"Now, I'll begin my free performance."
The air in the small rehearsal room felt charged.
A single beam of light from the window landed across Muyeong's face.
He inhaled, shoulders rising, eyes shifting—not into focus, but into character.
As he opened his mouth, the ordinary boy disappeared, replaced by someone else entirely.
And though neither of them knew it yet—
the red recording light blinking on that camera was about to change everything.