Free Web Novel* * *
Noh Seungchan frowned and exhaled smoke irritably.
“Fuck, the ass-kissing is insane.”
Han Yeoreum’s photo was up on his phone screen. The reactions on his favorite community were completely different from a few days ago.
“How much money did JC throw around for this kind of viral marketing? Such cheap sentiment.”
Noh Seungchan pressed like on the few hateful comments directed at Han Yeoreum. Looking at Han Yohan in the released still cuts with her, he clicked his tongue.
“If it were Myeong Jeha, I’d at least acknowledge it. He picked up the projects I passed on and climbed up with them. But this guy... what the hell....”
“Seungchan, watch your mouth. He’s still your senior.”
“A senior should act like one before I call him that.”
Even before 〈Beyond the Closed Door〉 had finished airing, countless scripts had poured in for Noh Seungchan.
He had even received the script for 〈The Great Garland〉, which people called the last flame of Korean dramas.
That was why he hated Han Yohan even more.
Myeong Jeha’s commercials, his core fandom, his popularity, even his Hollywood breakthrough—everything should have belonged to him. But all of that had only happened because Noh Seungchan had allowed it. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
If he had simply read the script properly, Taeseok from 〈The Great Garland〉 would have been Noh Seungchan.
Yet what really wounded his pride was that he hadn’t even received the script for 〈Code Name: Time Seven〉. JC and KBC had chosen Han Yohan immediately.
There hadn’t even been a first or second choice.
Matteo’s role had gone straight to Han Yohan, the man infamous for failing in romance dramas.
While JC desperately poured money into Han Yeoreum, Han Yohan was reaping the benefits by association, and it disgusted him.
A man who had ruined every romance project he touched was suddenly climbing in buzz rankings.
“This bastard seemed decent, but now he’s riding a woman’s coattails. Fucking loser.”
Noh Seungchan couldn’t stand seeing other actors rise while his own value dropped.
“So what the hell are we doing? Is the publicity team asleep?”
Their script reading was done. Filming had started.
Yet they couldn’t generate even a fraction of the buzz 〈Code Name: Time Seven〉 had.
Annoyed, Noh Seungchan sarcastically asked the manager.
Back in the old days, the company would have comforted him no matter what, but their attitude had changed.
“The publicity team has their work, and you have yours.”
The manager looked at him coldly.
“Seungchan. Get your head straight. If this collapses too, you’re really in danger.” ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
“Isn’t it the company’s job to stop that? Isn’t that why you skim your cut off me?”
“Do you want to end up like Jo Eunnara?”
At Jo Eunnara’s name, Noh Seungchan had no choice but to shut his mouth.
Just imagining Jo Eunnara being reduced to second male lead roles even in dramas instead of films was a nightmare.
“We’re already struggling with Goo Minho’s agency, so behave yourself around the PR people. Nothing good comes from getting on their bad side.”
Without replying, Noh Seungchan stood up.
‘Fuck. They should be trying to impress me. Those bastards eat because of my money.’
He thought about the PR agency and wondered if they even knew how to do their jobs.
* * *
This was Nice Production.
Contrary to the company’s name, the atmosphere was anything but nice.
“Ah, shit... we basically gave them free publicity.”
“Fuck Jegal Rok.”
“It feels like they had everything prepared from the beginning, right?”
“The whole ‘we can’t show it because it’s spoilers’ thing was an act.”
Why had 〈There Is Only One Culprit〉, which had started the Holy Grail War with such explosive momentum, failed?
The public blamed the PR agency.
[DramaMovieActor TALK / If not for the spoilers, Woo Seungri wouldn’t have gone insane over There Is Only One Culprit]
The first half was so damn fun. I’m crying while rewatching it. Kill the PR agency.
— Anonymous 1: Honestly, spoiling it really did ruin everything despite Woo Seungri’s writing...
— Anonymous 4: Give me back Yoo Jiuk’s filmography, damn it. I’m scared he’s going to quit rom-coms and now they’ve nailed the coffin shut.
— Anonymous 9: No no don’t say that. Yoo Jiuk’s face hasn’t deteriorated yet. We can still save him. Oppa can do rom-coms forever. You have to say things like that.
[DramaMovieActor TALK / What if There Is Only One Culprit hadn’t gone wild on Yousta...]
What if (Back then)
What if (I had held onto you)
What if (Would There Is Only One Culprit be happier now)
What if (At the end)
What if (I had embraced you)
What if (Would There Is Only One Culprit still be with us)
— Anonymous 1: Fuck, I came to comfort people and someone’s singing instead LOL.
— Anonymous 3: Social media really is poison, especially in real time TT_TT
— Anonymous 12: This is hilarious. When people lose their minds, they reach the realm of art.
Yoo Jiuk and Hong Suryeon’s chemistry had been flawless, and neither actor’s performances could be criticized.
Their fans had cursed Woo Seungri, but because the drama had brought happiness to everyone through Episode 8, nostalgia had softened the memories.
Drama fanatics memorized not only the director, writer, and production company, but even the PR agency.
Eventually, the arrows reached them too.
— Anonymous 15: Fucking PR bastards, go bankrupt.
And so the only thing left was Nice Production.
[HOT / A drama many people believe would have become a masterpiece if the PR agency hadn’t screwed up.jpg]
“These lunatics... are they PR agency employees or something? Why are they posting this much on communities...?”
When drama fans were on your side, they became unpaid viral allies.
When they became enemies, they transformed into tyrants with unbearable aggression.
Thanks to that, Nice Production had become famous even among ordinary people.
The PR agency that had collapsed most spectacularly in the biggest Holy Grail War ever.
In an industry that believed not only rumors but even superstitions, nobody wanted to entrust work to Nice Production like before.
“Shouldn’t we release the still cuts sooner?”
“It feels like we could ride some of the spillover effects.”
“Han Yohan and Han Yeoreum aren’t even attending the award ceremonies anyway. Han Yohan passed on all of them, and Han Yeoreum is only going to the MBS one.”
This time, Nice Production had taken charge of a male buddy office drama competing against 〈Code Name: Time Seven〉.
They were responsible for promoting 〈Assistant Manager Kim’s Survival Diary〉.
“Mix Goo Minho and Noh Seungchan into the photo sets with celebrities who get good red carpet reactions. We wait until the end of December.”
“Why?”
“Because 〈Seoul Metropolitan City〉 is coming!”
With terrible matchups and monsters descending from outside—
“We’ll strike starting mid-January. At least it’ll finish in one go.”
“...But what if 〈Seoul Metropolitan City〉 performs better than expected?”
Everyone burst out laughing.
“What’s the deadliest poison for an apocalypse genre?”
Every genre had its ultimate formula.
In romance, chemistry mattered most.
In spy stories, it was information asymmetry.
In action, actors who could use their bodies.
In professional dramas, details even experts acknowledged.
And in an apocalypse—
“Spoilers.”
How.
When.
Where.
Who survives.
Who dies.
“As soon as the finale airs, we cut the ending and spread it everywhere!”
Knowing that better than anyone, Nice Production was confident that 〈Seoul Metropolitan City〉’s popularity wouldn’t affect 〈Assistant Manager Kim’s Survival Diary〉 much.
“Too bad for Han Yeoreum.”
Ironically, the one blocking January was Han Yeoreum.
The one airing in the same time slot was Han Yeoreum.
The target they needed revenge against was Han Yeoreum.
All of Nice Production’s arrows were aimed at one person.
“We can’t stay like this.”
Han Yeoreum had to fall for the company to rise.
They had no intention of showing mercy.
* * *
Jo Eunnara’s manager clenched his fists as he looked at the actors waiting on standby.
Before receiving the injury makeup, Jo Eunnara had met privately with Galdaeguk.
After putting the two of them in the car, there would be a gunfight, and Jo Eunnara herself would be shot.
One wound grazing her cheek.
That scar would give weight to her role.
It wasn’t as impactful as Han Yohan’s action scenes, but the scratch across her naturally gloomy face would capture viewers’ attention.
There was no need to put makeup on her arm as well.
‘If her arm becomes uncomfortable, the acting gets harder.’
If she suffered a gunshot wound to the arm, she would need to subtly portray that discomfort in every scene afterward.
Because of the action scenes, everything couldn’t be filmed here.
The close-ups would be shot separately in Korea.
Adding such uncomfortable details was a disadvantage for Jo Eunnara, who had been brought in at the last minute.
A single facial wound had much greater impact.
There was no need to endure extra complications.
Efficiency was the most important thing during an overseas shoot that had already nearly collapsed once.
‘Our Eunnara...’
Jo Eunnara had become so broken that she practically bathed in negativity every day.
Her manager had never imagined she would voice opinions again.
“Ready!”
Filming began.
A black sedan raced down a narrow, steep road.
Matteo fought off another group of attackers pouring out from several vans.
Taegyeong rescued him with dazzling driving skills.
And thus began the suffocating chase.
Taegyeong had half his upper body outside the car while pulling Im Ria inside.
A bullet was lodged in his left forearm.
Even so, his driving remained perfect.
‘Our Eunnara... she’s so good!’
It sounded patriotic, but Jo Eunnara truly was excellent.
After checking the side mirror, she briefly handed the steering wheel to Han Yohan.
Opening the window, she twisted her upper body smoothly.
Then she aimed precisely at the target she had spotted moments earlier.
Bang!
The van’s front tire exploded.
Her action style wasn’t as brutal as Han Yohan’s, but Jo Eunnara’s movements were clean and precise.
All the action she had learned from project after project that had failed, failed again, or been canceled entirely—
At last, it was shining.
Her manager was overwhelmed by the perfect filming unfolding before his eyes.
‘And more than anything...’
What immersed viewers in action spy stories was anxiety.
The tension of not knowing when the enemy would catch up.
The fear born from uncertainty.
“Three hundred meters ahead. Five seconds until entering the Podkolokolny intersection.”
Even with a trembling voice, the pronunciation remained crystal clear.
It was Han Yeoreum’s distinctive delivery, where the lines almost seemed visible.
But the ending syllables wavered.
There was unmistakable emotion.
Im Ria’s fingers glided across the laptop.
‘But the program isn’t running...’
The screen was black.
The laptop was off.
Yet her eyes looked as though they could see something.
At times, it was as if she were reading text.
At others, as if she were viewing CCTV footage from Interpol networks.
Her eye movements were disturbingly realistic.
“Clear the right lane! Now!”
Tears flowed naturally.
Han Yeoreum portrayed them perfectly.
Tears continuously streamed down her face as she stared at the laptop.
As though she wasn’t crying because she wanted to.
‘How is that possible?’
Jo Eunnara’s manager remembered all the crying scenes he had seen over the years.
Drawing emotions out in front of dozens of people on set was incredibly difficult.
Scenes were delayed for hours because actors couldn’t cry.
Sometimes chemicals were rubbed onto temples or beneath the eyes to force tears.
Combining body movements, precise lines, and emotional immersion was extraordinarily difficult.
Most tears he had seen shared the same texture.
Sometimes anger.
Sometimes sadness.
Sometimes emptiness.
Sometimes disappointment.
Sometimes despair.
But this—
This was the first time he had seen tears that looked so utterly involuntary.
Tears that seemed to arise physiologically from fear.
As if someone were truly chasing her from behind.
Han Yeoreum was performing something impossibly difficult.
She gave no sign that she was immersed.
Yet it was a performance that could only exist through complete immersion.
“Get inside now! I’m closing the shutter!”
Annoyed by the constant tears, Im Ria wiped beneath her chin roughly.
The car jerked violently during an abrupt U-turn.
Her small body lost balance for a moment, but her hands held onto the laptop until the very end.
Tap!
Han Yeoreum struck the Enter key.
Urgency filled her fingers.
“Okay!”
The signal came.
Jo Eunnara’s manager felt his chest tighten.
He felt like crying.
Because now—
Now he could truly tell Jo Eunnara to trust him.
At last.
She would finally have a defining work.
A masterpiece nobody could belittle.
Nobody could deny.
Nobody could ignore.
“We are...!”
“One!”
After witnessing that perfect performance, even Jo Eunnara’s manager joined the staff and cheered.
* * *
Even after Jo Eunnara joined the production, filming continued smoothly.
But Ma Eungyo, the writer of 〈Code Name: Time Seven〉, kept biting her nails.
