Glory Film Company

Episode 2: The Lost 19 Years

“What the—?!”
Youngkwang bolted upright, glancing frantically around. His breathing should still have been burning hot from the searing flames that had engulfed him.

“…?”
But instead, an eerie chill surrounded him.

“Short sleeves?”
His gaze fell on a frail body clad in an overstretched T-shirt and baggy shorts.

Whirrrrr…
The cool air came from a wall-mounted air conditioner blowing directly at him.

Sitting on an unfamiliar bed, shivering in a shabby state, Youngkwang descended into confusion.

What happened?
If he’d been rescued, shouldn’t he be in a hospital?
Had he been unconscious for a long time?
Had he undergone treatment during that time?
Had his once-muscular body wasted away completely in the interim?

At least there were no visible burn scars.
He needed to figure out his situation.

Cautiously, he climbed out of bed and surveyed the surroundings.

It was a small room, just big enough to fit a single bed, a wardrobe, a low bookshelf, a desk, and a chair.

Creak…
Opening the door, he stepped into a slightly larger living room. It contained a mini refrigerator, a small TV, a dining table, a few basic necessities, and—

“Uwaaah!!!”
Youngkwang jumped back with a shout after catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror.

“Uwoooahhh!!!”
A second look confirmed it.

Gone was the 40-year-old with a well-maintained physique and warm, approachable face. Staring back at him was a gaunt, wiry young man.

Slap!
He smacked his cheek. Nothing changed.

“Is this… me?”

Youngkwang moved closer to the mirror.

“Young.”

The face staring back at him was undeniably youthful. Despite the skinny build, it was the face of someone in their 20s—or early 30s at most.

A delicate, soft visage. Completely unfamiliar.

“…Did I end up in someone else’s body?”

A short laugh escaped his lips.
Ridiculous. The very thought was absurd—something out of a movie. But if such a thing could happen…

‘Let’s assess the situation.’

Youngkwang began rifling through the belongings in the room, searching for clues about the identity of the body he now inhabited.

He also braced himself for the worst.

“…The name’s the same?”

His pupils widened as he found an ID card in the desk drawer.

Lee Youngkwang.

The name was engraved clearly.
While it wasn’t an unheard-of name, it wasn’t common either.

…A coincidence?

But any doubts were erased when his eyes landed on the date of birth listed below.

“…1996?”

The numbers hit him like a hammer.

“1996… That’s the year I was 33. When BIFF held its first festival. So how old is this guy now?”

He spun around, looking for a calendar. The walls were bare, offering no clues.

“Laptop.”

He found a laptop in the drawer. It looked modern and sleek—too thin and light, almost toy-like.

Pressing the power button brought up a login screen with a prompt for a password.

He hesitated for a moment before entering a simple number on a whim.

“Ah.”

It worked.
The password was 0000—so innocent and pure, it made him chuckle.

But his smile soon froze as the screen loaded.

“…July 4, 2022?”

*****

Youngkwang had been born on March 15, 1964, and had lived up until December 2003—nearly 40 years in total.

Now, like a thawed cryogenic experiment, he found himself skipping 19 years into the future, waking up in July 2022.

And not in his original body, but in that of a 26-year-old man in his prime.

He gathered more information:

Name: Lee Youngkwang

Date of Birth: December 5, 1996

Education: Graduate of Hanmin University, Department of Theater and Film

Military Service: Completed

Family: None

Residence: Rooftop studio in Sangsu-dong, Mapo, Seoul
(Rent: 600,000 KRW, paid monthly on the 21st)

Assets: 3.27 million KRW
(Remaining from his mother’s 200 million KRW life insurance after deducting funeral expenses, columbarium fees, eight years of living costs, tuition, and miscellaneous expenses)

Occupation: Unemployed
(There are barely any signs of work—likely an aspiring screenwriter.)

“Sigh…”

Hours later, Youngkwang sat, staring at the information he had gleaned from the laptop, mail, and bank account records of the young man named Lee Youngkwang.

The first thing he noticed? The internet was unbelievably fast.
The second? This young Lee Youngkwang was nothing like him.

A rough upbringing. Continuous failures in finding work. The resulting despair. Youngkwang wasn’t judging the young man for his mental state, but…

“Why did he even want to be a screenwriter?”

He couldn’t understand why someone would waste their life digging in vain, only to end up where this young man did.

“No talent, no method, just a surplus of passion.”

The folder labeled “Drafts” on the laptop contained about a hundred unfinished scripts. The quantity was impressive, but every single one was so poorly written that it was a struggle to get through even three pages.

‘If he’d read even one proper guide to screenwriting, he wouldn’t have written like this. He worked hard but without any sense of direction, just aimlessly digging until he collapsed.’

Youngkwang clicked his tongue.

The young man’s room had no food. Nor were there signs of food deliveries. Looking at the bank balance, it wasn’t so much poverty as neglect—he had likely stopped taking care of himself.

It seemed that he had shut himself in this room, endlessly writing scripts that would never go anywhere until malnutrition finally killed him.

“…A diary?”

There was a folder labeled “Diary” on the desktop. After being drained by the horrendous writing in the drafts folder, Youngkwang had no energy to open it.

‘I’ll save that for later.’

For now, adapting to the situation was a more pressing matter. His soul had skipped through the brink of death and ended up in the body of a 20-something young man with the same name.

Since it seemed he would now live as this young man, he needed to understand the changed world.

“…What happened to the film industry?”

He was most curious about how the film world had evolved.

‘PD Choi probably took over my work, right? …Is the company still around?’

Youngkwang pulled the laptop closer and searched for “Haru Pictures,” the production company he had built.

Haru Sushi
A Day Like a Movie
Haru’s 15-hour Work Contract?
Haru’s Craft Workshop

The search results were completely irrelevant. No trace of his company could be found, no matter how he changed the keywords.

‘It’s been 19 years… Maybe it was taken over and renamed.’

‘If so, let’s look up some familiar names instead.’

Youngkwang typed “Lee Deokjae” into the search bar. He had been sent to Cannes in 2004, so by now, he should have become a renowned director.

Click.
The search results displayed a neatly compiled profile of Lee Deokjae.

Lee Deokjae, Film Director

Born: August 9, 1979
Education: Sungjin University, Department of Theater and Film
Debut: 2003, Your Memory

Filmography:

Your Memory (2004) ★ 9.3 | Audience: 120,000
Lab Ghost Stories (2005) ★ 6.3 | Audience: 1.1 million
Their Memory (2009) ★ 5.4 | Audience: 280,000

“…???”

Youngkwang’s eyes widened.

“What happened to Lee Deokjae?”

Even his debut film, Your Memory, seemed strange. Despite its low budget, Youngkwang had predicted it would draw at least 500,000 viewers.

But the audience numbers were shockingly low, and the release date was puzzling.

‘We planned for April or May 2004 to align with Cannes exposure. Why was it moved to January?’

“And what’s this Lab Ghost Stories? A horror movie? Lee Deokjae? …It brought in some viewers, but the ratings are terrible. Looks like people went in expecting summer horror and came out furious.”

From just a few numbers, Youngkwang began piecing together Lee Deokjae’s career trajectory.

“And Their Memory? It even has a title similar to his debut. Self-replication on his third film? He couldn’t have even hit the break-even point with this.”

There were no further records after 2009.

Post-2009, fragments of activity appeared in scattered blogs and articles—he’d served as a jury member for obscure film festivals, given lectures, and…

“What? A production company?”

Apparently, Lee Deokjae had started a production company.

K-Directors, Relay Interview ⑯

“Lee Deokjae, who caused a stir in 2004 as ‘Cannes’ Man’ and a genius director, founded the production company My Way Pictures. Collaborators from his debut days, including his producer and close associates, joined him…”

“What the hell happened…?”

Lee Deokjae, who should have become a leading director, had instead floundered, establishing a small production company in 2012 and producing insignificant films.

Youngkwang grimly took note of the situation, deciding to investigate further later.

Next, his thoughts turned to Director Bae Youngho.

Bae Youngho had been in charge of the set where the accident happened. Knowing his introverted and responsible nature, the tragedy must have weighed heavily on him.

‘What if he’s become a wreck?’

The thought made Youngkwang’s chest tighten. It would be devastating if such a talented director’s life had been ruined.

But then…

“Whiskey Master Distiller Bae Youngho?”

Hitting the Enter key brought up articles filled with smiling pictures of Bae Youngho.

“A drink that captures the bitterness of life, regret, and pain? After leaving the film industry due to an accident, I was drowning in alcohol. Frustrated by the taste and hangovers of cheap booze, I wanted to create a whiskey that could comfort people like me. So, I launched the whiskey Comfort, and it became a huge hit? Wow…”

The Bae Youngho in the photos looked genuinely happy. It was a stark contrast to the always-anxious, zombie-like demeanor he had displayed on film sets.

“And he’s made a ton of money?”

Perhaps it was his saving grace.
Bae’s Korean-style whiskey distillery, fueled by the interest and support of the younger generation, had quickly achieved astronomical sales and was rapidly gaining market share.

“…This change… might actually be for the better?”

Youngkwang chuckled, moving on to check on Kim Minseo. She was the actress he had saved during the accident. If Bae Youngho was doing well, surely Kim Minseo was thriving too.

“Three Divorces and Mountains of Debt: Shocking Update on Actress Kim Minseo”
“SBC’s Pilot Reality Show Divorcees’ Retreat: Why Did Actress Kim Minseo Break Down in Tears?”
“Actress Kim Minseo Opens Up About Depression: ‘I Want to Be Forgotten'”

The screen was flooded with sensational headlines.

“She used to be so bright…”

His hands fell limp from the keyboard.

The Pandora’s box he had opened wasn’t just one—it seemed like there were countless more to go through, each more unpredictable than the last.

But there was one more person he had to check.

Director Kwak Junghoon.

Kwak had been the last person Youngkwang worked with closely. Thanks to his planning, Kwak had been overcoming a severe slump.

“PD Lee, it feels great to go back to my roots. I finally feel like things are clicking. Do you think 18 Degrees will succeed?”

Kwak had worked tirelessly in the Gangneung studio Youngkwang had arranged for him. If he hadn’t given up, the script would surely have become a movie.

Youngkwang entered Kwak Junghoon’s name and cautiously hit Enter. Skipping past the basic profile and filmography he already knew, he dove straight into the results.

Director Kwak Junghoon
Filmography:

18 Degrees (2005. 2. 4) ★ 9.1 | Audience: 10.02 million
Mask (2009. 9. 25) ★ 8.4 | Audience: 5.28 million
Our Mom (2013. 7. 19) ★ 7.9 | Audience: 3.2 million
Players (2017. 7. 28) ★ 8.3 | Audience: 11.1 million
Twins (2020. 7. 24) ★ 7.5 | Audience: 2.3 million

“Gasp…! Ha. Wow!”

A broad smile spread across Youngkwang’s face.

Kwak Junghoon’s 18 Degrees had achieved ten million viewers.

What’s more, Kwak had delivered two additional box-office hits and created another ten-million-viewer film in 2017.

“Ha. Haha. He really made it. He really did it.”

Tears welled up in Youngkwang’s eyes. If not for a stray click of the mouse, he might have let a few fall.

But then—

“…What the hell?”

As he checked the film details, Youngkwang’s eyes burned with rage.

“Produced by Stay Film? Producer Gu Bonjik? Ha!”

A bitter laugh escaped him.

Gu Bonjik—the schemer who used to hound him with petty rumors and stir up trouble—had become a legendary producer, with five ten-million-viewer films to his name, including Kwak Junghoon’s hits.

“This is ridiculous.”

Shaking his head, Youngkwang grabbed the young man’s smartphone.

“I need to talk to PD Choi.”

He thought of PD Choi, who had practically worshipped him. If anyone knew how 18 Degrees, originally contracted with Haru Pictures, had been stolen, it would be him.

PD Choi could also explain why Lee Deokjae had taken on such an ill-suited project, why Youngkwang’s influence had crumbled, and how Stay Film—a third-rate production company—had risen to the top, with Gu leading the charge.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

He shook his head again.

“Even if I were in the grave, I’d come back to life over something like this. …There has to be a conspiracy behind this.”

Having already learned the basics of using a smartphone from his earlier searches, he confidently dialed PD Choi’s number, which he remembered clearly from their frequent calls in the past.

Beep, beep.

“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

A calm female voice answered instead.

“What? Why? Did I dial it wrong?”

He checked the number again.

0-1-1-2-8-2-9-3-4-5.

“…It’s correct.”