Chapter 36: The Whims of the Youngest Blockbuster Writer (2)
The day before his call with Shim Ji-young, Kim Si-woo was browsing YouTube when a familiar video caught his eye. Titled “Big Content Coming: Pig-ical 100,” it was unmistakably his idea—the one he’d pitched to Choi Dae-ho through Kim Dong-soo’s introduction.
“No way…”
Si-woo muttered, checking the uploader’s channel. Sure enough, it belonged to Chocolate Entertainment, Dae-ho’s company.
“That bastard!”
Si-woo fumed, his blood boiling. After trashing his idea, Dae-ho had stolen it.
He immediately texted Lee Hae-soo, a lawyer at Blue Law Firm: [Attorney Lee, can we discuss something now?]
Bzzt. A reply came instantly: [Yes, available.]
Seeing the response, Si-woo called. “Hello?”
— “This is Attorney Lee Hae-soo from Blue Law Firm.”
“It’s Kim Si-woo, from the text.”
— “Oh, Writer Kim! What’s the matter?”
Si-woo explained how he’d shared his YouTube idea with someone Dong-soo introduced, only to find a strikingly Shimilar video on that person’s company channel. Lee Hae-soo’s response was measured but grim.
— “Honestly, the chances of winning a case are slim.” she said.
“What?” Si-woo asked, surprised.
— “You didn’t register the copyright, and unless the content is an exact copy or we can prove that person met the channel owner, it’s hard to establish theft. Too many variables.”
Lee’s words rang true. YouTube was flooded with Shimilar content, often recycled. Si-woo’s idea itself was an homage to existing shows. Truly original content was rare, usually from grassroots creators who clawed their way up. Si-woo had half-expected this outcome but couldn’t shake his frustration. He’d reached out to Lee grasping at straws.
Just as he was about to give up, Lee spoke conspiratorially.
— “But there’s another way. Want to hear it?”
“Another way?” Si-woo echoed.
— “First, get Kim Dong-soo as a witness. Can you send me the materials?”
“Yes, I can.”
— “Come by tomorrow at 2 p.m. I’ll explain then.”
With that, Lee ended the call. Si-woo followed through, calling Dong-soo to explain the situation and secure his support, then sent the content proposal to Lee.
The next day, as Si-woo headed to Blue Law Firm, Shim Ji-young called. He told her he was hunting down a “thieving bastard”—Choi Dae-ho—who stole his idea.
— “Stole what? You’re that mad?”
“My idea,” Si-woo said.
— “What, your script?”
Ji-young asked, alarmed, imagining a blockbuster script worth billions.
“No, a YouTube idea.”
— “YouTube? You’re doing YouTube?”
“I was about to, but my first content got stolen… Oh, driver, stop here. Noona, I’m busy—call you later.” Click.
Ji-young stared at her phone, stunned, as Si-woo entered Blue Law Firm. Familiar now, he told the reception he was there for Lee Hae-soo and took the elevator up.
Knock, knock, knock.
Entering Lee’s office, Si-woo found the lawyer buried in papers, looking slightly disheveled. His earlier anger cooled at the sight.
“Uh… Attorney Lee?”
“Oh! You’re here. Sit,” Lee said.
Unsure where to sit among the paper piles, Si-woo cleared a spot.
“Have you eaten?” Lee asked.
“Yeah!” Si-woo replied.
Grrrowl.
Lee’s stomach roared, betraying him.
“Haha… one kimbap wasn’t enough,” Lee chuckled sheepishly.
“I’ll treat you. Let’s go,” Si-woo offered.
“Sushi, then,” Lee said eagerly.
They headed to a restaurant.
***
Two weeks earlier, during a content meeting, Choi Dae-ho’s phone buzzed. Checking it, he saw Kim Dong-soo’s name, prefixed with curses.
“Kim Shit-soo… why’s this guy calling?” he muttered.
Though Dong-soo considered them friends, Dae-ho despised him. In college, they shared the same age, major, and dream of directing, but everything else—personality, talent, intellect—set them apart. Dong-soo was a natural, excelling with minimal effort, with sharp cinematic instincts and social charm to boot. Dae-ho’s jealousy had Shimmered since their university days, fueling his disdain.
In contrast, Choi Dae-ho was introverted and always fell just short. To get into his desired university, he studied 18 hours a day, and even in college, his efforts never ceased. He’d watch films hundreds of times, memorizing them to analyze every detail. But socializing? No amount of effort could fix that.
Despite his relentless work, Kim Dong-soo, who partied and studied minimally, always outshone him academically. Professors, peers, and even juniors preferred Dong-soo, who effortlessly became the head of their academic society. Right after graduation, a senior’s connection landed him a job at W Studio, Park Chan-young’s company.
Dae-ho, meanwhile, chased his dream of directing independent films. Without money or connections, he worked part-time for a year to fund equipment rentals, actor fees, and crew wages. It took a year for one film, but he was satisfied—his name was on it. He assumed Dong-soo was stuck doing grunt work at W Studio.
But he was wrong. While Dae-ho toiled, Dong-soo gained experience on an indie film and a commercial project. As time passed, Dae-ho’s films went unnoticed—no press, no buzz, vanishing like sand swept away by waves. When he heard Dong-soo’s film hit 5 million viewers, self-loathing consumed him.
His body and mind crumbled under endless self-hatred, which morphed into inferiority toward Dong-soo. A devilish voice in his head whispered daily: “It’s not your fault.”
“You’re right,” Dae-ho agreed.
- “Kim Dong-soo succeeded through connections.”
“Exactly!”
- “If you had his support, you’d have made it big.”
“Damn right!”
Despite his bitterness, Dae-ho wasn’t foolish. Accepting he couldn’t succeed as a director, he pivoted to freelance video editing. Having handled every aspect of indie filmmaking, his editing skills were exceptional, though he lacked creative instinct. He compensated with speed and client feedback.
As the saying goes, even a dog learns to recite poetry after three years. Dae-ho invested over a decade, doubling others’ efforts. His editing prowess reached untouchable heights, mastering the art of engaging content. When YouTube exploded, it was his golden opportunity. His skills landed him a team leader role at Chocolate Entertainment—a major win.
Yet, his deep-seated inferiority toward Dong-soo lingered. When Dong-soo called about a “close writer” wanting to start a YouTube channel, Dae-ho wanted to scoff. ‘I’m more successful now.’ But learning Dong-soo worked on ‘Revenger’, a 10-million-viewer hit, reignited his envy. And a 28-year-old blockbuster writer? That was too much.
Fury consumed him. He couldn’t let a prodigy like Si-woo invade his turf. Accepting Dong-soo’s request, his sole aim was to crush their egos. Even for a real friend, producing content wasn’t a snap decision.
Meeting Si-woo and Dong-soo, Dae-ho planned to humiliate them. But upon seeing Si-woo’s proposal, his mindset shifted.
‘This idea’s solid. Should I swipe it? If they make a fuss, I’ve got ways to cover myself.’
‘This isn’t the film industry—it’s YouTube.’
A YouTube veteran, Dae-ho knew how to “borrow” ideas legally and dodge accountability. He trashed Si-woo’s proposal, threw shade at Dong-soo, and left the café. Outside, he cheered internally. It was his most satisfying moment in ages—a high from outsmarting Dong-soo for once.
Humming, he returned to his office and called a meeting to steal Si-woo’s idea and sabotage them both.
“Any new ideas?” he asked casually.
“Still working on it,” a staff member replied.
“How about riffing on something trending, like ‘Ultimate 100’? Maybe a food-eating contest or a brain challenge?” Dae-ho suggested.
“A food contest? That sounds great!” an employee, Park, bit instantly.
Dae-ho smirked. “Park, want to take a stab at it?”
“Me?” Park asked, surprised.
“Flesh it out and submit a proposal.”
“Yes, sir!”
Park beamed, unaware he was being set up to take the fall if trouble arose, thrilled at the chance for a flagship project.