Chapter 8 – Are You a Gangster?
Go Gwang-jin.
Thanks to his distinctive appearance, he was a legendary editor at Jangsan Publishing—nicknamed things like “Manuscript Loan Shark” or “Grim Reaper of Deadlines.”
—“Editor Go? Ugh, no way. Change my editor.”
—“That guy once broke into my house to collect a manuscript.”
His favorite line—“If you’re gonna die, at least die after hitting deadline”—was something every artist who’d worked with him had heard at least once.
Befitting his infamous reputation, Gwang-jin was someone established artists avoided like a landmine.
But no matter how much others cursed him, Shin Pil-ho always treated him with respect.
Sure, he looked a little (?) intimidating, but Go Gwang-jin was the one who had discovered him with the manuscript of <Era of the Poor>—the irreplaceable benefactor who’d gotten him into the ink-eating business.
More precisely: if Gwang-jin asked him to co-sign a loan, Pil-ho would at least pretend to think about it. If he asked to borrow 2 million won, Pil-ho would just hand over 500,000.
That’s how Pil-ho felt about Gwang-jin.
But… that was that, and this was this.
“No way.”
When Pil-ho answered firmly, Gwang-jin frowned.
“Come on—why not?”
“Why not?! Two days? How am I supposed to finish a short story in two days?! I’m not doing it—I can’t!”
“Cut me some slack. Writer Gil-sang came down with a bad case of the flu… We have to fill the hole somehow. Please. You’re the only one I can ask right now. Can’t you push through with some grit?”
“Manuscripts aren’t a joke! What kind of grit?!”
There was an odd hint of aegyo in Gwang-jin’s voice.
With that intimidating face, it was… bizarre.
Min-hyuk, watching from the side, stroked his chin.
‘So there’s a hole in the schedule, and he wants it filled?’
In two days, no less? Definitely an unreasonable request.
Someone who’d just barely met this week’s deadline—how could they possibly pull that off?
Of course he’d refuse outright.
But for some reason…
Thump! Thump!
Min-hyuk’s heart started racing, and heat rushed to his forehead.
And naturally, one thought followed.
‘This could be fun.’
A short comic.
Unlike a long series, everything—setup, development, twist, conclusion—had to fit in one episode. Characters had to be handled concisely, and a sparkling idea was often key.
In his previous life, starting comics late, Min-hyuk had never touched this unknown territory.
And certainly not in the format of a print magazine comic.
Maybe that’s why…
‘I want to try it.’
Imagining his own short black-and-white comic printed in a magazine, being read by someone—it stirred an emotion he could barely contain.
But…
‘No good.’
Min-hyuk exhaled through his nose and gave a small shake of his head.
No matter how much he wanted to, this was Shin Pil-ho’s business.
If he opened his mouth carelessly, it could make things awkward for the other side.
Sure, part of him wanted to blurt out that he’d do it himself… but no matter how crazy that gangster-looking guy was, he wouldn’t hand a job like that to a middle schooler.
While Min-hyuk calmed his pounding heart,
“Writer Pil-hooo, come on. If you do it, I’ll even buy you a ton of Melona bars.”
“What kind of bribe is Melona bars?! I said no!”
The two went back and forth.
“Aren’t we going for pork belly?”
Meanwhile, middle schooler Oh Seung-heon stood there with a sulky expression, clearly unhappy with the situation.
“Just wait a sec—hold on! Is pork belly the issue right now?! Hey—let go!”
“Writer Shin! We’re this close—are you really doing this to me?”
Pil-ho struggled to peel off the clinging editor.
Finally, Gwang-jin scratched his head furiously and said,
“Phewww… so in the end, you’re not doing it.”
“It’s not that I won’t—it’s that I can’t! Does that even make sense? Finish a 16-page short in two days?”
“If you really can’t, then there’s nothing I can do. Sorry for pushing you, Writer Pil-ho.”
“Good—you get it.”
Gwang-jin sighed heavily and backed off without a fight.
“Well, fine. Let’s put that aside. Time for the real reason I’m here.”
“The real reason?”
“Yeah.”
His voice and expression suddenly grew heavy.
Pil-ho tilted his head. Gwang-jin reached inside his bomber jacket and abruptly pulled out an envelope, holding it out.
“Take a look at this, Writer Pil-ho. This is the real reason I came today.”
His tone was calm—almost polite—completely different from moments ago.
‘What’s going on all of a sudden?’
Pil-ho’s eyebrows twitched as he took the envelope with a suspicious look, tore it open, and began reading the document inside.
Then—
“Huh?”
His eyes widened in an instant, blinking several times in shock.
“Editor Go… is what’s written here… for real?”
“Yeah, that’s how it turned out.”
The atmosphere suddenly froze.
At that moment, Seung-heon—oblivious as ever—sidled up behind Pil-ho.
“Sir, what is it?”
“Y-you don’t need to know!”
“Why not? I’m curious.”
Swish!
Pil-ho startled and jerked the paper away.
Then he quickly stuffed it back into the envelope.
In that brief moment, Min-hyuk caught a glimpse of a phrase on the page.
‘Serialization Termination Notice?’
His brow furrowed instinctively.
He rolled his eyes toward Shin Pil-ho.
Trembling pupils, twitching mouth—he looked completely lost.
‘It’s like… he never saw this coming.’
Hadn’t he sensed it at all?
Seung-heon kept pestering from the side.
“Come on, let me see.”
Thwack!
“Ow! Why’d you hit me?!”
Min-hyuk punched him on the top of the head, grabbed the back of his neck, and said,
“Read the room, you idiot.”
“R-read the room? What did I do?”
Seung-heon scratched his head, looking wronged.
Meanwhile, Editor Gwang-jin looked Pil-ho straight in the eye and said calmly,
“Since it’s been decided, please wrap up the manuscript by next week, Writer Shin.”
He bowed nearly ninety degrees.
“I’m… sorry to be the one delivering this news.”
Pil-ho’s head dropped.
He clenched his fists tightly, then—as if resolving himself—glared at Gwang-jin and said,
“No, Editor Go. I told you finishing this properly would need at least two more volumes. You said this time it wouldn’t happen again. And yet… you’re doing this again?”
His voice shook.
He couldn’t hide it anymore.
Gwang-jin closed his eyes tightly, then opened them.
“This… was decided in the editorial meeting. You know the current climate—we’re under a lot of pressure with sales lately.”
“But…”
Pil-ho couldn’t respond further and hung his head.
Min-hyuk, watching, understood the meaning all too well.
‘It’s not selling… so fold it.’
In a way, it was obvious.
Shin Pil-ho’s comics delved deep into social messages, digging uncomfortably into issues.
In a massive market like Japan—where kids, adults, and seniors all read comics—it might have worked.
But the Korean comic market.
In 2005, webtoons hadn’t even appeared yet, and print magazine comics were past twilight—on the verge of extinction.
In that environment, getting meaningful sales with his work was like threading a camel through the eye of a needle.
This wasn’t a matter of whether the comic was good or not.
For the publisher, it was survival. Reality.
“…”
Pil-ho’s shoulders slumped.
As if his soul had slipped away.
Finally reading the mood, even Seung-heon stopped whining about pork belly and just stood there with his mouth open.
“Haa… this isn’t easy.”
A voice tinged with regret and lingering attachment.
Pil-ho tilted his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling for a long while, then looked forward again and said calmly,
“Got it. I’ll keep that in mind, so you can go now.”
“Writer Shin…”
As Gwang-jin made a bitter face, Pil-ho turned his head sideways and said,
“Kids, let’s go. Time for pork belly.”
“Sir…”
Seung-heon glanced cautiously.
“…”
Min-hyuk answered by closing and opening his eyes.
‘This… is an awkward situation.’
Premature termination notice.
He’d lived a relatively short career as a comic artist, so he’d never experienced it himself, but he could faintly imagine the feeling.
Being forced to end a story before finishing it—by outside forces.
Perhaps this was…
—“If this is how it ends… then why the hell did I live like this?”
In that moment, Min-hyuk saw his own crippled self overlapping with Shin Pil-ho.
He wasn’t the type to meddle in others’ affairs.
And he hadn’t built some deep bond with Pil-ho in just these few days.
But watching from the side as someone was forced to leave their story unfinished… it made a corner of his heart feel uncomfortably dirty.
But what could he do?
‘There’s nothing I can do about this.’
The editorial department was god, and artists living under its grace could only accept the oracle.
Especially in 2005…
In the Korean comic industry that barely paid, stubbornly clinging to print magazines and physical books.
Just then, Oh Seung-heon opened his mouth again.
“Uh, sir… if the situation’s like this, we can always eat later. H-ha ha.”
His eyes darted around—anyone could tell he was trying to read the room.
That was when it happened.
Thump.
Pil-ho walked over, placed a hand on each of their shoulders, and said with a faint smile,
“It’s fine. This kind of thing is common for comic artists. It’s no big deal.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, so let’s go. I’m hungry.”
He pushed the two boys forward, brushing past Editor Go Gwang-jin.
As the three were about to leave the lobby together, Gwang-jin’s voice rang out from behind.
“Bullshit, ‘fine’…”
A voice thick with irritation and anger.
Pil-ho’s steps paused for a moment.
Gwang-jin’s face flushed red as he continued sharply,
“You really okay with the serialization ending? You said you cherished this work. So what’s this ‘fine’ crap?”
“…”
“Why put up useless bravado…”
“Editor Go!”
Pil-ho spun around roughly and shouted,
“Then what am I supposed to do?! If I whine to you, will you revoke the termination notice? Huh?”
“…”
A brief silence.
Gwang-jin spoke again.
“Writer Shin, do the short story.”
“A short story? Are you joking? I’m not in the mood to fill someone else’s hole right now…”
“If you do it, I’ll find a way to stop it.”
“…What did you say?”
“Nobody—readers or editors—wants a hole in the magazine. So if you fill it, that’ll be a huge help to us. And…”
Gwang-jin closed his eyes for a moment before continuing slowly,
“That would at least give me a reason to grab the chief editor by the collar or flip a desk—something to fight with.”
“Hah… so that’s what you meant.”
Pil-ho scratched his head furiously, let out a big sigh, and replied,
“Editor Go. You sure it’s okay to make promises you can’t keep? Even if I’m an unpopular artist, throwing around empty checks like that…”
“I promise.”
“What?”
“Have I ever lied to you about work? If you do this favor, I’ll stop the termination—no matter what.”
A fierce glint entered Go Gwang-jin’s eyes.
Maybe because of that naturally intimidating face, it didn’t sound like a joke at all.
Even Seung-heon, standing nearby, flinched.
But Pil-ho didn’t look away.
He stared back for a long moment, then closed his eyes, exhaled, and said,
“Fine. Let’s say that’s true. But does that solve the problem? Two days? If I could magically produce a 16-page short in two days… why would I always stay up all night suffering to meet deadlines, huh?”
“Didn’t I say? If I’m going to be unreasonable, you’ll have to be unreasonable too…”
“No. I can’t. It’s physically impossible.”
His assistants had all run away, and he’d only just finished this week’s manuscript by begging help from middle schoolers.
And now they wanted a 16-page short in two days?
If that were possible, they wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.
He wanted to save the series, but this was simply impossible…
That was when—
“Give it a try, teacher.”
“Huh?”
A clear voice from the side.
Pil-ho turned his head.
There stood Kang Min-hyuk, eyes sparkling as he stared straight at him.
“Let’s make the short story. If we work together, honestly… two days isn’t impossible, right?”
“…”
What did this kid just say?
Pil-ho’s eyes trembled violently as he looked at Min-hyuk.