For a few seconds, she just breathed before asking again.
“Did you sign for Season 2? Oh, I didn’t hear anything—does that an there’s a different director? That must be it, right?”
“No. There’s no contract. I just wrote it anyway.”
O Seonyul’s mind went blank, and then even his words stopped coming.
Anyone who watched Arican shows would be familiar with seasonal formats, but the Korean drama industry was completely different.
Season-based dramas were practically limited to sitcoms.
“You know there’s only one seasonal drama ever released in Korea, on TVM, right, Writer.”
And even that wasn’t a sitcom—there had only been a single proper drama.
There was no way Seomun Ihwa didn’t know that. Korea was a barren ground for seasonal dramas.
“I shouldn’t be saying this as the director, but what are you going to do if Season 2 never gets made?”
There was no such thing as a guaranteed hit. In this industry, exceptions happened all the ti.
Seomun Ihwa’s na value, top actors’ star power, aggressive marketing from PR firms, endless viral pushes, fandom-driven buzz—everything had to align, and even luck had to be on their side for a drama to succeed.
No matter how good Seomun Ihwa’s writing was, it was only one part of what made a hit, not the whole.
“I’ve never thought about that.”
But Seomun Ihwa had no Plan B.
“...Wow. What exactly are you planning to do...?”
“I’ll send you the script first, so take a look. Actually—no, my assistant already sent it. Check your email, the file should be there.”
Switching his phone to his other hand, O Seonyul opened the Season 2 script for that Seomun Ihwa had sent.
Click.
Would this be the beginning of a new era for seasonal dramas in Korea, or an unprecedented case where it didn’t even collapse after a strong start but simply ended at the “strong start” itself?
Everything depended on this script.
As he scrolled down, O Seonyul’s eyes moved rapidly—left to right, then back again. Then they wavered.
“This is definitely...”
It was a story worthy of the na Seomun Ihwa. No—maybe it would beco the peak of her career.
“...Still, if Season 2 doesn’t get made, this script will just be scrapped. Doesn’t that feel like a waste?”
At Director Oh’s question, Seomun Ihwa replied,
“It won’t be scrapped. There’s soone people would actually pay to see.”
“....”
Before he had properly started working with Han Yeoreum, a faint unease still lingered in Director Oh’s mind.
But—
‘If Season 2 gets produced... and if Han Yeoreum pulls off the role of On Jihwa perfectly...’
This wouldn’t just shake Korea.
As he skimd through the Season 2 script of , which felt almost shockingly good in the best way, Director Oh thought to himself.
And so, with the story of a Season 2 no one knew yet hidden beneath the surface, the script reading for Season 1 began.
* * *
Daily dia reporter Wi Jaehwi felt a burning sensation from the red band around his wrist. The NetHolics logo felt like it existed just for Han Yeoreum.
‘Finally... Yeoreum...!’
Wi Jaehwi realized that if his heart beat too fast, his whole body could heat up.
Because when he thought about Han Yeoreum reaching the world through NetHolics, he believed a completely different future was about to unfold.
“Jihwa, did you bring the hand warrs? Huh? Good.”
The veteran actress playing On Jihwa’s mother delivered her line beside Han Yeoreum.
There had been endless speculation about what kind of cast NetHolics would assemble for its first original production.
The prediction that they would stack the lineup with only top stars had been completely off.
NetHolics didn’t choose top-tier stars like Ji Haebeom, Eun Baekhap, Yoo Jiuk, or Hong Suryeon.
Instead, they chose rising actors in their early twenties—Do Gyeoul, Myeong Jeha, and Han Yeoreum.
‘Calling Do Gyeoul “rising” is a stretch... but since she took a break, she’ll feel fresh to the public. And realistically, she’s the most famous of the three.’
Even though she had only done two projects after becoming an adult, both had been hits—Do Gyeoul’s success rate was 100%.
‘Myeong Jeha definitely has the least image consumption among them.’
A “double ten-million” actor who had gained recognition through the national drama , yet he almost never appeared on variety shows or gave interviews. His public exposure was close to zero.
So far, the only variety appearance he had made since was a web show from the ti of , .
‘And lastly—the one whose popularity you can feel the most right now, Han Yeoreum.’
Han Yeoreum, who had succeeded in every project since her debut, was the rookie of rookies.
She had appeared in the most projects out of the three, which ant faster image consumption, but she had never played overlapping characters, which balanced it out.
In other words, NetHolics had essentially selected actors destined to beco top stars.
The script reading flowed smoothly. It quickly moved into the tense phase following the outbreak of the zombie crisis.
“Look properly and do it right—don’t cry!”
The rookie actress said to have co from theater really was different.
‘Was her na Tak Jeongyun?’
Her voice sounded exactly like a nurse you’d actually hear in a hospital ward.
Do Gyeoul, who exchanged the most lines with Tak Jeongyun, held her own as well.
“Rigidity is rising abnormally. But even though their muscles are stiff like right before a seizure... the patients are running.”
She delivered difficult dical terminology without hesitation—terms never used in daily life. The end of Do Gyeoul’s voice trembled slightly.
“Locking down the ward won’t help... three areas are already breached. The stairs and the central elevator are connected.”
And supporting them were veteran actors.
Since the setting was a hospital, the cast naturally skewed older.
These weren’t rookies, but middle-aged actors without overly fixed public images—and their skills were already solid.
‘As expected of NetHolics. They calculated this well.’
In an apocalypse story where survival is the core tension, casting big-na stars would instinctively lower the audience’s sense of danger.
Because there’s no way actors of that level would get taken out early.
The subconscious assumption that they would survive wouldn’t apply to .
“The infection rate is structurally impossible to stop. If we evacuate, the rooftop is our only option.”
“Security card! The security card!”
“Even if we send a distress signal, I’m not sure the governnt will /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ accept this situation.”
Production was handled by a studio under JC ENM.
They had already proven their CG capabilities through their work on , which had set a new standard for cable dramas a few years ago.
Studio Another.
A place that lived up to its na by producing distinctly different results.
NetHolics pushed even further—planning top-tier sound design, and going all-in on sets.
Normally, dical dramas used real hospitals to so extent. Building everything from scratch cost a fortune.
But NetHolics chose to construct everything except the hospital exterior as sets.
They used an entire abandoned hospital in Paju as the backdrop for .
“Wait. That line just now—again.”
Soone spoke up in the middle of the reading. The voice was rough with age, but carried authority.
“Give it more of a sigh this ti.”
As the line was adjusted according to O Seonyul’s direction, it gained a deeper gravity than before.
‘Different.’
There was a weight to Director Oh, who had spent twenty years in the film industry.
In that ruthless world where a single failure could end your career, surviving that long alone gave him presence.
NetHolics’ first project, led by a proven director.
That fact alone kept everyone from relaxing.
“If what Minister Kim said is true...”
The reporters watching the serious script reading were just as focused.
“Cut the bullshit. I’m leaving, fuck this.”
A delinquent-like line ca out of Myeong Jeha’s mouth.
At the sa ti, the reporters’ typing sped up twice over.
He fit the role perfectly—despite never playing a character like this before. There wasn’t a trace of awkwardness.
‘Myeong Jeha’s character work is strong.’
The script reading quality was high. Even with just lines being read, the scenes felt vividly real.
A hospital, once an everyday space, collapsed instantly under a spreading virus—and the people inside broke down along with it.
From trust to suspicion. From a few to everyone.
When what the audience expected from an apocalypse matched exactly what the director intended to create, it produced a unique kind of despair.
‘This might actually turn out incredible.’
In that dense atmosphere, Wi Jaehwi suddenly paused, sensing sothing off.
‘...Wait.’
There was sothing strange.
Realizing it, he bit his lip.
The one thing he had been most looking forward to here—the one elent that could instantly grab public attention once the press materials and official footage were released.
‘Yeoreum?’
That was Han Yeoreum’s voice.
‘Why isn’t she speaking.’
But until the script reading ended that day, Han Yeoreum didn’t have a single line.
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