Two years since middle school.
Three years since the prototype for Golden Resolution emerged.
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Now, five years later, Golden Resolution was finally ready to meet the world.
“Woohoo!”
Five years was a long time—long enough to change a person.
“It’s done! It’s finally done!”
Nagangshik had come a long way from the shy, hesitant developer he once was. Had he been locked in a small room working on the game alone, he might have faltered.
“Minhyuk! We did it! It’s done!”
“Great job!”
Standing beside Nagangshik was his reliable partner, Kim Minhyuk.
Originally, Minhyuk had no intention of assisting with game development. However, after Kim Donghu evaluated the prototype, things took a turn.
“I can’t look at this game objectively anymore. I need someone to help.”
Recognizing his limits as a solo developer, Nagangshik immediately contacted Minhyuk, who, lacking concrete plans for his future, agreed without much hesitation.
At first, Minhyuk’s dream was to become Donghu’s road manager, but being too young to get a driver’s license, he decided to help Nagangshik in the meantime.
Back then, Donghu was busy preparing for the Rio Olympics, and by sheer coincidence, Minhyuk ended up staying by Nagangshik’s side until the very end.
“Sh-should we just upload it to Steam?”
“No, no. Reviews are crucial. We need someone to make a video about it, right?”
“Th-the, the e-em-email! Did you check the email?”
Even now, Nagangshik’s old habit of stuttering when excited hadn’t disappeared. Ignoring him for a moment, Minhyuk calmly assessed the situation.
“The trailer is ready. Now we just need a response to decide what to do next.”
How long did they wait? About ten minutes later, a reply arrived from Veritas Entertainment.
But—
“Huh?”
The content wasn’t what Nagangshik and Minhyuk had been expecting.
Stripping away the flowery phrasing, the core message was simple:
“You’ve worked hard—amazing work! But I’m not here to micromanage. Do whatever you want.”
“D-do investors usually say stuff like this?”
“No, they usually want a say in everything...”
In truth, Golden Resolution had been a colossal money sink.
Even if Nagangshik was a genius developer, the only way to shorten the development timeline was with money—lots of it. Game development was notorious for its exorbitant costs.
“The money poured into this must already be in the billions.”
And yet, Veritas hadn’t interfered with the project’s direction. It was baffling.
“So... should we just go all in?”
Minhyuk’s eyes gleamed as he formulated an idea.
“All in? On what?”
“Let’s ask Veritas for one last thing—promotional support.”
“Promotional support? Are you serious?”
“Just for the tutorial. That should be enough, right?”
Minhyuk knew it was a big ask.
But—
“It’s better to secure support while we can. If we fail while doing nothing, everyone loses.”
They’d already spent a fortune, from fixing bugs to creating original game artwork.
While the expenses were necessary, the key now was recouping the investment.
“You’re... not wrong.”
Nagangshik nodded at Minhyuk’s logic. Everything he said made sense.
Yet—
“But it feels like I’d be admitting defeat.”
“What?”
As a developer, it felt like his confidence was being undermined. It wasn’t a matter of logic.
Golden Resolution was a game he had poured five years into. Above all, he wanted the game to be judged purely on its merits.
“Veritas hasn’t interfered with us because they believe in us.”
Nagangshik knew how irrational that sounded. It was an emotional, almost foolish argument.
“That’s why we should believe in our work, too.”
At that moment, Minhyuk realized why he’d stayed by Nagangshik’s side for so long. Unlike himself, who had stumbled into game development out of convenience—
“He has a clear direction.”
Nagangshik had a steadfast goal. Despite his current fears, his eyes showed no hesitation.
If there was a path forward, he would take it.
If someone believed in him, he wouldn’t falter.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Steam. And let’s create our own YouTube channel to upload the trailer.”
“That’s it? Really? What’ll we call the YouTube channel?”
The channel’s name would effectively become the name of their game studio—a name they had yet to decide on.
Now, at last, it was time. Nagangshik had been holding onto the name for years.
“Happy Note.”
“Happy Note?”
“Yeah.”
It harkened back to their middle school days, when four friends would gather and create games in a single notebook. A name that preserved the magic of traveling the universe with just one notebook.
Happy Note.
The first page of that notebook was finally about to open.
***
Mid-February.
The premiere of Shall We Get Married? featuring Kim Donghu and Ryu Jaerin as the lead couple was accompanied by the usual flood of articles and heavy promotion.
To commemorate the occasion, I sat down in front of the TV with Jaerin.
“So, how are your other shoots going these days?”
“Huh? Oh, well, not bad. Things are progressing smoothly.”
As Jaerin answered, I popped a piece of apple into my mouth.
Our Fake Wedding was currently proceeding step by step, while True Hero was slated to begin its first shoot next week due to the production schedule.
“Come to think of it, True Hero is my first lead role in a feature film. I’d like to get started sooner.”
Of course, this was the director’s decision, so I didn’t think too much about it. My main feeling was just eagerness to dive in.
“That’s good to hear. So, in that fake wedding show... you, uh, marry Sujin too?”
“Oh, that? Yeah, we do.”
“Oh... I see.”
Jaerin, who had been lively moments earlier, suddenly grew quiet.
“Come to think of it, Sujin asked me the same question recently. Is asking about marriage some kind of trend now?”
As I pondered this sudden curiosity, Jaerin’s grandmother entered the room.
“Dinner’s ready, kids!”
“Grandma, why did you prepare so much food?”
Jaerin’s grandmother had laid out enough dishes to make the table groan.
“It’s not for you; it’s for my dear Kim Seobang! I have to take care of him, don’t I? He has such a big appetite!”
“Yes, Grandma,” I replied.
Jaerin’s grandmother always called me Kim Seobang (Son-in-law Kim). While the title seemed loaded with implications, I never asked her to change it.
“She wouldn’t listen anyway.”
Besides, with subtitles like “Groom: Kim Donghu! Bride: Ryu Jaerin!” plastered on TV, it would be ridiculous to argue otherwise.
“Oh, right! I heard your second album made it to the Billboard charts. I haven’t had the chance to properly congratulate you.”
“No need. We’ve both been busy. Besides, I didn’t properly celebrate your gold medal, did I?”
Not properly celebrate?
“She shot an Olympic support video, sent a congratulatory video, a wreath, and a handwritten letter. If that’s not proper celebration, what is?”
Jaerin had always been genuine to the core. Her sincerity was like a compressed force—small but overwhelmingly impactful.
“You know, most people would think that’s more than enough.”
“But I don’t think it’s enough. Is it too much for you?”
“Not at all. How could it be too much when you’re doing it for me?”
That was my honest feeling.
Knowing her since childhood probably contributed to it, but I’d never found her gestures burdensome.
If I had, I wouldn’t even be able to accept gifts from fans.
As Jaerin and I ate the meal her grandmother prepared, we watched the premiere.
The content of Episode 1 wasn’t particularly dramatic, so there wasn’t much to react to.
“It looks good. They shot it well. I guess the close-up shots have their purpose.”
But then—
Click. Click. Click.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures.”
“Why?”
“It’s for the premiere. Isn’t it nice to capture the moment?”
Jaerin was snapping pictures enthusiastically.
“But I’m sitting right here next to you. Why are you taking pictures of me on TV?”
“It’s... different.”
“Different?”
“Uh... wait, what did I just say?”
“You said it’s ‘different.’”
“Ah, that was a slip of the tongue. I mean... watching while eating makes it feel... different.”
“Oh, uh, right. Sure.”
A brief silence.
Suddenly, it hit me.
“Wait a second... does this mean I’ll watch Shall We Get Married? with Jaerin and Our Fake Wedding with Sujin?”
It felt like I was juggling two households. Was it just my imagination?
***
On the set of True Hero.
When it comes to murder scenes, a well-crafted dummy is typically used.
Stab it, and blood pours out. It flinches with every blow. These props help actors deliver more realistic performances.
Even with protective gear, staging such scenes with real people is daunting.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
Actors, being human, would naturally hesitate.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud!
That’s why Director Lee Sungdeok had prepared lifelike dummies.
The goal was to make the hero’s first kill as vivid as possible.
However—
“You don’t deserve to live. You should die. That’s your punishment.”
Thud! Thwack! Thud! Thwack!
He hadn’t expected the acting to be this intense. Frankly, it was terrifying.
How often does a director fear an actor captured on camera? And yet, that’s exactly how he felt.
Every line was steeped in violent conviction.
The reason they hadn’t started with Kim Donghu’s scenes was to give the other actors time to adjust.
If Donghu began first, it was obvious he’d overshadow everyone. That’s why they’d delayed his scenes for as long as possible.
“Blame your sins. Blame the wretched life you were born into.”
Never in his wildest dreams had the director imagined such brutal acting.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood trickled from the dummy—no, the corpse prop. Blood stained Donghu’s fists, dripping onto the floor.
“Has he killed someone before?”
That was the thought the director couldn’t shake.
There stood the protagonist, the hero who judges criminals, grinning menacingly and drenched in blood. The True Hero had finally arrived on set.