Chapter 114
“How did I know?”
Cha Ji-hyun smiled slyly as he looked at Lim Seung-chan and the publishing company’s president.
“When I worked at Continent Law Firm, one of my peers was Attorney Choi Geon-ha’s assistant. I heard a lot about him back then.”
A lie.
He’d just overheard someone in the break room gossiping that “a crazy guy from the film industry came in as a client.” The real details, he only learned later from reviewing the case files.
At that time, senior lawyers could access most case records unless they were related to disciplinary issues.
“So I’m very familiar with Choi Geon-ha’s methods. He habitually stole scripts from rookie writers by pilfering their contest entries.”
“That’s right!”
Lim Seung-chan’s face lit up in relief.
“Did the same thing happen to you, Writer Lim?”
“Not exactly, but something similar. I met Choi Geon-ha at a creative camp hosted by the United Film Company — a collaboration of several small production studios for aspiring screenwriters.”
The “United Film Company’s creative camp.”
In other words, several small studios that couldn’t afford contest prize money had set up paid creative camps. They advertised that film directors and screenwriters would mentor participants, help refine their treatments, and give feedback on early drafts.
“Officially, that’s how they presented it. But on the first day, Choi Geon-ha said, ‘If there’s a good work, of course we’ll make a contract.’ Everyone went wild… me included.”
He developed his treatment through meetings with Choi Geon-ha during the camp and soon signed a contract.
“He said since I was a rookie, they could only pay me 30 million won. But he promised the film adaptation was confirmed — that the investors and distributors were already satisfied with it.”
They’d even said investment and development funding were secured, so everything looked positive. But five years passed, and there was still no sign of a movie.
Lim Seung-chan placed the contract he had signed with Choi Geon-ha on the table.
“As you can see, it states that the film must be produced within five years, or the contract automatically terminates. It wasn’t bad — at least I got paid.”
When Choi terminated the contract, he even apologized. Lim thought it was over, cleanly finished.
“Five years had passed, but since my script had once been proposed for production, I figured it had commercial potential.”
“Of course.”
“So when I came up to Seoul, I visited Madfil Studio — they’re the hot company right now. I’d heard they were looking for new projects.”
“Meaning… you don’t live in Seoul?”
“No. I actually went to Madfil in person to submit it, not online.”
“That’s why you’re here in Seoul now, then.”
“……?”
Was there a problem with Madfil too? Surely not…
“Madfil told me my script was plagiarized.”
“Madfil did?”
Lim let out a bitter laugh that sounded almost hysterical.
“Yes. I told them I’d worked with Director Choi Geon-ha before but the film never got made, so I just wanted them to take a look at my old treatment.”
The team leader said he knew Choi and agreed to check the work — but then…
“He came back saying that their upcoming release had overlapping themes, characters, lines, and even plot developments.”
“…Are you saying Choi Geon-ha used your work?”
Lim nodded.
“I found out because that same team leader went to check, and I overheard him in the restroom mocking my script with another staff member.”
They flat-out called it plagiarism.
Realizing that Choi hadn’t made the film because he was stealing his script sent Lim into despair.
“Good thing the team leader ran his mouth, or I wouldn’t have known until the movie was out.”
That was lucky.
If the movie had already been released, the only option would’ve been to file an injunction to ban screenings — which could ruin one’s reputation in the industry and get them blacklisted.
So the key was determining Choi Geon-ha’s connection to Madfil.
Had Madfil collaborated with Choi to steal Lim’s copyright?
‘If they were in on it, they probably refused to hand over Choi’s script on purpose.’
“Did you request to see Choi Geon-ha’s script at Madfil that day?”
“I did, but they declined.”
Still, Lim didn’t look discouraged.
“The Madfil CEO said if I sent Choi a certified notice alleging copyright infringement, they’d then let me view it.”
‘Meaning they’ll only cooperate once it becomes a legal issue. Fair enough.’
That was standard procedure — too many people falsely claimed ownership over others’ work.
‘Plenty of people try to extort money pretending to be the original writer.’
And with articles and videos already speculating about upcoming movies, premature exposure could damage the release.
‘They don’t care if the movie tanks — as long as they’re not blamed. Typical.’
The publishing president looked at Lim with concern.
“Attorney Cha, if we send a certified notice, can we sue for copyright infringement?”
“Of course. But before that — have you registered your copyright under your own name?”
“Yes, the work’s titled Jack in the Moneybox.”
If it’s registered with the Korea Copyright Commission, it’ll be easier to protect his rights.
Lim presented his registration certificate — the creation, publication, and registration dates were all from long ago. That made it nearly impossible for Choi to claim authorship.
“I registered it before the creative camp, though the version changed a bit when I signed with Ruin Film Company later.”
“The main structure stayed the same? The characters and story arc?”
“Yes. Only some dialogue changed.”
“Minor edits are fine.”
Since Lim was the original creator, that was what mattered.
“By the way, have you reported this to the Korean Screenwriters Guild?”
“Not yet. I was waiting to discuss it with you first — I think I’ll need to talk to Madfil anyway.”
“Good. Once you sign the engagement agreement, we’ll decide what direction you want to take.”
“……?”
“Do you want to apply for an injunction to stop the film’s release, or request credit arbitration?”
For screenwriting credits, one qualifies as an “author” if:
-
They were contracted by the producer/distributor to write the screenplay, or
-
They granted the producer/distributor rights to adapt their own literary work into a film.
Though Lim had terminated his contract with Choi, he still qualified under category (2). That meant he could claim “original story credit” at Madfil.
‘Through the Screenwriters Guild’s credit arbitration process.’
Since movies involve massive budgets, production companies often prefer arbitration to lawsuits.
And perhaps this could even lead to a new partnership with Madfil.
With the publishing president’s help, Lim signed the engagement documents.
“Attorney Cha,” Lim asked, “can we do both — file for an injunction and request credit arbitration?”
“Yes. The order of proceedings differs, but depending on Madfil’s response, we can pursue both simultaneously.”
“Then let’s do both.”
“Understood.”
After confirming Lim’s ID and script materials, Cha checked the time — 3:20 p.m.
“Writer Lim, you live in Jeju City, right? Flying back today?”
“No, I’ll head home Monday the 9th.”
“Good. I plan to send the certified notice today and visit Madfil right after. Want to come along?”
“You’ve had a lot of stress — might as well get some air.”
Lim returned to his hotel to rest, feeling unwell, while Cha called Madfil to set a meeting.
They said they’d check with the CEO and call back — and eventually told him to come even if it was late.
So now Cha was heading to Madfil’s office on Gangnam-daero.
Most production companies used to be in Chungmuro, but now, due to various industry shifts, they were concentrated in Gangnam.
“This must be it.”
He told the receptionist he had an appointment with the CEO.
Soon, a middle-aged man appeared — the team leader who had reviewed Lim’s script.
As they walked toward the CEO’s office, he said he hadn’t expected Lim to hire a lawyer so soon.
‘So he assumed Lim would just make noise after the movie’s release, to ride the publicity and boost box office sales again?’
Just as Lim had said — the guy was tactless.
Knock, knock.
“Come in.”
“After you.”
The team leader returned to his desk while Cha entered the CEO’s office.
A middle-aged man with an oversized tie and thick glasses — the infamous CEO, Lee Jae-min.
Without even looking up, Lee spoke curtly:
“Apologies, I’m in the middle of something urgent. Please help yourself to the refreshments — I’ll be just five minutes.”
While nibbling a rice cookie, Cha opened the script sitting on the table — Choi Geon-ha’s Money War.
‘Lim said Choi made some small developments, but this is identical.’
He pulled out Lim’s Jack in the Moneybox script from his briefcase.
‘Even the character’s outfit and pose are the same.’
Choi might try to argue that such traits were “common to the con artist genre,” but—
‘We can easily check if any other films used identical details.’
The dialogue followed the same flow — practically a carbon copy.
Flipping to the next page, he noted the scene heading:
‘The location changed from Busan to Incheon, but the old-town setting’s identical.’
Even the bolded text indicating where captions would appear was the same — clearly, Choi hadn’t done any original research.
He quickly checked on his phone — there was no “XX Alley” in Incheon.
‘Only in Busan?’
Not even a franchise location.
That was concrete proof Choi had plagiarized Lim’s script.
“How do you like Money War, written by Choi Geon-ha?”
Lee Jae-min finally spoke, still not looking up.
“It’s a work that couldn’t exist without Writer Lim’s original story.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch — the sound of Lee’s pen.
“I heard you sent a certified notice?”
“Yes. It’ll arrive tomorrow.”
Lee pushed up his glasses.
“Do you know how much Money War cost to make?”
“According to the news — 20 billion won.”
“Correct. Twenty billion. Of that, we paid Choi one hundred million for the script, excluding options.”
So Choi took 30 million from Lim, then pocketed another 70 million and the credit.
The fact that Lee was openly discussing contract terms meant he was considering negotiation — a good sign.
“What are you proposing?”
Although Cha already suspected he wouldn’t like the answer.
“Given the evidence, we can offer this — original story credit, plus co-writer credit. As first billing.”
So: no money, no sole credit.
“You’re confident that’s a fair contribution assessment? If you want to avoid controversy upon release, you’d better reconsider.”
“It’s not about controversy. We just don’t want to get our hands dirty. It’s not our first time dealing with rookies like this.”
So they knew Choi was the “dirt,” and still said that?
