Life is Easier If You're Handsome-Chapter 252

About seven years ago.

Back when Kim Donghu publicly criticized High Dream 2.

“....”

Lee Minha felt like her world was collapsing.

She didn’t show it on the outside, not to anyone.

But inside, her pale face masked a heart frozen in time.

“Donghu...”

To be honest, she had been somewhat arrogant.

High Dream 1 had been such a success. If she was offering him the lead role in the sequel,

she thought for sure he would accept without hesitation.

But her expectation was completely wrong.

From that moment, Kim Donghu took off like a madman.

A few years later, as if the country was too small for him,

he started hopping around internationally, showcasing his talents with ease.

And with every move, Lee Minha’s bar for who could lead her scripts rose higher and higher.

“It’s not that I’m picky! I only ever had one standard!”

“Kim Donghu?”

“Yes! That’s right! Donghu! I... I want him to pick up my script again... to act, okay? I want him to act.”

That day when Lee Jaei stepped off the script’s page,

Lee Minha was still trapped in that very day.

Lee Jaei, pouring out hatred at the piano—

she wanted desperately to see that again.

But at the same time, she was scared.

“What if he rejects it again? What if... what if I get turned down again?”

And unlike the High Dream days,

Kim Donghu was now getting bombarded with scripts from every direction.

In that kind of situation, for her script—the one he had already once rejected—to get picked?

She couldn’t even imagine it lightly.

So Lee Minha worked tirelessly, refining her screenplay.

She wrote with everything she had, to make it so good he couldn’t say no.

She created other works. Gained experience.

And finally—The Pianist was born.

“It’s done! It’s finally done!”

When the script was finished,

Lee Minha sent it first to domestic broadcasting stations.

“It’s too ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) brutal. Tweaking a few things won’t fix it—we can’t do it.”

“I really wanted to, but this is just... sorry.”

“Instead of this, how about pushing it more into the romance genre? There’s a hint of it in there. You could expand that...”

When she didn’t get the response she wanted, she turned straight to OTT.

To be honest, she had her eyes on Netflix.

Given the current market, they had the broader user base—

so it felt like the logical choice.

But then—

“We’re not particularly interested. Even if you’re considering Kim Donghu for the lead.”

Netflix, which she had thought was a sure thing, rejected her coldly.

“If you’re willing to adjust some parts—like not showing the orphanage child—we’re open to signing.”

It was Dezni, feeling stifled by their stagnant content, who readily accepted the project.

From there, everything started falling into place.

The only concern left was whether or not Kim Donghu would agree.

So Lee Minha sent out the first draft with a “screw it, whatever happens” mindset.

It wasn’t adjusted for mainstream tastes.

It was the raw, most brutal version of The Pianist she had written.

But she included the most compelling elements in the email as well.

And the result—

“Veritas replied! He said yes!”

“For real? Holy shit! Holy shit!”

—was a complete success.

***

Right after sending the confirmation email,

almost as if she’d been waiting, Writer Lee Minha called.

It had been a while since we’d last spoken.

After the usual greetings, we dove straight into work talk.

“Oh, this is the draft version? So originally... yeah, okay.”

And that’s when I found out—

the Pianist script I had just read was actually a draft.

She told me the revised version would be somewhat toned down.

—I’m sorry, really... I just wanted to get your attention somehow.

“Haha.”

—You wouldn’t even look at my script otherwise...

“...”

Wow, she’s still using that old meme.

Wait. Wasn’t that actually still relevant in 2020?

“Sorry for baiting you, I just wanted to show you this”—

that line might still be trending even now.

If anything, it was surprisingly era-accurate.

—Anyway... there won’t be any scenes with kids. Just the killing part will stay.

“Oh, like, just mentions of them?”

—Yeah. All the victims are adults anyway.

And when she told me they’d removed the cannibalism entirely,

I understood why she had sent me the rough version in the first place.

She wanted me to fully understand the backstory.

Not just read what was in the script—

but grasp the depth behind the details she didn’t include.

That’s probably how she wanted to raise the quality of the work even more.

The conversation kept going like that for a while.

And just as we were about to wrap up—

—Oh, right. Piano consultation... Chairman Edward Park agreed to do it.

“What?”

That caught me completely off guard.

***

"Hohohohoho!"

The day the MEET music video was released to the world,

Edward Park was practically dancing in place.

Some might say it was undignified for a man in his fifties—

but he didn’t care.

“Donghu’s playing never fails to lift my spirits.”

Because something far more important was happening.

To put it bluntly,

Kim Donghu’s piano performance was Edward Park’s idea of utopia itself.

Flawless, yet demanding.

Sensitive, yet comforting to the listener.

That exquisite balance was enough to drive people mad.

It was the performance of a beast in a tuxedo.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A performance that makes people tense and euphoric—only Donghu can do that.

So whenever he had a moment, Edward Park would replay MEET.

He had prayed to one day hear that performance again—like at the graduation years ago.

And perhaps his prayer was finally answered.

“Piano consultation... and for Donghu, no less!”

He was so happy he could cry.

A live, in-person performance by Donghu?

Of course he couldn’t possibly contain himself.

As the first filming day for The Pianist approached,

Edward Park felt more alive than ever.

How long had he waited?

Finally, the day came—The Pianist’s first shoot.

And there stood Kim Donghu, silent in the studio.

Heh.

His skin, tanned for Tarzan, had returned to its natural tone.

His dark hair slicked back neatly,

sharp black eyes beneath,

all supported by a powerful, well-sculpted body.

That body was restrained by the suit he wore—

like a final control mechanism meant to prevent disaster.

It clung to him tightly, not letting go.

And... the entire set is dark, with only a single piano at the center.

Whenever people knew Donghu was playing piano,

they somehow always arranged this kind of atmosphere.

It was a deliberate setup, drawing focus to Donghu standing alone.

But there was something different from the usual.

There’s an enormous chandelier.

A huge, obviously expensive chandelier hung precariously above the piano.

As if crafted in the image of an angel.

It glowed softly, its light casting down over Donghu,

like a divine revelation delivered from the heavens.

“His name’s Do Gyu, a Korean-American,”

said Writer Lee Minha, who had approached unnoticed and adjusted her glasses.

“He’s a famous pianist, but he’s got all kinds of compulsions... so he always plays like this in the morning.”

“A routine, then.”

“Yes, exactly. But rather than it just being a performance, I wanted something special to come across.”

“Something special?”

“Something that doesn’t fit the atmosphere... I want to use the brightest piece in the darkest room. But I haven’t found the right one yet.”

That’s why I wanted to ask for your input.

At that, Edward Park furrowed his brows slightly.

“But why are we filming the performance in Korea?”

“The set’s not finished yet. It'll take another four months.”

“Ah, so for now you’re just shooting the piano segments?”

“Yes, that’s right. We can’t halt production entirely, so we’re filming what we can using CG and props.”

Same with the piano scenes.

And at that moment, Edward Park knew exactly what he had to do.

“Donghu! It’s been a while, but shall we start with the performance first?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Then how about Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 in A major? First movement.”

No sooner did the words leave Edward Park’s mouth than Donghu moved swiftly to the piano.

Do Gyu... is a character with compulsions he doesn’t even fully understand.

Some he’s aware of, some he isn’t.

He’s bound by countless social gazes.

A monster born of past trauma and present solitude.

So what kind of music does such a monster play?

The lightest, most cheerful kind.

He prefers joyful performances.

Because he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

He truly believes what he’s doing is salvation.

Like children squashing ants out of curiosity—

there’s no complex motive there.

Just a simple desire.

And that’s what brings them happiness.

Do Gyu is the same.

That’s why, in a room without a single ray of light,

the music that spreads is impossibly upbeat.

A smile spreads across Do Gyu’s face as he plays.

He can’t help it.

To someone who believes in destiny,

this very moment—doing what he was meant to do—is bliss.

The longer the performance goes on—

Ah... this is driving me insane.

Edward Park was finding it harder and harder to hold back his tears.

To see the performance he dreamed of—right before his eyes.

So happiness wasn’t so far after all.

That was what Edward Park thought.

***

Meanwhile, at the same time—

“They rejected the request to extend the rematch period. That means the fight’s happening in five months.”

“....”

There was another Edward, feeling a very different emotion.

Former WBC Heavyweight Champion—Edward Maxwell.

“Damn it! Are you kidding me?! You mean I’ve gotta fight in five months?!”

Honestly, before watching that video, he’d thought he was just being cautious.

But after watching one specific clip,

he realized he had been dead wrong.

“He lifted over two thousand pounds! A human being!”

Is that something a boxer’s even supposed to do?

He raged, but had no one to direct that anger at.

Time passed quickly. Four months later—

the day of the WBC heavyweight rematch was upon them.

“How many rounds do you expect it to go?”

“I’ll end it in one. I don’t have time to play anymore.”

Kim Donghu’s trash talk was just the cherry on top.